The Poetry of Daniel Michel Antil
If Rain Were a Woman
If rain were a woman,
she would wash down my face,
then, with tenderness, trace
the lines of age in my furrowed brow.
With her fluid fingers,
she would, in tears, caress
arms unfolded, burdened less,
and soothe the sere of a bitter bow;
From a time of briefest light,
which burned in brightest fame,
then dimmed with loss of name
in days gone by when life was sweet.
Let rain cascade across my soul
to drench the vast and arid waste
and quench my thirst, that I may taste
that sweetness once again, complete.
Let her bestow such liquid dreams
to fill me with much softer things,
and pare the wage that passion brings
to those who can't afford such measure.
If rain were a woman,
she would fall upon my life,
and, perhaps, she'd be my wife.
Therein would lie the greatest treasure.
Copyright by Daniel Michel Antil
AFTER ALL
I turn on the TV and sit with my niece,
and we watch the late evening news.
She's five years old, precious Sarah.
She is so innocent and sweet,
yet so aware of the world around her.
The BBC reports somewhere in North Africa,
where the land is besieged by a war.
They show bombs destroying buildings,
and the soldiers killing people,
bloody children running thru the streets.
The militia recruits children as soldiers.
A reporter interviews a ten-year-old,
a boy-soldier who killed thirty men.
And I say to Sarah, "That's not all there is.
There is still good in this world, after all."
I sit with Sarah in the library, one day,
and read to her from books she likes.
She pulls a book from off a shelf.
It's very big and very heavy,
and I set it on the table, with reserve.
It is a book about war, graphic and detailed,
but I read from it because she wants me to.
I open a page to a disturbing photograph,
a picture of the camp at Dachau,
thousands of Jews, naked and half-dead.
There is a smoke stack, larger than the rest,
and Sarah asks what it's all about.
I cannot explain away thousands of deaths,
without destroying the soul of this child.
The truth of the holocaust sheds no easy tear.
Sara leans in and looks hard at their faces,
and studies the sadness in their eyes.
Then, she turns to me and asks me why.
And I say to Sarah, "It's not like that anymore.
There is still good in this world, after all."
I open a newspaper at the kitchen table,
and Sarah gaily joins me for breakfast.
She sees, straight away, the front page news,
the story of the murders at that school.
A graphic accompanying photo tells it all.
She asks me why someone would do that,
I search my mind desperately for answers,
but find I have none to give a child.
And I say to Sarah, "That doesn't happen often.
There is still good in this world, after all."
I sit with Sarah out on the patio of the house.
We watch the city from our hilltop perch.
A hundred yards below, a man is being robbed,
a young boy holds a gun to his head.
Before I can flinch, the gun is fired, he dies.
The boy scavenges his pockets for change.
Sarah looks to me, fearful and confused,
and asks me why, as we rush in to call police.
And I say to Sarah, "That won't happen to you.
There is still good in this world, after all."
I tuck Sarah in bed, and read her fairy tales,
then I kiss her gently on the cheek, "Goodnight."
She smiles and says, "I love you, Uncle Daniel."
And I think to myself, as I turn out the light,
"There is still good in this world, after all."
Copyright by Daniel Michel Antil