Lala land by the street lamp -
The lemon and lime raindrops
Land, one by one, on my tongue.
The flavors mix with the storm
And sugar cone; tangy cold
On my lips. Warmer with melt -
The sour savor of colors
And sip of rainwater muse.
No Flag on the Hill
He woke to the hiss of burning plastic
a child's shoe, half-melted in the road.
Something like singing came from the mosque,
but it was only wind
through broken glass.
The birds left weeks ago.
Even the dogs are quiet now.
A rusted swing creaks in a schoolyard
where no one plays anymore.
A mother once painted the front gate blue.
Now it’s ash and wire.
Someone drew a border
right through our kitchen tiles.
They boil rice with rainwater and clove,
eat in silence.
Outside, a drone's red eye
blinks, blinks, blinks
and does not blink away.
I never liked loud noise.
As a child I would run inside
terrified by the sound
of an aeroplane flying overhead,
cower under the wrap
of my grandmother's thick coat
on the rumbling roar
of a passing truck.
There was always menace
in sounds that exceeded
a threshold which for me
was barely above that
of the spoken voice. Even then,
crowded spaces chorused
in talk would smother
and send me into panic.
I liked soft sounds
that came gentle to the ear.
Rainwater whispering in gutters,
leaves rustling in a light wind,
noises distilled to a murmur
when filtered by distance.
I liked the volume
of being alone.
Not much has changed.
The loud noises that manage
to penetrate an aged ear
still raise the heart rate.
Crowds still press their panic.
Now, at night, I like listening
to the stars and clouds nudged
by the wake of a passing moon.
Sweet rainwater, where is it from
Does it evaporate from the oceans
and come down from the clouds
If so, it should be salty, not sweet
Unless the clouds separate out the salt…
Or does it come from water above the clouds -
described in the six days of Creation –
which is not salty from the get-go …
How many angels can dance on the head of a pin
Scoffers ask to mock Talmudic discussions
Let these same scoffers debate the origin of rain
Citing the science behind evaporation-separation
~ and Big Bang Creation
It's early January,
and the fields are wet and muddy.
The rainwater sits and slowly soaks
the fertile soil. Heavy machinery
has been silenced and put to rest.
They shall sleep through Old Man
Winter and awake next Spring.
Beans, corn, cotton, peanuts,
and sesame seeds no longer
flood the bounty fields of plenty,
because every crop has been
harvested. What's not in the silos
has been sold to markets near and far.
Today I listened to the rain,
its soft fall and trickle down
patter on a metal roof,
its melodic tap tap
on a large leaf and the gurgle
of its spill deep in a downpipe.
My world was distilled to drops
of rainwater clinging like silver beads
to the length of a clothesline,
glistening furiously in a brief
burst of sunlight.
I gave the moment no rank
or a place in the hierarchy
of meaningful things,
hardly worth a mention,
but simply offered the world
some room and was moved
to feel the rain wet my face
and taste it's tears. It shared much
with me today…..and this
is a thank you.
She tasted like honey, like apples ripe,
A sweetness that lingered in the night's sweet light.
With every breath, I drank her soul,
And found in her touch, I was made whole.
She tasted of sugar, a kiss in the breeze,
The flutter of wings in the tallest of trees.
She brought the sun when my skies were gray,
And melted the frost that clouded my way.
Like rainwater pure, she rushed through my veins,
Washing away all my sorrows and pains.
Her laughter, like rivers, ran wild and free,
A soft, soothing current that carried me.
She smelled of the earth, of green fields wide,
Of wildflowers blooming in places that hide.
Her scent was the dawn breaking through night,
A breeze full of promises taking flight.
She came like the spring after winters long,
A melody whispered, a forgotten song.
Her presence, a whisper, both soft and strong—
I was home in her arms where I belong.
And when she was near, the world would glow,
With her breath like the wind’s sweet ebb and flow.
She tasted like honey, her spirit divine,
In her touch, I was hers, and she was mine
Each day is a sampling of liquids at play.
Nye sniffs the water bowl,
Not to her taste.
She will agree, "It's not for me!"
Halo samples the rainwater on top of the dock box.
It has a lovely flavor.
Turns his head sideways,
Leaves nothing for later.
Muddy holes,
Other dog bowls.
Standing water near a tree.
All of this they do agree,
Is better than any bowl of water I may offer.
The champagne of water,
They both agree.
Comes from the toilette,
It's cold and refreshing.
And never ending!
Rain surrounding me
Rainwater all over me
Rain it cleanses me.
It was supposed to be different.
Today would have been,
Sunny, warm, dry.
But instead, rain drops.
Whooshing windshield wipers.
At home, my umbrella closes, and raindrops splatter.
Rainwater always seems more slippery-
Than even spilled juice on a cold, tile floor.
Rainwater is both too cold, and too hot.
It is made of raindrops,
Which become puddles,
Which becomes mud in my house,
Which makes me mad.
Thunder and lightning taunt me.
It laughs against the trees.
Flooding the park.
That I almost got to enjoy.
A vision quest, to find my soul,
with the great spirits I will stroll;
all my secrets I have confessed,
to find my soul ... a vision quest.
The green woodlands, waiting for me,
I find strength in each spirit tree;
to heal I must journey badlands,
waiting for me ... the green woodlands.
I hear water, I hear birds swirl,
oh, shine courage on this lost girl;
falling softly the rainwater,
I hear birds swirl ... I hear water.
I am flying, on feathered wings,
peacefulness in my soul now clings;
and with sweet joy, I am crying,
on feathered wings ... I am flying.
I am sorry.
The blue and white teapot
that was stained with green algae
and had a broken spout
and was sitting on a terracotta tile
in our garden and had, for years,
gestated life in its plump belly
of brewed rainwater,
is now in pieces, smashed
by a clumsy blow
from my rake.
It has left a hole
in the world
that I have tried,
but cannot fill.
I have little to say
as an avalanche of maple
spills over the back fence
and water weighted branches,
heavy with the perfume of rain,
bow and bend
in a slight breeze
and the dry throats of hollyhocks
are quenched and dribble
an excess down
stems that yesterday
stooped and wilted
under a hot sun.
And what can I say
as a profusion of green glistens
in the early morning light
and leaves wear a fresh glaze
in the cool air. How everything
has changed, gorged now
on an infusion of wet
as I walk under the trees,
daubed and dabbed
with rainwater, feeling
the sweet damp of a joy
left here as it was
passing through
late last night and now
whatever I could say
would not be enough.
I table these possible actions.' The U K is a h20 wealthy
Country..' So use that
As a strength..'Seal up the old coal mines, and
Re-purpose them to store rainwater, as the age of hydrogen
is beginning its dawn..' And it will be an invaluble asset to
Make the moist of, ((LOL)) industrial plants could also be located
At these
Catchement points to carry out the works of creating the
Transformatin processes, which would aleviate joblessness'
The ample supply would also be able to address any
Short term drought events, and residual coal dust deposits
Could be mixed with earth to enrich any nearby agricultural land
I see this as a good use of available commoditys and it
May allieviate the need for nuclear power plants to an extent? All this would be much kinder to the ecology also.'
In my humble opinion.'
Ice water forms & falls as snow to a cold
and solid ground
Rainwater soaks the fertile earth with its liquid
subtle sounds
Leaves drop when time has passed as a signal of
seasons change
Hot summers bring dreams of autumn cool while
spring brings falling rain
Life mimic's the changing seasons as everything tends
to be in flux
Some walk unassisted with eyes to clouds when others
need a helping crutch
Everything changes over time for all things are on mother
natures clock
Even though time is a mind illusion we can't help but
keep a watch
Enjoy the beauty that life can bring as if it were poetry
for a given time
Everyday you're an artist applying strokes to canvas
while connecting words creating rhyme
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