september rain

smoking in
september rain,
egyptian musk
to cover others;
jazz sonorously
echoes slowly.
a box of verses,
ink driven hearses;
come tomorrow
where will i go?




being here

sandalwood smell
musk on entering
the rain pat-pattering
on gutter-tins
indian summer
breezes blowing
clean cotton sheets
across bare skin
being. here. being.
if only you were too.
if only
you were true.

A post shared by D.W. Metz (@dwmetz) on


last night, out of reverence
for olden days,
my girl on holiday,
sat around a kitchen table,
with the boys from school,
swilling beers, chowing
leftover barbecue.

driving home to a mellow
beat of dear coltrane,
sucked in sweet night air,
cooled by the now passed rain –
breaking the day’s humidity.

vowing not, to let
nature escape me,
slept in the grass
a shrine, a candle, and
a stick of opium,
a cigarette wafting me
to sweet sleep.

enwrapped in down cocoon,
on top of lounge chair,
keeping dry, from the still
rain damp grass;

awakened by first sun break,
transforms the sky from indigo
to a sweet cerulean;
saw a pair of skunks
dancing in morning dew,
scarlet cardinal chirps,
a morning mating

to a distant lover,
echoing back the call;
heard the first train whistle
from linden station,
taking monday commuters
to city jobs,
heard trucks, and automobiles,
on nearby highways –

morning had begun.