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Prose Poetry Rain Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Rain

These Prose Poetry Rain poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Rain. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry Rain poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seasons and Imaginations


Wind so cold.
Blowing.
Fondles my face.
Tickling.
The tears from heaven.
Pouring. 
Tapping. 
Dancing.
Unrelenting.
I wonder if i wish
    to stop them
From numbness,
    to waking,
          then sensing.

The little voice in me says,
Wait, don't go.
Stay a little longer. I plead.
Sing for me today, rain.
With the gliding rhythm on my piano,
                                                  I'll play.
Chilly Wind, caress my bare skin 
     with the pure coldness that you bring.
Unusual,
     like it's my first time in the snow.
Somehow, 
     the fire tree never fades in the picture.
The yellow sunkissed leaves, too.
What is it about Summer and Fall
    that I can't forget?
Memories. Sweet imaginations.

The chilly rain. The misty wind.
You are here. 
Freeze me with the sharp coldness you give.
Calm me. Maybe, comfort me.
And, if you leave
Will you visit me when summertime comes?
Before it gets too late
   And again I fold.


Copyright © Wendy Meyer | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE RAIN by Anna Lo P

"As I watch the blue skies
 Suddenly turned into gray
 Darkness easily surrounds 
 Their clouds, covered in haze.

 The rain will fall again, I say
 A nature's moment I dismay
 Raindrops will soon touch the ground
 The sad feeling, again I'll be hound.

 Splattering rain, the sound that haunts
 Sweet and sad memories of the man
 Taunting me to remember once again
 The love once lost, never be back again

 Every drop of rain that falls, I pain
 Each drop it falls, my heart is in vain
 "Try to listen" to the rain, he once said
 'Tis like a last goodbye, could not hear I said. 

 The sound of the crying heart, I still hear
 The sound of a weeping soul, I can hear
 The silent tears that they weep,
 The silent scream that echos so deep.

 Listen to every drop of rain
 To it's agony, vain, pain, 
 Listen to the rain as it falls, maybe
 There is your love, every drop after all...xoxo

Copyright © Anna Lo | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

November Rain

Amidst of November… But rain starts to fall everywhere The wind blows so tender And it really makes me feel shiver Birds are flying here and there Having no place to hide from the rain And while I ‘am sitting near the windowpane As I watch the drizzle and feels so vain Thinking, how I love to see the sweet November rain…

Copyright © Jenny Rollan | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Nihilist Apathy

The rain pours down on the city. 
A sense of putrid disgust fills the air, 
as trash litters the streets 
and grime grows in every back alley. 

The clouds cast their shadows 
and the lack of saturation sucks the life out of everything 
and everyone. 

The rain adds depth to the highlights and shadows of the world,
making the spray-painted brick walls and cigarette-ridden cracked roads look surreal. 
The rain cleanses the earth of it‘s filth.

It‘s the emptiness that makes me feel, 
the destroyers of my body.
For all the years of coffees, cigarettes,
opiates and alcohol have numbed me.
My insides feel sick, my organs venal.

My body is being held together by a rope of chains,
and the chains are rusting against my skin.

I often find myself in bed with an old fling or an attractive stranger.
Another night of vigorous intercourse, 
makes no difference to me. 
They take more pleasure in it than I do,
for even at the end of the night,
I am still
and truly alone in my mind.

Copyright © Todd Dawson-Cooper | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

the Rain

  The Rain tried to find its way into the very depth of the souls, sneering at the gloomy faces of people who were walking through water. Unexpectedly a sudden clear laugh of a boy who jumped into a puddle mocked all His aspirations. 

  With an increased force the Rain turned into a wall of water pushing the pedestrians into the open doors of the shops, blocking the traffic and confusing the air controllers at an airport nearby. 

  Seizing for a moment almost absolute power over the world, the Rain suddenly felt bored and first burst out into numerous crossing lines, then calmed down and throwing the last blast of wind with water drops at the running boy, He sighed in despair and having banged few open windows He disappeared, staying for a moment in thick eye-lashes of a girl who was adjusting her make up.

Copyright © Serge Belinsky | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Rain-bow Nation

Hey!
are 
you 
a 
Zulu? 
Am 
a 
Bushman...no 
you 
are 
a 
Bantu,a 
Bantu 
or 
Hottentots? 
Maybe 
an 
Afrikaner.                          
I 
came 
from 
the 
Cape 
Colony...not 
from 
Soweto 
where"balck 
animals"are 
Dwelling, 
pathetic 
Creatures 
formed 
by 
the 
Hands 
of 
Hades.
Beast 
of 
burden 
for 
the 
Afrikaner.
Bound 
with 
fetters 
and 
Chains,it 
ploughs 
the 
Field,cultivates 
and 
plants 
The 
seed 
of 
sedition..alas!
These 
beasts 
un-
wind 
their 
yokes;to 
be 
human.
Can 
a 
leopard 
change 
its 
Spots?
Yes 
these 
animals
Prophesied.
Lo!
what 
do 
I 
now 
see?
No 
Beast 
of 
burden 
to 
till 
our 
Land 
rather 
they 
dwell 
Among 
us.
Alas! 
their 
prophecy 
lives!

Copyright © Ifeanyi Bob Ekechukwu | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Riding in the Rain

Rode over to visit a friend today, she paints with colors in the most lovelest of ways. no 
charcoal or water with color, just oils on a canvas. she allows me to watch. word-less i stay 
for hours sitting in gaze.at a point she turns to say,what color should this be? look at the 
color of what you wish to paint,this is the color of it should be.she coolly turns away.
so a sun-shine rain begins it's windy spray upon this paint-able summers day.we cover the 
canvas in a most coveted way...to shelter we dash.
so i mount my bike from which i came cycling home,riding in the rain.
return i will another day,perhaps it won't rain,upon this other day...

Copyright © gary bechter | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Man Who Loved Gimewanookwe

He searches her face, scarcely remembering a time
He did not know her; seeing now her dark eyes
Surrounded by age and closed against the pain.

He searches her face, remembering the first time he saw her
Stepping lightly across the river carrying the basket filled with berries.

He searches her face, remembering for a moment the sparkling defiance
Brought about by the choice she made for love.

He searches her face, scarcely daring to hope her eyes will clear
And she will know him again, know him as once she did when their love was new.

He searches her face, willing her to come back,
To lose the demons that return again and again to steal her power
And shut her away from him.

He searches her face, not wanting to look away,
He softly speaks her name, Gimewanookwe, remembering the first time
He whispered her name in love.

He searches her face, smoothing back the graying hair, stroking the lines of pain,
Feeling the faint, weak pulse of her courageous heart.

He searches her face, he speaks her name again, Gimewanookwe, she whom I love,
Gimewanookwe, Rain Woman.

He searches her face, willing her to open her eyes, willing her to remember
And rise up from this bed, rise up and be healed of this crippling fever.

He searches her face, praying for a sign, praying she will return to him
As she was before the white man’s illness.

He searches her face, wondering where she will go when she passes from him,
For he knows she is nearly gone; he takes her gently in his arms.

He searches her face and hears the first drops of rain falling softly upon the quiet land;
He knows what he must do.

He searches her face as he gently lifts her from the bed; she weighs no more than a child.
He wraps the blanket tightly around his only love and carries her out into the night rain.

He searches her face as he lays her down on the grass beside the garden.
Rain falls softly on her face; the quiet touch of God

He watches her face; her eyes widen and brighten.
Once again he searches for life, then softly whispers her name, Gimewanookwe,
Before he gently closes her eyes.


{In Honor of Constance, the Rambling Poet, 
in gratitude for inspiring this poem with her contest ‘Rain’.}

Copyright © deb radke | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Playing in The Rain

Pitter patter of my own feet
Splashing in water puddles.
Excited as if for the first time
Barefoot met concrete.

Was never drenched until then.
Or felt raindrops upon my head.
Avoided it as if I'd melt.
Did not see any thrill in getting wet,
or going shoeless, until the day, I tried it.

On rainy days I never played,
not anything other than board games.
This day a teen cheered me on,
Adults watched from behind misty windows.

Copyright © Ruth Garnes | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rain Contemplation

The grayness, the rain tapping all around tapping, gently, the repetition of the rain
the grayness, all the same, the tapping. A zen monk would smile as he washed
the pots and pans, amidst the grayness  the gentle tapping. He would pat the dog 
lying sleepy and dry on the ground. He would meditate and breathe in
the cool moist clean air. And he would smile again.  The american in me feels 
 restless and empty.  Unable to pull up the boundless youthful energy I no longer
have and dash out into this day of rain overflowing with ideas and hopes 
fearless. Change meant moving forward, upward, onward. The energy 
boundless joy, the accomplishments to obtain   accomplish   form   produce  create.
Just as a simple zen monk, smiling as the kitchen gardens are nourished by the
tapping rains, I need to feel at home in a small world again. We all do I think.
The earth, she might survive then, replies the tapping rain.  
She needs to rest   the body   the pain  the breath 
She needs to rest.  
We might all survive then repeats the tapping rain.
And I need to rest, the pain pleads with me to accept rest.
If we all could accept this something less, undefined emptiness 
The earth, she might manage to survive then.

Copyright © linda milgate | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rain the Clouds

bring home a sweet memory in every doing
leave back nothing but take them home
a saviour waits in your midst never forget
take them all back home where they belong

from your heart to your soul its always yours
no matter when your time is right home surely is
no matter how far yet with a hope they wait
all for a home one waits, like a rain and a cloud

nothing breaks it apart day or nightfall it comes
even sometimes to a surprise like a thief at night
do not forget take all back home on a Calvary hill
where it all begin waiting to take you home

peace and security, love and joy
free at will in his arms as he waits
remember your heart alone it matters most
for its you and for you like rain and clouds

never leaving you out of his sight, a sinner or not
it doesn't matter only your heart to draw you home
give it all you have till you have no more
its all free for now just take me home.


Copyright © Dr. Paneer Selvam | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rain

 The clouds gathered dark and wide, 
All in the sky high above the trees,
With the breeze in its natural form,
Refreshing, relieving and pleasing to seek.

Gazing at the sky i began to think,
Deeper in thoughts, i started to sink,
As the droplets fell on my palm,
And it started to shower all over in calm.

Just then, it struck me so sudden, 
Somewhere in my mind and heart,
Is this the same rain i found joy in?
Just like the child inside of me hidden?

Building boats from paper to play,
And winning races in little streams all the way,
''YES! I WON! " i always cheered happily,
Like the noble prize in my custody. 

The splashing of water was too much fun,
Especially in muddy water and sand,
And clothes went even more dirty and bad,
To wear clean again would make me so glad. 

The drinking of water from the rains,
Opening mouth to collect sum large,
And spitting it out in a spree again,
And win competition to spit too far.

The broken bicycle chains and spokes,
And the heavily punctured tyres,
Same old excuses to get wet in rain,
And never ever used to get tired. 

All of these memories came in a flash,
Making me teary eyed,
Sitting inside the office and wondering why,
Why did childhood flashed so fast by?
The old games and lovely friends,
The silly chats and stupid blames,
Did childhood faded much too early? 
While our hearts are till date so young,
Is this the same rain i used to find in?
Is this the same rain i used to had fun!

Copyright © Suraj Grover | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Man on a Hill

Far in the distance a man stands on top of a large green hill, hair blowing back,
His head is in his chest, his chin resting on his ribs, he stares at the ground,
The wind is unyielding carrying flecks of rain like sand in a hard desert storm,
This man is searching and lifts his head, his eyes open, they are slits of blue.

Who is this man who gazes towards horizons, across the four corners of the land,
He has stood many days in the same spot, the only movement, is his head seeking,
But he waits, a silhouette in the evening, a shadow in the morning, a man by day,
What quest requires so much patience, so much trust and belief, it must be faith.

After a few days, I get used to the man on the hill, in all weathers except heat,
Violent storms, bolts of zig-zag lightening, burn the nearby grass but not the man,
Heavy blizzards of snow, blowing side ways, creating white hills, on high mounds,
Hail and torrential rain fills the air and rips through the high lands across fields.

Who is this man upon the high hill who does not move for any of natures torments,
What can be so important that he stands both day and night unmoving, unflinching,
To stare at nature hard in the face like a challenge knowing he will never win or leave,
His search is for hope, honesty and purity, it's so hard to find small seams of gold.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Climate Change

I’ve been trying to figure out why five toes on each foot is considered normal, or why two ears and two eyes and one nose is considered normal, or why when I look in the mirror I look older than I did when I was twenty or thirty because aging is considered normal. Then I started to think about all the animals that lived in the jungle and wondered if they thought it was normal to spend a lot more of time hunting for food?  That’s when the study of biology and mathematics and chemistry and astronomy took on a new meaning. I realized that mankind needed the word normal so we would be able to recognize what was abnormal like the amount of carbon dioxide that was polluting the air or the fact that the snow and the rain had become smarter than the Climatologists who thought they could forecast the weather without considering the word change.  

Copyright © Howard Dion | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The First Fable of CharlaX

 The First Fable of CharlaX 
The First Fable of CharlaX 
 
A Falcon Cry 
 
 
The Falcon Cries: 
 He spreads his wings in vain attempts to dry 
He tells me once in a whistle WHY? 
Why cannot we fly? When will the rain let up and let me in the air? 
When will the water stop to drop on feathers so wet there? 
The Falcon Cries: 
A mournful sound so loud in quiet of early morn 
His claws dug deeper in the branch to keep from being torn 
Away from perching in the storm 
His sharpened beak at work to smooth his feathers 
He was using extra care no longer talking just to me his only whistle 
Told me many things 

The Falcon Cries: 
We disagreed with all the rain both the Falcon and the eye. 
Why can't we fly? 
Eye could clasp the bird to bosom and dry his feathers there 
A bird so wild and wonderful so hurt 
With all my tears for the Falcon Cry. 

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry | |

To Walk In The Rain

To Walk In the Rain
As the cold rain blew, I kept walking for miles with my little  dogs walking with me.  We were 
a little family and so we were in this healing thing together.  We had to walk as a family 
together.  Besides, don’t dogs like to walk?

I carried a big umbrella holding it over them.  The rain gently washed the tears from my face 
and masked my face as I cried.  I sobbed and sobbed as I walked.  Often pleading to God to 
end my pain or begging him to strike me dead with lightening.

As the thunder roared and my spirits soared, I could yell
with hostile anger as loud as I wished to yell.  Hours of
walking in the rain is the only thing that eased my pain.


My dogs must have thought that I had gone insane.  For months at night all we did was walk 
in the rain.  Only when spring came and the birds chirped at us did the sun dry away all of 
my tears.

Every night we still walked but not as many miles as before, until we were soaked.  I walked 
so much that I wore the soles out of my tennis shoes.  But it was all I could do to medicate 
my pain and sooth my broken heart way, to walk in the rain.

Thank goodness for the cleansing rain.  It healed me that year.

Copyright © Marie Harrison | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Horror

Holed up in a corner, with a paper and pen,
under the moon light, crisp and bright,
tearing each page with words only ten,
with not many ideas nearby in sight.
Someone near me begins to nag,
who finds my writing bit of a slag,
thus we started talking about stuff,
with shadows mimicking our bodily huff.
The silent atmosphere and eerie darkness,
with her distant voice my heart raced,
no i didn't move from my place at all,
i thought she was sitting behind the other wall.
but soon she began to sob a little,
and shared her surreal experiences with me,
and i got so much indulged in her emotional pain,
that attention to anything else was in total vain.
The raindrops were then graced by the ground,
and the breeze left its impression with its sound,
I hushed inside the protective shade,
and waited for her to rise up instead,
Soon i realized her weird absence, 
as i thought she might be drenching in heavy rain,
and so i ran up to the boundary to ask,
"why you want to get wet in this time of ur pain?"
To my shock when i saw around,
a deceased corpse in the corner of mound,
barely recognizable a girl or boy,
was broken into pieces like a toy,
i ran and ran till my legs gave up,
with every nerve of my body shaking,
What was the shadow lurking there? 
and talking to me without a care,
a hand tap on my shoulder from behind,
with the same voiced giggle that spiked my hairline,
i needless to say what happened after that,
as i shivered and quivered, not to turn back.
The rest of it I dont remember as much,
but me and her are inseparable from then as such,
And we create a bigger circle with a new friend if near,
because the horror is always the image of your fear.

Copyright © Suraj Grover | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Threat Of A Late Winter's Storm

Delicate verdant leaves on the Weeping Willow dance in the brisk wind like a harem dancer's 
sheer covering. The sighing of the pines sounds like a cymbal gently playing.  As rain 
droplets sparse and large touch bounce upon late winter's earth, gray amassed clouds pass 
over at a moderate rate speed...Then stillness__Is this the quiet before the major storm or 
only a repose giving the turbulance a break from blowing in the storm from the west?  The 
Star Magnolia that was devoid of flowers yesterday fifteen open in different stages..Will the 
harsh wind and rain destroy their beauty and let only such a brief life be theirs?  The 
Japanese Magnolia has flowers open in different stages with more on it than ever a year 
before..The Bradford Pear buds opened during the cold late winter's night gracing all who 
pass with their gracious beauty...Yes, as in life the storm did blown with harsh winds and 
chilling rain...Damage was done to the lovely spring buds and blooms..After the storm, the 
survivors were hanging on with a quiet strenght..

Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

RAIN DROP

over you am hurt too
this i can say
i love you anyway
hard to carry own
you did me wrong
my love can;t stop
my eyes or like
RAIN DROPS

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Let the Rain Out to Let The Bow Fly in

Even when the skies
stressed out
Hairs are falling
out
Or even angry
throwing a tantrum
and crying
It still manages to
be optimistic and
let the light shine
through
Realizing the error
of its ways
Not meaning to bring
on destruction to
its fellow beings
A rainbow is an
apology
We should be smart
to its ways
But isn't it just so
fascinating and
beautiful that it
hypnotizes you
Now why do you think
that there is
sometimes more than
one rainbow at a
time?
Have to mix things
up
Don't want to be
boring

Copyright © Miya Fontaine | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Heaven rain



The sea is drying fast
The fishes are gasping to breathe
There is no hope anywhere
Oh! Sea how will be fishes survived

The last portion of the sea is crowded
Every fish wanting to live
This portion can’t contain all
O’ god at creation you did the usual

Every fish remembered God ability
Heaven sent immediate rain
The ocean, rivers and sea are fill 
Now the fishes can live again

Copyright © Olivia Nimley | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

BAGAIR PARCHI KAY

MAY HOON NISAR FATIMA
PAKISTANI SHARIYAT KI HAMIL
M.PHIL FROM PAKISTAN
EK USTAD KAY MANSAB PAY FA-IZ
HAN! MAGAR BAGAIR PARCHI KAY
BAGAIR PARCHI KAY PIR BHI PAKISTANI HON !
JAHAN BHI JAO, SIRF
PARCHI KA TASKARA KARTEY HAIN LOG
MAGAR MAY TO EK USTAD HOON 
WO BHI BAGAIR PARCHI KAY !
KABI, DEGREE MILNAY MAY HAZAR RAKAWATAY DEKHI
TO KABHI TARAKI KI RAH MAY PARCHI KI TALAB DEKHI
JO BHI THAY SILSALAY, WAJA EK HI THI
KUKAY, NISAR FATIMA BAGAIR PARCHI KAY HAI!
JAB BHI HAQ KAY LEYE LARNA CHAHA
PARCHI KA NAAM RAKAWAT HI BANA
KABHI CHANCELLOR YA KABHI VICE CHANCELLOR
PARCHI NA HONAY SAY ! KAHANI ADHORI HI RAHI 
KABHI HOSOLAY ILM MAY DUSHWARI
TO KABHI ROZGAR KI TALASH MAY MUSHKIL
AJAB KASHMAKASH KAY DARMIYA THI ZINDAGI
KUKAY NISAR FATIMA THI! BAGAIR PARCHI KAY
WO AAJ BHI HAI BAGAIR PARCHI KAY
PUR-AZAM, PUR-JOSH, BA-HOSLA!
EK IMEED KAY SATH! 
ANAY WALY KAL KI MUNTAZIR
LEKIN BAGAIR PARCHI KAY! 
MAY HOON NISAR FATIMA
IS YAKEEN KAY SATH
YEH JO JITNEY PARCHI WALAY HAIN
SIRF IS DUNYA KAY MATWALAY HAIN
IS KAY BAD KA HISAAB! 
HOGA, MAGAR BAGAIR PARCHI KAY 
SAFAR THA SAKT MAGAR AHISTA AHISTA
GUZAR HI GAYA AKIR! BAGAIR PARCHI KAY

SHAISTA MANSOOR

Copyright © Shaista Mansoor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

BAGAIR PARCHI KAY

MAY HOON NISAR FATIMA
PAKISTANI SHARIYAT KI HAMIL
M.PHIL FROM PAKISTAN
EK USTAD KAY MANSAB PAY FA-IZ
HAN! MAGAR BAGAIR PARCHI KAY
BAGAIR PARCHI KAY PIR BHI PAKISTANI HON !
JAHAN BHI JAO, SIRF
PARCHI KA TASKARA KARTEY HAIN LOG
MAGAR MAY TO EK USTAD HOON 
WO BHI BAGAIR PARCHI KAY !
KABI, DEGREE MILNAY MAY HAZAR RAKAWATAY DEKHI
TO KABHI TARAKI KI RAH MAY PARCHI KI TALAB DEKHI
JO BHI THAY SILSALAY, WAJA EK HI THI
KUKAY, NISAR FATIMA BAGAIR PARCHI KAY HAI!
JAB BHI HAQ KAY LEYE LARNA CHAHA
PARCHI KA NAAM RAKAWAT HI BANA
KABHI CHANCELLOR YA KABHI VICE CHANCELLOR
PARCHI NA HONAY SAY ! KAHANI ADHORI HI RAHI 
KABHI HOSOLAY ILM MAY DUSHWARI
TO KABHI ROZGAR KI TALASH MAY MUSHKIL
AJAB KASHMAKASH KAY DARMIYA THI ZINDAGI
KUKAY NISAR FATIMA THI! BAGAIR PARCHI KAY
WO AAJ BHI HAI BAGAIR PARCHI KAY
PUR-AZAM, PUR-JOSH, BA-HOSLA!
EK IMEED KAY SATH! 
ANAY WALY KAL KI MUNTAZIR
LEKIN BAGAIR PARCHI KAY! 
MAY HOON NISAR FATIMA
IS YAKEEN KAY SATH
YEH JO JITNEY PARCHI WALAY HAIN
SIRF IS DUNYA KAY MATWALAY HAIN
IS KAY BAD KA HISAAB! 
HOGA, MAGAR BAGAIR PARCHI KAY 
SAFAR THA SAKT MAGAR AHISTA AHISTA
GUZAR HI GAYA AKIR! BAGAIR PARCHI KAY

SHAISTA MANSOOR

Copyright © Shaista Mansoor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Flowers After A Morning Rain

Flowers after a morning rain
Reflecting a prism in you eyes
You will never see two alike
Each  has it's own surprise
.
When I wake up your by my side
It can be raining or skies be blue
For your my prism every day
That's what I receive from you
.
When I was feeling dark and gray
You brought color in my life
Showed me how to live again
Rid me from my angry strife
..
These flowers that I send your way
Have a special meaning too
I see their beauty in a prism
That's the beauty I see in you.

Copyright © Donald Eissler | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

My favorite walks are in the rain

I love walking in the evening when all is still 
and when it rains the street’s all mine.
Getting soaked just adds an invigorating chill
Steady breathing sets the pace and I feel just fine.

Copyright © Monty Newman | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Drops From Heaven

Dizzy with heat, 
A city prayed for shield, 
Against boiling temperatures
Sun, the scoundrel
Stood up to its ill-repute
Of burning with fury
And played a prominent role
In this celestial display
Towering above all characters… 

Then enter clouds, 
So many of them, 
In all forms, 
Spread across the sky, 
Bright at first, 
Then growing dark…

Birds sing a special alarm, 
I could see the clouds pride slowly swell, 
As multitudes seek its benevolence…
In presence of the angry sun, 

Green grass charred brown…

Monsoon in her good graces keeps away, 
Till the winds garner strength, 
The atmosphere is all charged up
And the sky is overcast
And wandering clouds embrace each other
Their bosoms filled with the milk of love, 
In a swift turn of events, 
The clouds decides to shower 
Her affections on parched earth…

Slowly the sun turns pale and staggers behind, 
And lo, I see drops from heaven…

Finally rain arrives, 
Accompanied by thundershowers
Man’s holy and unholy desires
All gets washed away, 
Stems with weak roots gets ripped apart, 
Heat fades away and sickness disappears
And my surroundings teem with fresh greens
And bright new life…
Thank you God
For the healing drops... 

Copyright © Vinaya Joseph | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

RainCoveredSKY

 RainCoveredSKY 
RainCoveredSKY 

 The sky is Western Covered sky dark for half the canopy is covered up the smell of rain 
filters down some conflicting with the surroundings the landscaping the hey fever springing 
here nearby. The birds were swimming in the sky the western sky with wings folded they 
glide then extend the wings again then fold them back confused by the wind in western sky. 
They glide then fly then glide. The poet however must walk than lamely then halting lame he 
walks under the western sky rain never falls but clouds roll out of the valley walls but back 
they come as poet walks. He walks and as he limps along he notices them the gliding flying 
birds are gone. 

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Foggy May

This foggy sky
darkly and relentlessly rains
especially for an early May morning.

He is not prepared for darkness
seeping in from new-born leaves,
not yet full grown into this year's tree-lacing dress,
soaking in from saturated soil,
slurping into his complexly leaking co-empathic soul.

Perhaps this open quality
endears him to those few who could ever know him
enough to watch him,
watching,
noticing,
hoping for less rain inside today,
each day,
all Earth's Days.

Wet liturgical Mays 
dissolve his Taurean ways.

Yet, for him, right now,
such dark openness yawns too large
for even one dreary lonely hour
of self-isolation.

His two medically complex clients have gone,
as usual,
Monday morning until late afternoon.
As he contemplates his decadent ways
he misses their distracting charms.
Each so different.
YinYin so loudly Trumpian,
post-millennial triumphalist Yang DoubleBangian,
but also with some significant undiagnosed bipolar control issues.
Meanwhile Yang,
unable to speak or sign,
so hidden,
yin-shy shadow of rich warm love,
immersed in life's right-now ripe composting time,
each ElderBrain moment,
graciously emerging from his co-arising neural past
to spin toward future yang-yin equipoised memories
of time's polypathic karmic grace.

But, right now he must sustain thru dark raining dreams of suicide
without them.
He suffers withdrawal from feeling needed,
unworthy of becoming truly wanted.

Ironic,
a PermaCultural Family EcoTherapist,
actually achieving good muticultural outcomes
with his fractured clients,
sitting on his sagging butt in full-blowing Spring,
the one highly de-specialized professional wheelhouse
most needed to accelerate global networking
cooperative outcomes,
challenging each family and all climatic systems
with Yang-encultured dominance,
right here and now in this post-millennial generation
of ecologically balancing great and small,
daily transitions,
yet he feels hopeless,
not knowing where he could ever begin again
so late in this biological incarnation
already showing concerns that "Black Lives Matter"
but maybe not so much old black,
or white,
or even green lives matter
beyond their retiring biofunctional usefulness.

We all help make great compost when we die.
It's getting in there,
completing the job,
embracing the vocation,
once and for all,
that continues to challenge life as EgoDeath love.

How does one retiring PermaCultural Therapist
best contribute to this time,
this ecosystem,
this community,
this family,
this primal relationship with ecopolitical Earth
and all Her tribal dialects
and languages
and species
and multicultural diversities of life and death cycles
and recycles,
and repurposes
and transubstantiating regenerations?

Probably reading F Scott Fitzgerald's issues
about cultural decay
and ethical integrity of bodies and minds
ingesting and regurgitating Earth's generous beauty
is rather like sitting under a rain-drenched tarp,
writing stories of suicidal dissipation,
while Earth calls for Revolutionary EcoTherapists
to heal Her as she cries,
this early May morning,
under foggy dripping skies.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

On Vacation With Middle Passage Memories

   On Vacation With Middle Passage Memories

Out over the alluring expanse 
of the Big Water---
where the sky rest upon
the water’s edge---
where undulating ships wait
to fall off the earth---
we saw the lightening
dancing in space
and heard the applause
of the thunder.

Huge nimbus clouds,
dark like the early night,
and filled beyond capacity---
burst opened like over filled water
balloons---releasing great falls of rain
wrestling with ferocious winds;
for control of fleeing waves
rushing to shore---frothing
the sands with quenching gratitude.

Mesmerized and immobilized
by nature’s fury,
the blood flow of memory
released a storm of memories---
detailing vivid descriptions
of Middle Passage crossings.

The only things missing
from this reality of the present scene,
were the times---places---stenches
of the living and dead---echoes
of the moans, groans and rattling chains
from the bowels of the putrid ships
that saved many unfortunate poor souls
from the Big Water’s fury---ironically
landing them safely on the waiting shores
to begin life anew:
shuttled to and from the auction block.

The howling winds, roaring waves,
and whipping rains---all slowly subsided:
we hailed the shuttle bus back to the hotel.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Poet

I have gazed long at the turbulent
  while piled high cloud masses
I have watched the millions of stars at night
  the damp fog has come and surrounded me
and the land is silent
  the fresh rain has laved my face
while the wind blew warmly.

I receive no message from these for humankind
  but hear only their message to me;
for they awaken the wonder that is in me
  in addition, the yeaning that is the depth of my soul.

They do not tell me to scatter my words
  through the world like seeds
rather, they say, Behold! be of us 
  and wing out beyond the world forever
and in my soul the deep yearning pleads for the
  fulfillment of its' aching desire
to go with the sun, moon and the stars
  and seek with them the answer to eternity.

But still the clouds, ebon faced, mass against
  the fiery red rays of the setting sun
the stars, far distant, in space, still glitter
  brightly in the patterns
the fog, white by day, grey by night
  moves yet noiselessly on, giving intimacy
to near things, and strangeness to
  those looming on the edge of vision
the rain falls yet too, cleansing and releasing
  the perfume of the wet earth.

So I write
  letting the words of my unrest
go freely where they would
  for each word is deflection
from the longing within me
  of all the voices I must heed and may not.

However, I cannot write in the dark
  I cannot write as I stand on the hill gazing
yet the yearning is there most of all
  therefore! I say aloud, convincingly
"It is only lovely"
  to wander on through the night and day
and the years. 

Copyright © Melody Coster | Year Posted 2010