It's raining poetry

[Guest]

No, not raining men, although it's a good song. *chuckles. I'd like to read some poems you Lit folks have wrote about the rain, or even other poems from other writers about the same subject you really enjoyed. I have one started that hopefully soon will be completed.

Rain used to be very depressing for me, but now I'm learning to appreciate it more, yet very slowly.

Perhaps write a poem each time it rains and post it here - how it makes you feel that very moment or the experience you had. Kind of like the passion thread - just whip it out. Some connect it with God while others don't. Making love in the rain sounds like something I'd love to read!

Oh and memories, how could I forget them?! Share them with me or shall I say us? *smiles* I just want it to connect somehow with the rain.

 

[Guest]

I wrote this poem in 2003 when all I knew was to rhyme. It's not exactly about the rain, but I thought I'd throw it in because I think it's cute.

The True Pot Of Gold by saldne ©

The sky becomes dark and down comes the rain;
A calming sound heard from my windowpane.
In peace, I listen, but thunder comes near.
Lightning then strikes, and I run in such fear.

The flash of the light, I conceal my head.
It wasn't much fun when hiding in bed.
A bright eyed smile as it all went away,
I threw off the covers to run out and play.

I dart out the door and get muddy shoes.
Mom will be mad, but I'll have an excuse.
My eyes and the rainbow now again meet.
I run to the beauty with wings on my feet.

I'll find the pot of gold; I have all day.
I've tried this before, but it faded away.
Why this happens is really beyond me.
I'm going to find it, watch and you'll see.

I bolt through the fields running so fast,
Look up and notice, it quickly had passed.
The rainbow is gone; I fall to the ground.
I'm now giving up, it'll never be found.

I head for home with my head hanging low,
Finally figured out what no one does know.
The true pot of gold is the rainbow itself;
A beautiful epiphany I keep to myself.​

​

 

[champagne1982]

I don't write much about the rain. It's really not all that inspirational in this part of the country. Snow is something I can relate to. The Inuit have over 100 words for snow... I'll bet I can come up with a few of my own.

Fluff, so light it doesn't fall,
instead defies gravity
and tickles the Earth
in a soundless caress.

Needles, piercing as they lace
through the atmosphere to sting
the delicate face turned
up to see how long it will last.

Gropple, bouncing
when the miniscule ping pong
balls ricochet off the sleeves
of brilliant coloured jackets.

The cold evokes
a playful introspection
or even some sort
of contemplative
melancholia
only lifted because the sky
is impossibly blue
after the clouds clear.

 

[Angeline]

528 Hobart Avenue

Sitting by the screen door
on late summer nights,
Daddy and I watch storms
as if in theater box seats.

With the kitchen to one side,
and basement steps the other,
a weird musty savory smell
lingers in the doorway,

but we are comfortable,
companionable even,
in our rump-sprung chair,
sharing root beer.

We don't talk much.
We watch the sky flash,
and count seconds.

One Mississippi,
Two Mississippi.

When you feel safe,
it's easy to predict thunder.
You don't have to hold your ears
or cringe. You just say

there it is.

Sometimes we walk in the rain
and get really soaked, and he says

See? You won't melt.
You're not a sugar cookie,
Cookie.

 

[bluerains]

am a bit of rain

- ********
**********
*********

 

[champagne1982]

528 Hobart Avenue <snip>

I remember this poem. I love it, as I do many of your family poems. It's nice to see it again.

 

[Angeline]

I remember this poem. I love it, as I do many of your family poems. It's nice to see it again.

Thanks Carrie. I've had it tucked away for a few years, but I saw this thread and it's raining here this morning, so it reminded ne of the times in that old kitchen.

I like your snow poem. Can we have a snow thread? I have lots of them--some of my finest rejections have been of my snow poems.

 

[PatCarrington]

Thanks Carrie. I've had it tucked away for a few years, but I saw this thread and it's raining here this morning, so it reminded ne of the times in that old kitchen.

I like your snow poem. Can we have a snow thread? I have lots of them--some of my finest rejections have been of my snow poems.

good morning, maine.

damn, i remember one. a snow poem of yours. new york, with asterisks you were going to remove, and

snow,

.....snow,

..........snow falling.

it was wonderful. put it up.

 

[Angeline]

good morning, maine.

damn, i remember one. a snow poem of yours. new york, with asterisks you were going to remove, and

snow,

.....snow,

..........snow falling.

it was wonderful. put it up.

I shall go find it--just for you. It was rejected by New Yorker, you know. One of my better rejections.

 

[Angeline]

Wanting Snow

i.
Wanting snow,
the gray anticipation
in harbinger clouds
looming, crackle dry air
_______stinging

________until

________one flake

____________falls

_______________and

________________another

________________and still more

___________________________fall

group and mass
the air, overtake the sky

___________________down

___________________down

to grace the ground
in an illusion of purity,

punctuating branch
and gate with complex
simplicity.

ii.
In fallen snow
life imitates art.

White lines cross narrow surfaces
delicate as pen-and-ink illustrations
or flutter a codex on the flight of birds.

Wider swaths curve, frame streetlamps
in dreamtime iridescense, compelling
corners in a play of Sisley light.

Late at night

when my city’s blanketed expanse
seems unending in stark contrast

Steigliz awakens
to stalk the cityscape,
camera in hand, capturing
the relentless beauty of ice.

iii.
Cities in snow are beautiful
Sifted drifts relax against
rows of wrought iron spikes.

Deadly crystal stilettos
hang half-hid in gables.

Guileless gargoyles perch
bemused, sport milk mustaches.

They should be ashamed
of themselves!

Every angle of architecture
is rearranged: A wind-blurred map
of single footsteps speaks louder
than the clang of skyscrapers.

iv.
Early morning is best
for snow walking,

silence and solitude
broken only by ice
crunched by boots,

the crashing glass
of icicles falling

and the steady hiss
of my breath puffing pockets
in my wool scarf.

Later I’ll be the face in a window,
swaddled in an afternnon
of hot chocolate and Segovia.

 

[Guest]

I don't write much about the rain. It's really not all that inspirational in this part of the country. Snow is something I can relate to.

Fluff, so light it doesn't fall,
instead defies gravity
and tickles the Earth
in a soundless caress.

Needles, piercing as they lace
through the atmosphere to sting
the delicate face turned
up to see how long it will last. <snip>

Oh, I really like this, champagne! Thanks for sharing with me even though it's not exactly about the rain. Rain turns to snow, that's how it goes. So it works, and it's all good. =)

~

Ange, I remember reading 528 Hobart Avenue on another thread or somewhere, anyway. I most definitely enjoyed. I love writing about memories. I have lots hidden that are incomplete. Annoys me, I've got to finish them!

I remember when I was small, I had yellow painted walls in my room, yellow sheets and bedspread, and when lightning hit, I either hid under my bed or under the sheets with eyes tightly closed, scared out of my mind. My room lit up like you wouldn't believe! I had no choice or decision in what colors I wanted for my room because I was so little. Just damn...

 

[Angeline]

Oh, I really like this, champagne! Thanks for sharing with me even though it's not exactly about the rain. Rain turns to snow, that's how it goes. So it works, and it's all good. =)

~

Ange, I remember reading 528 Hobart Avenue on another thread or somewhere, anyway. I most definitely enjoyed. I love writing about memories. I have lots hidden that are incomplete. Annoys me, I've got to finish them!

I remember when I was small, I had yellow painted walls in my room, yellow sheets and bedspread, and when lightning hit, I either hid under my bed or under the sheets with eyes tightly closed, scared out of my mind. My room lit up like you wouldn't believe! I had no choice or decision in what colors I wanted for my room because I was so little. Just damn...

Thanks to my father, thunderstorms were never scary to me at all. I find the sound of them reassuring because they bring back those memories of the two of us quietly watching them from our little kitchen. He always said that: "You won't melt. You're not a sugar cookie, Cookie."

Anyway Saldne, I lived in Trenton, NJ then, which from the looks of your location isn't so far away from where you are now. I imagine our understanding of rainstorms is probably rather similar.

 

[Rybka]

Rainbow Haiku

rain washes away
seedlings planted just today
god honors small deaths


------------------------------


Thor's hammer

Thor's hammer
thrown hard
rain my dear
Donder
and Blitzen



​

 

[WickedEve]

cyanna runs from me, the cafe--
white waiting and black seats,
monochrome. and somehow
(perhaps this grey me) I blend,
watching her cry below rain.

"another basin street blues.
another till it washes her away."

 

[jthserra]

In response to the death of a young poet:

I Rain

Did I rain in grief,
tears from a clear sky,
sudden, unexpected,
a cloudless squall
come and gone beneath
a faint prismatic arc?

I consider the blue,
the empty wide expanse,
a slow path of sunlight
as horizon blurs to dusk,
shadows become night
and darkness eases a pain.

In a clear, moonless sky
I rain, silent and alone.

 

[TheRainMan]

You rang?

Man, this thread looks like it was made for me. I should lay a poem out here. Or a puddle.

Sumthin'.

 

[Angeline]

You rang?

Man, this thread looks like it was made for me. I should lay a poem out here. Or a puddle.

Sumthin'.

Considering what you've rained in the new poems submissions thus far, I think a storm or two from you would be most welcome.

 

[Guest]

Rainbow Haiku

rain washes away
seedlings planted just today
god honors small deaths

Perfect Haiku!
5, 7, 5 - the way I think it should be, and a great punch! Nice, Rybka!

"another basin street blues.
another till it washes her away."

Wowzee! Mighty fine!

Did I rain in grief,
tears from a clear sky,
sudden, unexpected,
a cloudless squall
come and gone beneath
a faint prismatic arc?

I consider the blue,
the empty wide expanse,
a slow path of sunlight
as horizon blurs to dusk,
shadows become night
and darkness eases a pain.

In a clear, moonless sky
I rain, silent and alone.

just speechless.

 

[Guest]

You rang?

Man, this thread looks like it was made for me. I should lay a poem out here. Or a puddle.

Sumthin'.

Hi, and welcome to Lit. Love the name - reminds me of the movie, too.

Do you know how to add a link to your poems in your sig. line?

 

[wildsweetone]

Considering what you've rained in the new poems submissions thus far, I think a storm or two from you would be most welcome.

i 100 percent agree. please post more RainMan.

 

[wildsweetone]

Rain Revere

It’s life that falls
from the sky, nurtures
the ground, plants and nourishes
people. It trickles
down windows smothered
with condensation from those longing
looks of wishful thinking
as I stare out into the wet world.
The sun might shine,
give health and love to the earth,
but it’s rain that gives life.
It’s the wet wonderland, refreshed
with heavy droplets that dangle
from cleaned leaves, surged with life
from a sky that doesn’t hold back anger,
a wet paradise where the wanderlust
within me is cradled
and calmed
just for a while.

 

[TheRainMan]

Considering what you've rained in the new poems submissions thus far, I think a storm or two from you would be most welcome.

Tried for a storm, came up with a drizzle.

Oh, well.



Holy Water

My eyes rush up to meet the morning mist.
It is for you, this slow leakage
of sorrow that cannot
be sealed. Or is it you who cries

your water of repentance to wet the hair
of early lovers, to send
prayers and promises back
through the faithful leaves you feed?

Today, I am yours,

as is this cleansing rain that washes
spotted sidewalks and souls.

It is for you I drip and tremble.

And if I command, the hidden sun
will twist its light
through your new window,
melt tender words onto its frost.

Trace them like a heart.

Its blinking holds the pulse
of my conviction, its heat
my warming sweater
for your back. I want your wings,

my love. I see them in the wired birds.
Listen as they sing, as they fly
for me through clouds
to squeeze the eyes of the sky.

 

[wildsweetone]

i knew it would be good

 

[TheRainMan]

Hi, and welcome to Lit. Love the name - reminds me of the movie, too.

Do you know how to add a link to your poems in your sig. line?

Thank you very much, saldne.

What's a sig. line?

 

[flyguy69]

Oh my. A New Poet with real talent!

Welcome, TRM, I look forward to reading more of your work!

Tried for a storm, came up with a drizzle.

Oh, well.



Holy Water

My eyes rush up to meet the morning mist.
It is for you, this slow leakage
of sorrow that cannot
be sealed. Or is it you who cries

your water of repentance to wet the hair
of early lovers, to send
prayers and promises back
through the faithful leaves you feed?

Today, I am yours,

as is this cleansing rain that washes
spotted sidewalks and souls.

It is for you I drip and tremble.

And if I command, the hidden sun
will twist its light
through your new window,
melt tender words onto its frost.

Trace them like a heart.

Its blinking holds the pulse
of my conviction, its heat
my warming sweater
for your back. I want your wings,

my love. I see them in the wired birds.
Listen as they sing, as they fly
for me through clouds
to squeeze the eyes of the sky.