The tourists hate those black clouds overhead,

The ones that blot the sun at two o’clock,

That dump a ton of rain on flower beds

And send the pale visitors into shock.

They come here just to be seen on my Beach,

They come to see Madonna drunk at night.

They never do, but say they did. They preach

Of Gomorrah from sweet suites locked up tight

Against the summer storm. They close their eyes

To the wonder of the beautiful rain

That feeds our farms and gardens. Hear their cries

Of indignation, expressions of pain.

The daily Two P. M. storm dumps plenty

Of rain, but then is over by two-twenty.

A dark bank of clouds comes in from the west,

Tourists scurry for cover and a drink,

“They never told us it would rain!” I guess

The chamber of commerce led them to think

This was indeed the world’s most perfect place,

They brought money, fancy clothes, fantasies

Of catching some brass ring. But in their haste

To find perfection, they often leave the keys

To reality behind. The lonely,

Unnatural, artificial paradise,

The one these visitors see, is only

Just another sometimes hard, sometimes nice,

Place. But the lure of the exotic dream

Is hypnotic, the unknown reigns supreme.

There’s fragrance in the air this time of year–

Hibiscus, bougainvillea, liatris,

And sounds rock the senses: the birds I hear

Are calling for mates. Morning showers kiss

My garden, leave behind a loving drink

That keeps it growing when the afternoon

Sun would beat it down, leave it on the brink

Of thirsty death. Then May will become June,

Flowers will give way to the luscious fruits

Of our labor, rich, green jungle. Life fills

This world with healthy color. Summer suits

This Eden, this tropical wonder; thrills

Around every corner, behind each tree,

Await our hungry eyes, which ache to see.

Sun-bleached triangles standing straight and true

Against a deep blue background peaking white,

They lean against the wind, fight their way through

The frothy sea before day turns to night,

When sailors lose their way if not prepared

To use the heavens as their best device

For finding home–their intellect laid bare

Against nature, whose fury makes the price

Of failure steeper even than the risk

Considered. Seamen know what lies ahead

Will daunt the wisest of them, but insist

On taking every chance. With sense of dread,

They venture forward, eye fixed on the prize,

Success the only outcome they surmise.

They lay on blankets worshiping the sun,

These interlopers, followers of style,

Who gather here, pretend, feign seeking fun

And romance. Teasers, poseurs, dandies smile;

Empty faces behind blank eyes. Bulging,

Saline-bloated, barely-covered titties

Beckoning no one; tanned studs indulging

Erotic fantasies, seeking pretties

Who’ll make them feel important for a while.

But momentary pleasure passes fast,

Replaced by empty truth. The wan beguile

Each other. Precious little here will last.

This empty, lonely parade paints a sad

Portrait of a lovely town gone mad.

Flamingo clouds lighting the evening sky

Play red across the water to the east.

Still time before the dark descends; we sigh

And breathe hibiscus-scented air. The feast

Of color gives us momentary pause,

The stillness of the painted sunset lasts

Not nearly long enough. A lone gull draws

Our attention upward; then shadows cast

By strolling couples bring us back to earth

To appreciate this fine time of day

For few scant minutes more. This peace is worth

The price the coming darkness asks us pay.

The endless neon lights are for the crowds

Who jam the night, oblivious to clouds.

It’s certainly a gratifying thing,

To bring a mighty challenge to its knees,

To chart an unknown course, make a brain sing

Some difficult tunes. The soul’s mirror sees

The jump into this raging river as

A torrent conquered. The calendar keeps

Moving, leaden foot upon the gas,

And challenging the mind to make these leaps

Into the wake, pulled along, writing down

Word after word, line after line, until

The last day comes. But the finishers crown

Only themselves, completion is the thrill

What difficulty lies ahead, the tough

Job left is dealing with this nasty stuff

And once again I find myself without

The inspiration to write gold. I search

For something meaningful so I can shout

“I’m worthy of this challenge!” So I lurch

From word to word, conjure up one more rhyme,

I need to keep momentum one more week,

Complete the challenge, write the fourteen lines

That make these sonnets fit the form. I seek

Important themes and feelings, not just trash

To fill the page, to finish what I start.

It might be easier if there were cash

At the end of the line. I’ll find the heart

To make the last eight poems say as much

As the first twenty one, regain my touch.

I cannot think of anything to say

Today. And so I write this little verse

To keep my thread alive. I will not pay

The price of starting over, and no terse,

Or cute rhymes will cheapen this strange attempt

To produce sonnets every single day.

By writing this, I risk poets’ contempt

At my feeble, uninspired words. Oy vey,

I’ve managed to write fourteen lines that rhyme

Abe, be a bee. Si? Dee? See D-E-F?

E, Ef. Gee, Ji. Embarrassed now that I’m

Wasting my readers’ time. So I’ll go chef

The lunch at Bijou’s place, where I’m no clod

With pots and pans, but rather, I’m a God.

As dark descends on baking fields of green,

As evening’s cool brings on blessed relief,

As storm clouds roll down off the hills between

The sky and me, I’m struck with new belief.

It’s all around me, beauty painted stark,

In browns and greens beneath a hidden moon.

White flashes spitting beauty, as the dark

Night closes in from the west, herald soon

The torrents bringing gift and curse to fields

Awash with nature’s bounty–blessed drink

Or dreaded flood that vitiate the yields

These soldiers need to feed their own. To think,

Out of control, their lot is but to plod,

To look to heaven, pray for help from God.