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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.



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


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’.}


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.


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. 


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.


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..


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!


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.


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


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


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. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Nightmare

If anything could ever be more perfect than what was before my eyes at that time, I'd have to see it to 
believe it.

Her eyes glittered like diamonds in the morning sun. It was truly a sight of proportions beyond any normal 
human's thoughts. She stepped toward me with the utmost grace and delicacy, along the rugged concrete in 
a beautiful, shimmering black dress that came down to her ankles and some expensive looking shoes. I 
wasn't sure why she was dressed so glamorously, but nevertheless, she was and it was gorgeous. 

When she approached me, I couldn't even say a word before her warmth embraced me. I never wanted to 
let go. It was a feeling of pure bliss. The one I loved and I felt that love returned to me, as I siphoned it 
through my soul.

A drop of rain caught my attention, as I let go I proceeded to pull a compact umbrella out of my sweater 
pocket. The rain grew heavier, and as it did i managed to get my umbrella to open to shield her from the 
dark downpour. 

It became darker and darker as more and more clouds gathered up and blocked out the sun. The rain 
became torrential, the winds grew. A beautiful day turned into a storm as quick as the lightning that struck 
above us.

We walked toward a bus stop, to go somewhere; I wasn't entirely sure where we were headed, my body 
seemed to move uncontrollably. But as I walked, I noticed her moving farther and farther away. She had 
stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk.

Blood gathered in pools on the ground, meshing in with the rain, dripping off her back. The dress was torn 
and the shoes were gone. She fell to her knees and placed her face in her hands.

I ran to her. I couldn't tell if I was crying or if the rain was just gathering on my face. I touched her back, and 
there was nothing, nothing but a gaping wound, a gash that was bleeding profusely. I tried to clear her hands 
away from her face, but they wouldn't move. I reached once again for her hands, and before they could even 
get halfway, a shriek of decibels unknown escaped her lips; a siren's scream it seemed, it deafened me and 
sent me flying though the night sky.

The love of my life.


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. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ballet In The Sky

The whole air is dancing-
     Ravenous thunder rumbles
        Lighting curls her jagged bolts
          flashing like gold through amythyst, sapphire skies

I'll not allow your image to spoil my view
   With you-rain would cry it's droplets 
          as it mumbled whispers to my haunted heart
               Oft' times-rolling clouds rumbled their voices in my soul

                                                                 *~*

Now, I dance in scarlet flames that spark across the heavens
   gliding thru turquoise skies with copious clouds... 
       that delicately clothe my body             
           pirouetting gracefully ...
               to the peaceful harmonic rhythm of rolling thunder

My flesh no longer aches for your barren touch
   I shall not desire your hand opon my beautiful rain drenched skin
       whetted now with golden silken tears

My memory quickens...
      I no longer remember your face or hunger for your sterile love
         I'll not dance to your chaotic rhythm

Nature baited me with her sweet breath
     Embraced me in her loving arms-
         singing her gentle rain of tears

You...
    baited me with your hook of selfish love

My heart now dances with another
     One who bathes my soul in fertile soil
         He feeds me with his hungry, selfless love...

You...
   fed me worms with your stingy heart   



Details | Prose Poetry | |

rain on my neck

release is what i feel...when i let the rain touch my skin...close my eyes as the water touches 
my neck. tears or rain...only i know what they could be...release is what i feel when the rain 
falls on me. lookin up not down....God is my refuge...i will not drown


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Washout

Meteoric warning of storm's danger, 
still awed nonetheless by its brute force.
And those giants along the tree line—
submitting to its dark, amorphous power—	
bow in the darting whip of its tongue
as though being torn to shreds by its teeth
and wilted by its breath is their portion.
The curtain of rain that follows in its wake
curries the earth and leaves it green, sunlight
glinting on wet, dusky boulders like the ones
you hauled in from the forest to surround
the flowerbeds. The rain so heavy it left
the lilies crushed, like my heart, ripped
from my breast that day you left, and I,
bowing like the line of trees in the rain. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

WITH RAIN CAME LOVE

WITH RAIN CAME LOVE
Cool breeze
Cumulus clouds
Breeze solidifies,
Drizzling
Monsoon rain
White threads move to
Heavy shower.
Rain smiles
And with rain came love.
Long journeys
Longing leaning on his back
In the valley
Where meteors shower
Unexpected momentary moments
Eddied life,
Glimpses like water bubbles
Shadows overpowered specks of lights
Specks of laurels
Sudden borders to dreams
Yonder in the sky departing clouds
Swollen rain clouds
Lustre obscure
Renunciation with disinterest
Rain and love spreading over
Love brought silence
Mermaids, water nymphs
Stood guard.
We went close at heels
Along turbulent back waters
We sat, in grief
In rain and mystifying silence
Passion delivered
And kept in store
Spread over us.
Rain peeping through
Birch trees
Rain lashing through
Gulmohar
Geography of silence
Without a speck of dirt
Pious communion
Of love and rain.
Wailing hornbills, compassionate
Invoked rain
She saw us in deep grief
Grief of life-
Love in deep sleep blushed into
Wakefulness.
Longing, sights and rude realities
Cosmic force showers
Moments of eternal bliss.
In steep valley of sterility
Ascetic sun winked
At welcome clouds
Dryness transplanted
Into alluvial softness.
Rude faces, sights and longings
Lost way,
Emerged throbbing passion.
Showers of love,
Showers of mystic bliss.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Sea Is Never Filled

I watch
As the raging river’s waters
Pour into the sea
Wondering
Why the sea has never filled

All about me 
The rains keep falling
Filling the earth
As far as the eye can see

It is a cold rain
A winter rain
A rain that holds
No love or dreams

Off in the distance
I can hear the melodies
Of autumn birds
They are like me
Asking with their sweet songs
For the rain to go away

Standing by the windows
In the homes on the street
I can see the faces
Of children
Waiting for the sun
To free them
From their wandering imaginations

They wait impatiently
Tapping on their windowpanes
Faces pressed against the glass
Watching the drops of water
Run into each other
All the way to the bottom
Before being washed away

They wait impatiently
To go outside and play
But the rain doesn’t hear them
It just keeps drizzling
On the houses
On the windows
On the world
And on the river
That pours into the sea
Which has never
As far as I know
Been filled


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Spring in the Glade

In a far off field are dark green blades growing and a lovely daisy nodding,
In a far off meadow a king-cup stands there, with a yellow primrose so fair,
In a far off glade there is green grass growing, there I will rest my feet,
A warm bright sun shines in the sky and a warm breeze closes my tired eyes.

The grass in the glade is sweet and long, softer better than any noble bed,
And the sweetness of the grass and the warm sun made me dream many dreams,
Then suddenly awakened by the low roar from from a waterfall from far away,
I realized it was raining and the noise was from a thousand drops on leaves.

Now standing under a tree the rain is soft and gentle, gracious and warm,
New life came into me as I stand beneath an oak tree listening to gentle winds,
The steady rain wets meadows and mead's, down through cracks in the peat,
It travels underground meeting the other raindrops to flow as spring water.

Clear springs are feeding the runners, swelling brooks making its way to rivers,
There are silver drops on the glade flowers and trees, far away faint rainbow,
The sun returns, the bright beams reflects from the wet grass as little prisms,
And a bine of crow's-foot entangled in the branch of an elder tree, glistened.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Rain begins again

Rain Begins Again
WLM
Wildncrazy555
June 28, 2011

Dizzy Lizzy sitting in the rain
Waiting for it to sustain
Hear the thunder rolling
The giant in the sky is bowling
The rain is so cool
As the mourning jewel
The birds in the trees
Feeling the cool breeze
The rain gives new birth from the heart
It quenches the earth from its start
The rain feels so fine
It makes my head feel so sublime
The earth needs the rain
So all life can sustain
The feelings that we share
Surely, do we dare?
Revel in the glory
Of the never-ending story
With the land and it’s age
From this to another stage
The flowers so much in bloom
With such a beautiful flume
Surrounding our earth
From the beginning of it’s birth
Will be the rest for me
For all time and my destiny


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Falling Rain

Poet:   Ken Jordan
Poem:  Falling Rain
Edited by:  Sparkle Jordan
written:  December/2014


God
suspends
the 
sun today -

casting
His
shadow

over
the
Earth -

His
Holy Tears

falls down
on
Babylon,

to rid
the 
world 

from
Sin -


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dreams That No Longer Come

Sitting by my winter window
Studying a cold rain 
Beating on my window pane
I vigilantly watched each drop
Gathering at the bottom
Before rolling away

Looking past
The cold wet forest
I gazed to a long ago place
Where I could still see you
Waiting for me
To come home

My thoughts
Are no longer here
They are in a distant land
Someplace where they can 
No longer be touched
A place where dreams begin
And you are always 
Waiting for me 

There was a time
I believed in dreams
And songs
And love
But those days have turned
Into a wintry rain
A rain that stings 
Hard on my cheeks 
A rain that rolls 
Down my face
Before falling harshly
On a winter ground
And dies


Details | Prose Poetry | |

paper buckles 7 - 8

7.
the leaf of jack-fruit is luxuriant 
i can’t remember whether i ever notice 
the portrait of your face on it  

there are so many words 
that are slippery 

how much rustic is the dust of the legs 
of the young person is known to the road of the city 

daubing green on both palms 
i call for rain …oh rain ..oh rain 

and into that rain i let my wrist-watch float 

thus the great rainbow unfolds its wise mirror 
on the scaffold of bottle-gourd  

from the bright cloth-end falling down 
the odour of detergent 

thus the applied mathematics of the diesel 
is learnt to a greater extent

8.
behind the change of colour of the swelled wind 
the samovar plays no role 

though you know it you tear off tears 
from your eyes 

and the merry biscuits that are kept in the jar 
raise a joint demand to serve them 
after wrapping with new banana-leaves  

and the funny thing is that no accounts is found out 
of the expenditure on the lip-stick that was used 
by the fishes in the aquarium  at the time of illness 
of the antenna

by the hands of the clock stretching their shanks apart
is it possible to know the actual age of a comb 
either it’s costly or cheap  


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Spring in a Glade

In a far off field are dark green blades growing and a lovely daisy nodding,
In a far off meadow a king-cup stands there, with a yellow primrose so fair,
In a far off glade there is green grass growing, there I will rest my feet,
A warm bright sun shines in the sky and a warm breeze closed my tired eyes.

The grass in the glade is sweet and long, softer better than any noble bed,
And the sweetness of the grass and the warm sun made me dream many dreams,
Then suddenly awakened by the low roar from from a waterfall from far away,
I realized it was raining and the noise is from a thousand drops on leaves.

Now standing under a tree the rain is soft and gentle, gracious and warm,
New life came into me as I stand beneath the oak listening to gentle winds,
The steady rain will wet meadows and mead's, down through cracks in the peat,
It will travel underground meeting other raindrops and flow as spring water.

Clear springs feeding the runners, swelling brooks make their way to rivers,
There are silver drops on the glades flowers and trees and far away is a rainbow,
The sun returns, the bright beams reflect off the wet grass as little prisms,
And a bine of crow's-foot entangled in the branch of an elder tree glistens. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Summer has Gone Away

Winter steals its unwanted self upon us and the sultry heat of forgotten summer is past,
Torrents of rain painful hail have battered away our fond warm memories of a summer day,
The pasture now cloying feted mud which were hard ridges that hurt unsuspecting ankles,
Now the cattle in the fields breath out great plumes of steam they stand in deep puddles.

The sweet air that was filled with scented wild flowers from the richest meadows has gone,
The rich green seas of swaying grass and mighty oaks that groaned in breezes is now bare,
Leafy masses and the refreshing voices of our summer birds both have been silenced or gone,
As the shadows grow longer earlier in the day and warm nights are just gloom the magic gone.

There is no warm glare when the sun does shine it is low it hurts your eyes we look away,
Cool moisture of the summer months were welcomed now the foggy damp is wet, uncomfortable,
The beauty of a sunny day stimulated every sense in our bodies now it stimulates the cold,
Vials of clouds scudding across blue skies stroked by nature now falls as rain sleet or snow.

Clouds like airy lengths of gossamer drapery amid the azure of the lofty immensity of the sun,
Are now black and shaped like a blacksmiths anvil flash with lightening with heavy wet winds,
Gone is the sunrise of brilliant days of the calmest and the most impressive beauty has died,
And the children of men scattered over our nation are not on fields nor hills they sit indoors.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

MI

I have a pain in my heart
It started this rainy day 
Sitting on your old couch 
Tucked my legs up real tight 
As you sat on your leather chair 
It felt familiar 
Only this time you started to talk 
Talking of times that weren’t good 
And how there are more of these 
Than times that were good 
My eyes started to sting 
I looked into my empty cup 
Then I looked outside 
At the grey skies overhead 
Then at the TV that wasn’t on 
I tried to look everywhere but you 
It was true, there was more bad than good 
But wasn’t that the case for most things?
You told me you still loved me 
I said you were a liar 
Love was something to fight for 
You never did that at all 
You were too busy chasing dreams 
While I counted your footprints 
So now I’m left clutching at my chest 
While you’re counting fool’s gold.  


Details | Prose Poetry | |

and even as your 'teacher' watches 'you'

and even as your 'teacher' watches 'you'
and your each 'dropp' that falls on me, your my rain.
and i am tired and i am thirsty and it's only just a start.
and we are as we now are, it is love and it is art.
and i know that it is bitter, some times sour even tart.
and as my fever climbs, you even help it sway to sleep.
and as it drips there slowly, yes so slowly down, a golden treat.
and as you do your very best, i can't but try my best to catch.
and each yellow sun so high and bright, it hurts my eyes.
and still it rains, you turn and smile at me, as it rains a little more. 
and each dropp that drips, i see dripp on me and i ask please.
and comes more rain, as it pours on top me.
and as your hunches lift and squalls, they over power me.
and you keep me warm, you hunker down, you dry my lips.
and rain warm falls and as it cools it runs the length of all i see.
and down the small of your majestic and curved back.
and through that small and rustic, royal scenic crack. 
and above me as each moon, i breach i'm always looking at.
and each dropp of rain seems bitter and it's sour it is tart.
and as your teacher watches, she can only try to hold you back.
and i am tired and i am thirsty and it rains, even now it pours.

...
..
.

Is It Poetry


Details | Prose Poetry | |

CharlaXFabels PARTONE LEADVILLE

 CharlaXFabels 
CharlaXFabels 
 
 
FabelFifty 
 
Poorboy 
 
Eye was fine until the rain came down. The blanket seeped. The CharlaX wept. 
The wonder of a dry warm place replaced with cold wet water on my ankle. The 
blanket caught the water for it's a comforter with many little triangular pockets 
made to simulate a quilt. Eye was trying to have a play a day time dream and 
when eye was almost there it came the water dumped inside the thing and 
cascaded on to foot. CharlaX almost cried again but long interment in the 
camping zone has warned me to be always ready on the go. 
Everything eye have belongs to me no thief am eye eye gather all eye need a dry 
coat and a shoe on foot these things belong to me the socks so dry on toes. 
When eye decide to eat some meat eye twist it up and in it goes the meat is mine 
not taken from a car or from the backseat of the bus unless its left for all of us to 
have the many people leave a mess sometimes and so the CharlaX is a 
scrounge rhymes with clown but the rhythm is so wrong the oversize clothes the 
hats made all of wool and so many they seem like a hive upon the hill when rain 
comes down the head is dry the hands in gloves the feet so dry in layers of 
sockings from the night before the rain eye get my things the old fashioned way 
eye work my hands in every trash can in this city trying to pull jewels and 
diamonds from the dirty bags of tossed decay. Eye ate some onion grass when 
eye was smaller than the now the version of my youth was hungry now and then 
eye placed the grass in mouth and eye did chew and the day came when eye 
finally saw the grass come up and it was not an onion but a flower all the time 
eye had been daintily chewing upon the flowers calling them onion grass its true 
no ewe don't laugh its true ewe so very true. Stop the Press. Leadville is turning 
into Muddville in John Denver Colorado. This just came in over the wire,' 
 DENVER -


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Redest Popies

The corn now growing tall moving like an angry sea in a ferocious wind,
It rustles softly it is thrown back and forth by a warm billowing wind,
Rye is higher than my shoulders cerulean ears have long since been shot,
In the fields grow the reddest of red poppies they too sway in the wind.

Scarlet anagallis and the red of the cockle twinkling in the sharp sun,
With the rye cut the wild roses takes center stage and bows at the sun,
On sandy heaths the wind blows dust across the woods mead's and glades,
Thistle instead of wheat, cockles instead of barley in the sandy soil.

Black cloud as thunder rumbles it cracks loud across the darkened sky
Drenching rain pelts the ground and swells gentle rivers and streams,
The slow water now rushes picking leaves and wood on its furious way,
As the storm ends there is no smell like a soaked wood or wet field.

The black skies clear and a warm sun shines on the meadows and glades,
The thick dark green grass shimmers in the breeze in a warm bright sun,
Droplets sparkle like diamonds hanging from a copse of ancient lime trees,
The rain in the dark green grass is like a kaleidoscope of a tiny rainbow.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Storm in my Ming

Lightning cracked the sky and thunder rumbled, rain lashed and all was dark,
A terrible storm but the heat is not cooled and hot fetid air remained stale,
Thunder was my loss, and heat was my anger, of a very dear lifelong friend,
The rain was my tears falling from swollen eyes I stood alone in my darkness.

Heavy steel black clouds scudded across skies and viciously poured cold rain
Air became rancid and a new wave of anger etched into my dark heart and soul
A loss too hard to face as the thunder cracked my mind was in a place so dark,
By a quiet garden where bodies lay I cannot remember any happiness of my past.

No more happy greetings no more joy in thinking no more joy in anything at all,
A wasted friend in a wasted world a dark frightening place to live in all alone,
Trying to sleep through nights sliding hours the longest night hours ever known,
Thinking of meadows, beautiful boiling streams my darkest thoughts always return.

Walking together down long winding paths but now I cannot see any beauty anymore,
Those happy times we had no longer exists, as happiness is an emotion for fools,
There is a flaming coal inside my head it has scorched and burned sweet memories,
All that is left is hatred anger and revenge with wretched pictures from the past. 


 




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Anger

Lightning cracked the sky and thunder rumbled, rain lashed and all was dark,
A terrible storm but the heat is not cooled and hot fetid air remained stale,
Thunder was my loss, and heat was my anger, of a very dear lifelong friend,
The rain was my tears falling from swollen eyes I stood alone in my darkness.

Heavy steel black clouds scudded across skies and viciously poured cold rain
Air became rancid and a new wave of anger etched into my dark heart and soul
A loss too hard to face as the thunder cracked my mind was in a place so dark,
By a quiet garden where bodies lay I cannot remember any happiness of my past.

No more happy greetings no more joy in thinking no more joy in anything at all,
A wasted friend in a wasted world a dark frightening place to live in all alone,
Trying to sleep through nights sliding hours the longest night hours ever known,
Thinking of meadows, beautiful boiling streams my darkest thoughts always return.

Walking together down long winding paths but now I cannot see any beauty anymore,
Those happy times we had no longer exists, as happiness is an emotion for fools,
There is a flaming coal inside my head it has scorched and burned sweet memories,
All that is left is hatred anger and revenge with wretched pictures from the past.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Crimson Rain

The day's just beginning and tapping I hear against the window shear. Looking out as if I were a prisoner, a grim, gray sky encroaches and envelops the manor of which I reside. Fascination consumes my very mind as I watch the crystal clear rain turn to a deathly crimson. I blinked my eyes to try and shed this image, but this horrid crimson I could not shake. I leave my chamber halfway to insanity trying to salvage the rest. A cup of tea to do the trick even if it's just a sip. These crimson drops still embedded in my head, robs me of my rationed thoughts drip by drip. Heading for the door I must, for just a faint hope of clearing things up. My mind now in shambles, I look up still seeing the crimson falling from above. I slammed the door shut huffing, puffing, panting in fear knowing that I might be done in by the rain of crimson wanting to get in. I headed for the closet and summoned up my umbrella. I headed for that formidable threshold ready and determined. Do I go out, or should I stay in?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Summer has Gone

Winter steals its unwanted self upon us and the sultry heat of forgotten summer is past,
Torrents of rain painful hail have battered away our fond warm memories of a summer day,
The pasture now cloying feted mud which were hard ridges that hurt unsuspecting ankles,
Now the cattle in the fields breath out great plumes of steam they stand in deep puddles.

The sweet air that was filled with scented wild flowers from the richest meadows has gone,
The rich green seas of swaying grass and mighty oaks that groaned in breezes is now bare,
Leafy masses and the refreshing voices of our summer birds both have been silenced or gone,
As the shadows grow longer earlier in the day and warm nights are just gloom the magic gone.

There is no warm glare when the sun does shine it is low it hurts your eyes we look away,
Cool moisture of the summer months were welcomed now the foggy damp is wet, uncomfortable,
The beauty of a sunny day stimulated every sense in our bodies now it stimulates the cold,
Vials of clouds scudding across blue skies stroked by nature now falls as rain sleet or snow.

Clouds like airy lengths of gossamer drapery amid the azure of the lofty immensity of the sun,
Are now black and shaped like a blacksmiths anvil flash with lightening with heavy wet winds,
Gone is the sunrise of brilliant days of the calmest and the most impressive beauty has died,
And the children of men scattered over our nation are not on fields nor hills they sit indoors.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The rain now...

The rain now...

The rain now,
is washing my dreams and thoughts.
The starless nights are haunting me.
Who are we, that the night is guiding us?
The stars, the lights are leading us. 
I have to write, 
to fill my lines for you  with thousand words.
My thoughts, first caught,
now finally freed.
My thoughts of you ,
my love to you,
a warm rain in a starry night. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The rain now...

The rain now,
is washing my dreams and thoughts.
The starless nights are haunting me.
Who are we, that the night is guiding us?
The stars, the lights are leading us. 
I have to write, 
to fill my lines for you  with thousand words.
My thoughts, first caught,
now finally freed.
My thoughts of you ,
my love to you,
a warm rain in a starry night.