Wisps of clouds hang in the valley
Early morning dampness coats the air
As the morning sun dances in the trees
Barely above the skyline, greeting the day
Soothing rumble of an engine across the road
As the rider weaves among the curves, the
Land of rivers and Ozark Mountains
Shows its natural state of beauty
In the forest deeply hidden
There is a place that looks forbidden
To be seen by the naked eye
So peaceful a place as you pass by
Buried beneath the trees and flowery surround
Where trickling water the only sound
Nature has produced a miniature waterfall
Through a hole in the earth, not big, just small
A cascade of loveliness amongst the flowers
The water flows for hours and hours
Its watery spray the elixir of life it would seem
To the flowers its misty dampness a life giving dream
The Rocks down which it flows today
For many years have paved the way
To guide the waters downward spiral at ease
Like in a painting, an artist’s mural set in the breeze
Where it goes is anyone’s guess
It disappears, reappears somewhere else I guess
It has probably been there for a thousand years or more
Another opening of nature’s door
The window of magic she weaves constantly
Moreover, will always be a mystery to you and me
I kissed the rain
that fell on my window pane
to catch its liquid silver drops
on my dry parched lips,
as they streaked down the glass
like tears of joy set free,
from sparkling, laughing, brimming eyes.
Time to kick up my heels,
hop, step, and skip,
in the showers,
feel the torrents press my hair real flat,
let the cool, clammy dampness
wander right in,
against my warm soft skin.
To let me feel the raindrops
kiss my skin,
embrace, hug, and caress
my spirit,
drenched and quenched,
wet, wet, wet—
wet, wet, free,
and wild.
I kissed the rain,
and the rain kissed me,
I'm stepping out
to be kissed again,
again,
again and again.
As the fog rises from the creek
And dampness permeates
A truck speedily emerges
Shocking mind's concentrates
Out on the porch in this dense fog
Surrounded in moisture
Nature's voices silent apparently
This quiet annoys her
One more truck emerges from the fog
Then a muffled high-pitched
Sound, like a tire with a small leak
I looked around then switched
Through the heavy fog faintly see
Jet plane flying too low
I thought my hearing was about gone
To my eyes a long blow
Then totally out of my thoughts
I realize the fog caused
The plane to fly low and the sound
High pitched that brought my pause
Rain
I like Rain, not hard angry rain with an attitude
who was neglected ,by the mother cloud and
its hate shows hatred who has nothing do do
to do towards it misbegotten infanthood
No. I'm not thinking o soft rein
And nature still has a moment, denied by
the dampness of my skullcap
I''m jus a spectator who wants to go home 1
The sky is shrouded with veils of dark grey,
A dampness cools the dismal dusty day,
The air grows thick with rich fragrant perfume
Of the scents of roadside flowers in bloom.
Soon soft grains of rain gently kiss my face,
With seams of my soul sensing its embrace
And mild waves of joy ebbing through my heart;
Let the rain on dry fields, its gems impart,
Wash clean the streets, sprinkle on earth its grace.
We have tendrils.
And kaleidoscopes or something bad.
A nest or a gravestone clock.
We make mind-pasta.
Debris.
Gravel death and word paste.
The psychology of me gets wrapped up.
It’s because of the dome.
Meteorites caved it right in.
The psychology of me changes sometimes.
Like towels get changed to new towels to the old towels but clean.
The psychology of me speaks through that constant dampness.
Nothing gets into this cracked head of mine.
Except for garlic toast.
Crawled right in.
On a cold, chilly October autumn street,
One can watch bright coloured twirling leafs,
and the prompt urban wanders who walk on them,
you’d yearn to engage with these throngs at least,
how they might unravel a facade or two in sequence,
quite often on many occasions I imagine their stories,
If I only had the gumption to speak to them,
whirl pool rain and storms indeed might be a hindrance,
wind allied to drizzle an incentive to cafe caper refuge,
a general overall dampness, wet, drizzle, grey skies,
Predictable intrusion of the normal outlet that rambling obviously is,
instant topic to dwell on covering a wide range therein,
seasons have such insole penchant for moulding outlook,
symbolism is mine to grasp and expand on foot,
pavement as a slippy shivery theatrical perilous stage,
It can be perceived as home to the shrewd adaptable speaker,
actor, actress, character, playwright,
audience,
will the earnest crisp daylight morning fall fodder dominate?
as I boldly essay an impromptu unrehearsed passage in situ,
yet silent thoughtful conversation has already composed the script
Tough and unbound,
Unrestrained by the seasons,
At the call of duty,
Not slowed down by age and time.
Dust and dampness,
They’re its foes and assailants,
It brightens when polished,
Bringing back its sheen and shine.
November 16, 2025.
Nette Onclaud,
Texture of Minimalism Poetry Contest.
Written July 14, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
************
So tiny, yet so vast: a square of purple flame,
A postal stamp formed from forever lame.
Houses at its center a half-cast, cloudy glass,
Trapped in a gilded cage of grief and lilac crevasse.
Bedecked in the hue of storm-light, a figure stands,
A gaze carved from ache, hair as comet strands.
Static roses, suffused in blue, stood behind,
Each petal burned by cords, yet spirit did not mind.
Rain doesn't soak into his skin or asphalt as he vies,
Yet, unshed tears flow from the dream to the sky.
The water leaves his clothing with faint rings,
But in this dampness, nostalgia unfurls its wings.
O, how you bend and blaze, purple witness—
A design firmly woven into the yarn of threnody.
Your quiet strength lingers as words fade,
A melody that pain cannot shatter or jade.
Let this stamp be a symbol in all mortal prayer—
For timid souls who dare not weep amid silk fare.
A poignant lament for love wrapped in mauve grief,
A message sent to a visitor, destined for the glyph.
How dark the air that winter brings to bear
Its dampness crawls into my very soul
A sickly moon attempts some light to share
As through the mist a bell begins to toll
Against all odds, in saturated air
A moth flits round the incandescent glow
Of a candle flickering in despair
From witnessing that masochistic show
A fledermaus is beaten to its prey
By a widow descending on a thread
Vague shadowed forms of hounds are stood at bay
Watched over by an owl that turns her head
Two amber eyes now pierce this witching night
For tricks and treats that dwell beyond our sight ~
in the remote remoteness
of somewhere remote
flew a fly
this fly had realised gravity,
relativity and string theory
a professor and physicist
wise to everyone else
in the dark darkness
of somewhere dark
sped a spider
this spider had mastered
a multitude of languages
a remarkable multilinguist
understanding everyone else
in the open openness
of somewhere open
mouthed a moth
this moth recited poetry
of a profound profundity
an awe-inspiring poet
warming everyone else
in the damp dampness
of somewhere damp
sludged a slug
this slug was just a slug
but more than a slug to others
wise, understanding, warming
a friend to everyone else
Gray rippled clouds create a tenebrous day
A gentle easterly breeze cools it down
But that sun, glorious sun
Creates a red rose crown
There is a chill upon the air
A dampness makes it cling
As a water sprinkler's sound
Upon my heart and soul rings
Changes in the sky happen
Seems time speeds by
The horizon now full of color
No traffic, but sprinkle noise~sight
The color from the crepe myrtle
Comes alive, brought back by the light
Delight they offer to passersby
Against the fantastic sky of such height
Standing on an abandoned beach
On a deserted island
Beyond fortune's reach
Feels like a dryland
Though dampness of ocean beseiges
I scribbled my falsehood
In sand of seashore
Washed away the waves
The second I re-bore
Into my facade of hollow sandalwood
I became the artist living in dreams
Suppressing the internal surreal screams
Kept glorifying the warmth of sun's scorching heat
That's devoid of compassion but my fabrication was neat
Dusk broke, I hoped for gentle breeze
Disappeared the sun ,letting me mirthlessly freeze
I pushed away the ships meant for rescues
Succumbing to flawlessness upon a demon's cues
I became a captive of psedo-laughters
The island was hollow
It stood on wobbly rafters
Looks impeccable but disguised to swallow
Shut in this place
In close, closer, the walls move
Waning light as darkness grows
Ebbing joy and mounting woes
Claustrophobia erecting and waiving its sullen hand
Continually the mercury drops
This place is getting colder
A prisoner locked in a cell
The weary heart longs to bail
Out
Precatory eyes long to see outside
Outside of this place
Away from the cold, dark, moldy dampness
Nigh to warmth, radiance, and light
Out
Out of this place
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