barefoot she's running
all wet across the meadow
blouse full of flowers…
and excited boys whisper
she will scare our deer away!
Bedtime Battle
My momma said,
“It’s time for bed,”
but I’m not
sleepy yet.
I shook my head
as if to say,
“I’m not
even ready.”
In my defense,
I wasn’t really tired.
“Put your PJs on,
go brush your teeth.
It’s time to go to sleep.”
I thought of
a quick rebuttal:
“If I slumber now,
I’ll wake up much,
much too early.”
It only took
a single look
at Mother’s tired face
to know I must comply—
Mom was both judge and jury.
Her verdict:
off to bed.
I could not win this case.
I dragged my feet,
gave one loud sigh,
my face all wet with tears
as I stomped off to bed.
I don’t know why
I have to go to bed.
I told her
she should go instead.
I love how dark
the room, wrapped up
in quietude, the rain
will stir, and the grand
will soon; blanket
of singular drops
will soak the earth
snow cover of grand
wrapped up in cocoon
second cup of coffee
bare feet and relief
from humidity
how silent the rotation
of the fanned out blades,
like the clashing of clouds
there is a cure for silence,
the eventuality that
the world awakens
and the flowers, all wet
there will be the morning kiss;
lips parting, bliss
perhaps it is
a pancake morning
the pouring
of batter and mizzle
“a drizzly-mist,” and
comfort food, or scrambled
yolks and whites
with cheddar and chatter
“brain food”
still, quiet
__________________________________
Man reacts to rain in a variety of ways often finding a fault with it. When the season's rain is late in coming, he is no longer choosy and wants it just to rain in what so way. Yet, when it rains enough, he tends to become somewhat hard to please and fussy. However, this ghazal, set in an Anapaest meter, has its own idea what it can be truly called rain.
________________________
What wets all my within I call rain,
What makes her envy green I call rain.
I’ve seen rains cleanse and scour all around,
What makes her a teen queen I call rain.
Rain may make the rivers overflow,
What lets me her heart win I call rain.
Rain may make her all wet from without,
What can make her heart keen, I call rain.
Rain can turn deserts to oasis,
If love seeds sprout therein, I call rain.
_______________________________
Happenings | 05.07.2026 | green, heart, love, rain, Ghazal
Pretty summer days are really hot,
am I being cooked like crabs in a pot.
Fireworks made me pee my pants,
all wet but I will still dance.
Looks like I hit the big summer jackpot.
Listen...
The night seems paused,
Like the hunter downwind its happless prey;
A silence crouched in a quiet.
It lend to itself a stealth that in these shadows lay,
We may be better off to follow its lead.
Let us duck beyond the reed,
Let the gentle brook bicker over us,
And lend our tongues to monastic solitudes,
And vows of silence,
And speak not till nature finds herself
A newer cause,
Or the dawn vanquishes the need.
And the cock crows,
Midst the hollow stems and lovage weed.
Ah, the life of a cut-purse—
Ere such audition e'er dreamt the need rehearse.
"Life accompanies error,"
And we are full of its merry bliss
How ere it come to this?
A frog atop its lily
Staring at us, so silly.
By so late an hour,
Clowns before rogues—
"And all wet."
The clever night has made us its jest
Let us retreat from fen to den:
A warm hearth and dry clothes,
And conceal our conciet,
For ere the wind of rumor blows
And give nock to doors and wake windows,
Inviting eyes to spy our predicament,
And see where our path lent tself
To such wasteful end
In life and poems I try
not to ever have to cry.
I like to keep my words all dry.
I woke up happy, yet,
my words today - all wet.
it was the last day of school in 1963
the teachers were as excited as adults can be
tug of war with a rope could land students in the pond
they wanted to get them all wet, it was a common bond
I lashed them with my tongue
The paper got all wet
I lashed them with ink
They turned blue
I lashed them with words
They slowed their retreat
Read more slowly
Smirked at the irony
Flinched at the pain
Wept at the happiness
While touching its sadness
My words are razor sharp
Some splitting hairs
Others cutting more deeply
All part of my poetic Kata
Smooth movements
Vibrant consequences
Warriors all
Both those who write
And those who read
Seeking peace
Between swords and pens
remember when the playground slept
in dreams that seldom smiled
the merry-goes and seesaws wept~
few truths were reconciled
yet still, the empty swings
bade lonely hearts to sit
all wet from early morning dew
and tears from wasted wishes
there was no one to push the swing
and laugh at tethered flight~
we stretched our legs, a song to sing
to snapping wind and kites
what raucous silence joined the din
and danced its dizzy spell
as twilight curtains drew their shade
upon the waning stage
I begged my slumber to be still
imagination tossed~
but dreams will tarry on until
their memory is lost
The Fourth of July is almost here,
it will be hot but will it be clear?
Fireworks made me pee my pants,
all wet but I will still dance.
Pretty colors do not run in fear.
Glimitz!
According to your order - pronounce,
I weigh less than an ounce.
As gratchens flame and fly, to my disdain,
I wonder, have you got a light?
A conference call,
a violin,
a gently rappling, nightly nappling, finger poppling, ripe penguin,
all of them, on ice,
or would slipslod them on rice?
Catch a tory,
a chicken allegory,
seizing up, all oblong,
I don't belong,
I am more a scroodle square - don't glare.
Chattanooga,
What's it to ya?
Blampart on rye -
as I sit and sigh,
a bicycle goes by.
Oglethorpe in greeches,
idly ironing breeches;
say aloud:
I'm not unproud.
Morebly, I am constitutional.
Cribble, Crabble, my friend Jasper,
grasshoppers of alabaster,
frogs from South Chicago,
a ballpark frank for Joe,
did I stub my finger?
...or my stomach?
Saskatoony
on the half shell,
Pinkerton gets all wet.
Could I ever master
Vogon without regret?
Too hot too hot yells the boy then he shouts
with four little waifs on the run he has clout
they jerk him around
by a swimming ground
poor little guy soaked and wet, like a trout
Too hot too hot he cries as he dips his head
still as a stalk they mistake him for dead
they yank at his shirt
four brats and a squirt
he stands there all wet in his soppy red Keds
Stop it stop it he hollers then he begins to run
with heart pumping joy he heads for the sun
its a fun loving day
for this small cast away
too hot too hot he shrieks but he doesn't shun.
“Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.”
—Langston Hughes
Cream of Crop Showers
The world seems smaller, inside within quarters, no sun.
But the yellow wonder is like lightning outside, not done.
Inside there is the brightness of the youngest grand.
Consuming all the rays of sunshine, each grain of sand.
The community park would burn within minutes our skin,
so the schoolager finds friends, swings his arms to win.
The VR helps a bit on closeted days that aren’t cooled by rain.
Those greedy clouds won’t spill their shimmering champagne.
With “cream of crop” showers, I imagine us stomping, making pies
with mud, running through the streets, splashing, loving the rise.
Dare the lightning to strike, we’d grab our swords and fight.
We’d reduce its commotion locomotion to a wee little light.
All wet, with flip flops flying like frisbees into puddles deep.
We’d be like fish, who don’t care if they’re slippery, and leap.
The skies today hold promise, covering over the brightness.
Will the heavens lie to us today or do they hold forthrightness.
I was all wet from the rain
Losing my mind in a park
Sitting on the swing till dawn
The summers I saw more sunrises
Than the back of my eyelids
Slipping quietly amongst the vampires sleeping under the overpass
If Nostalgia is a drug, I'm overdosing
So I cling to porcelain Gods begging for forgiveness
You can't take back what time takes away
And when you walk down memory lane those things you hold dear will no longer be there
There's a story only I can tell
Standing on the sidewalk alone
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