Where has that rainman gone?

Where has that rainman gone
Who could easily summon
Clouds full of sweet rain?
Where has he gone?
To which land he has shone
His lightning and sparks?
Which face of earth
He has turned shady, cool?
Where has he overbrimmed
Lakes, ponds and pools?

Where has that rainman gone?
To which land? Which shores?
Where has he made it to pour heartful?
Where has he buried heaps of his clouds?
Where has he made little blossoms to spring
Out of grass simply at the flutter of his wings?
Where has he caused the moisture to quench the thirst
Of trees, pavements, and the vapoury dust?
Where has he tamed the waves of heat?
Where has he rained it like dancing feet?

In memory of a very old man with enormous wings

He must have been that man himself
An angelic figure with wings
Long enough
To plod through generations
And magically implant
a city of mirrors
Macondo,
By the side of a river
and a forest
Deep and dark
Like our own solitude,

He must have been
That very old man with enormous wings
To turn events into chronicles
And to turn the mundane
into something extraordinary,
Where ghosts of our hunger and sufferings
Come out into the open
And dance in noonday dreams
Casting premonitions
Of destruction,

He must have been
That very old man with enormous wings
To divulge secrets
of
Our sins,
Our acts of violence,
Our own ways of overreaching us,
Our phobic indisposition
Of imagining the worst
Our resurrections at the cost
Of blood,
Our dreams and wishes as ripe as wheat,
Our triumphs, our feats,

He must have been
That very old man
With enormous wings.

(a tribute to Gabriel Garcia Marquez)

Jane Morris as Proserpine

With thought ridden eyes
And pomegranate in hand
Rossetti took Jane to another land
He made her Proserpine
And haply declared
'woe me for thee'

That silken light
Must have added colors
To his vision,his plight,
That climbing vine
Must have had clinging branches
Of memory,
And that incense burner
With smouldering attributes
Unsuspecting wings surely took,
Jane Morris how he turned immortal,
In walnut frame how he made her fatal,
Her furtive glance upwards
With poesy his colors of mind merged,
And he with detailed description of his sighs and pines,
Turned his Jane to a dire Proserpine.

(on a painting by D.G.Rossetti titled 'Proserpine')

When I become less

Is it easy to strike a note
With you, is it easy
To sing full throat?

Everytime I think I could
Sing with you a few lines
Or pick up with you those buds
That had fallen off untimely shrugged
From trees by the tempest strong,
A few hundred eyes singe me,
And I cease to be
What I could have become-
The cool breeze, the prescient one
Which had sent your smell from the painted horizon
So crimson red, so rhyme like inclined,
Everytime I think I could
Think of You, the Timeless,
And worship You, robed in white,
The Heavenly trance grips a hold on me,
And a thousand lightyears I travel
To meet my past, my living sense
Evades me, I embark upon the passage of numbness,
And I become less.