Be Happy, Don’t Worry

It seems one & all will

scribble of the rain—

but not in the rain.

I get your ink will

smear. Paper will be

sodden like an overzealous

Scotch-Brite.

Unless your poem’s called

Waterlogged,

that simply will not do.

And unless your tale

has L’Oréal—

the cliché of a runny

flume—you’re better

off beneath our

gleaming star. People

are always beaming

when it’s sunny.

I’ve yet to see a

frown within its rays.

I’ve yet to see a smile

in a cat & dog

deluge. I doubt Noah’s

barge of pets had

blissfully whistled to

Bobby McFerrin.

Of course, I understand

your laptop getting

soaked. The shock you’ll get

when your elegy’s up &

done, for the dove felled

by a flash, your hair like

Phyllis Diller's— 

once you’ve plugged it

in the wall before it’s dry,

fathoming why those

inside the death house

eschew electric chairs,

opt for a splash of

bullets, venom in their

veins, or kicking their feet to

swing, like a mid-air

Fred Astaire, the clouds

a pregnant matron, bawling

her water’s broke.

Andreas Gripp

July 21, 2026

photo: Kevin Carden / Dreamstime