Category Archives: Rain

Rainy Season Whine

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Rainy Season Whine

They can’t control the weather. The rain is its own boss.
So in the rainy season, we get our share of moss.
It wouldn’t be so bad if it would just grow where we choose,
but in the rainy season, it grows inside my shoes.

From June to September, we fall asleep to rain
and then in the morning, we wake up to it again.
Our clothing’s always soggy. Our clean cars do not last.
We can’t sit on the patio for a light repast.

We cannot play touch football with the wife and kids,
for when we do, our touchdowns wind up as muddy skids.
The dog does not get walked enough, so he’s a restless doggy,
and when we order pizza, the box is always soggy.

Pent up with our families, tempers sometimes flare.
Dad wigs out when the roof leaks, sis bemoans her frizzy hair.
Mom says that the fudge won’t set and brother is complaining
that the wifi doesn’t seem to work so well when it is raining.

We know the flowers need it, as does the reservoir.
Restrictions in water usage in the summer are a bore.
It’s true water’s a blessing. We are much in its debt,
but is there no way to get it without getting wet?

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The FOWC challenge word today is control.

Rainy Season Bedtime Story

It is an Armageddon of storms. The local weather site records two hundred strikes of lightning per minute at its height. At first long jagged snake strikes, then two house-shaking claps of thunder and sheet lightning that seems to surround my house. I worry about my two tall Edwardian palms—the highest things anywhere near me. Just yesterday I called my tree guy to tell him I think they are dying. The palm beetle has made its sinister way into our area and since I’ve just had all my palms trimmed, it has crossed my mind that perhaps the tree cutters brought them with them on tools or clothing. It was a few days after they left that huge chunks started to fall off of the trunks and the fronds, green a few days ago, started to turn yellow.

Just a half hour ago, before the wind and the first claps of thunder and stabs of lightning and initial raindrops had hit, I had wondered when the next big chunk of tree would fall. At that exact instant, I heard a loud slapping bang as another chunk fell. As though in concert, the first tympani of thunder sounded, the wind came up and I heard the first spatters of rain against my skylight high above me on the dome of my living room.

Then my whole word was suffused by light and the crack and long roll of thunder as one peal of thunder ran into the next in one long colossal drum roll. The rain pelted down and a high thin wail of wind seemed to whistle around something high up on my house. All rounded corners, there is little sharpness to catch the wind. It is the first time in the 17 years I’ve lived here that I’ve heard this keening banshee whine that I thought I’d left behind me in Wyoming thirty-seven years ago. It was the Mariah of winds, a weather horror story that didn’t fit in here in Mexico, and as though it knew it, after two spine-chilling entwining moaning shrieks, it disappeared.

The night, black and starless, lit up repeatedly, as bright as daylight, like giant flashbulbs going off. The two nearly denuded Edwardian palms stood out starkly against the white sky. “Take a picture,” my Skype friend demanded, and suddenly, my formerly lost camera appeared as if by magic in front of me. Thirty-one times, I tried in vain to capture the lit-up sky. Thirty-one times, I caught only the neighbor’s porch light against a pitch-black sky. Then, on my thirty-second attempt, when the sky flashed white and then black again, the whiteness remained frozen on my camera screen. I had caught it!

An hour after the first clap of thunder, the storm has abated. My house forms some demarcation line as I can hear rain still steadily falling on the front terrace, whereas there is no rain at all on the back terrace or yard. The thunder has stopped. The lightning has been clicked off. Once again I can hear the whir of my tiny desk fan. The dogs lie curled in their beds, as unperturbed as they were even in the height of the storm. They are Mexican street dogs, accustomed to fireworks and the celebratory firing of guns into the air, to loud weekend parties in the houses across the street that stretch into the morning hours, to loud banda music and the air brakes of big trucks carrying gravel or boulders up and down the mountain. Only the sound of the clink of the cat dishes on the stone terrace as I feed them half a house a way could stir them from their beds. The cats are no doubt in an entwined pile in their large and cushy bed in the garage. All things around me: the storm, the cats and the dogs, have put themselves to bed and it is my turn to cease my consideration of the Armageddon that once again has threatened and then passed us by. All’s right with the night for now and that is as much assurance as we are likely to get in this world––a lullaby of sorts telling us its time to end the adventure for today and to sleep.

 

DSCN2062DSCN2065One second it is night and the next it is day!

Raining again. Furniture moved away from the leaks, towels and bowls out in danger areas.

Time for a Rum and Coke, and bed.

Froggy Weather

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Froggy Weather

Fog reaches out its fingers and reaches out its toes
to prod and follow everywhere the British nation goes.
Then when it gives up teasing them, sun does not come again.
Fog merely slips aside a bit to make room for the rain.

So button up your raincoat. Invest in rubber boots.
During rainy season, fog and rain are in cahoots
to confuse your direction and make your going tough
and dampen down your spirits if your wet clothes aren’t enough.

Pea soup in November moves in thick and tight––
not solving any hunger. Feeding no appetite.
And when rain comes to join it, they make a dismal pair––
soaking up your stockings and limping down your hair.

So if you live in London in Knightsbridge or Picadilly,
it isn’t very practical, in fact its downright silly
to go without galoshes or a GPS when walking
when rain commences soaking you and fog takes up its stalking.

If you’ve set your mind today to visit Scarborough Fair,
it will not be enough to wear some flowers in your hair.
You’d better wear a rain bonnet and tie it good and tight
So parsley sage and rosemary don’t share your soggy plight,

take a big umbrella to protect your provender
lest paper bags you carry prove too soggy  and too tender
to serve the use they’ve earlier served in months less wet and boggy.
There’s no other solution when London life turns froggy!

You’ll mow down little old ladies and run into a rector
while wandering lost through  rain and fog in an unknown sector.
So though you seek to sightsee or merely walk your Lab,
believe it when I say to you, it’s best to take a cab.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/fog/

Barrage

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The sun has gone down and it rained all day today, from the moment I woke up to the present. I decided to spend the day inside. I was trying to watch an episode of “The Voice” sent to me by a friend when the opening line of this poem started running through my mind. So, the program frozen in the middle, I wrote, then had to go take photographs and feed the dogs who now curled back into the beds where they’ve been all day. To be truthful, I spent part of the day in bed, myself. No heat in houses in Mexico, other than a small space heater by my desk. My bed has a mattress pad warmer. Reason enough.

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Barrage

All day long, the rain came down
to soak the mountain, drench the town.
Each dog stayed in to curl into
his protective curlicue.
I took their lead and kept inside
as the world around me cried and cried.

I will not say I’m feeling down,
though I did not choose to paint the town.
My marks on paper turned into
other than a curlicue.
I painted what I felt inside
with words that folded in and cried.

Their pigments bled and rivered down
joining currents from the town,
and tears from other creatures, too,
joined this watery curlicue.
This whirlpool that we’d kept inside
joined us together as we cried.

The sun comes up and moon goes down
over country, lake and town.
Illumination cycles, too,
through reason’s dizzying curlicue.
When we share these truths we’ve found inside,
others hear what we’ve decried.

The whole world may be feeling down
dreading contact with the town.
The words we free may catch them, too,
in their discursive curlicue,
loosening pain they’ve kept inside–
dispelling tears they might have cried.

Rain

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Rain

Gives an excuse
for that bright orange umbrella
and yellow overshoes
toppled over in the hall closet,
yet it is nighttime and I am old.
I lie under blankets on the sofa,
content with its comforting
rat-a-tat
on the plastic skylight
overhead.

It is a friend knocking
insistently,
calling me out to play.

Six years old,
Imprisoned by summer,
we were given occasionally
the refreshing release
of a hard summer rain.
Bare feet splashing,
we raced dry leaf boats
manned by our imaginations
through the caves of culverts,
down to those ultimate puddles
magnificent in their magnitude.

Sixty years later,
I am caught up in the currents
of that sudden rush downwards
and backwards to
a plastic umbrella
abandoned on the sidewalk
as we opened like  flowers.

Rain
hides tears.
Forces growth.
Cleans up our messes
and provides glorious new ones.
Washes away today
and grows tomorrow.

South Dakota Gumbo

South Dakota Gumbo

When the rains came in hot summer,  wheat farmers cursed their harvest luck, for grain sodden by rain just days before cutting was not a good thing; but we children, freed from the worry of our own maintenance (not to mention taxes, next year’s seed fees and the long caravans of combines already making their slow crawl from Kansas in our direction) ran into the streets to glory in it.

We were children of the dry prairie who swam in rivers once or twice a year at church picnics or school picnics and otherwise would swing in playground swings, wedging our heels in the dry dust to push us higher. Snow was the form of precipitation we were most accustomed to–waddling as we tried to execute the Xs and Os of Fox and Geese bundled into two pairs of socks and rubber boots snapped tighter at the top around our thick padded snowsuits, our identities almost obscured under hoods and scarves tied bandit-like over our lower faces.

But in hot July, we streamed unfettered out into the rain.  Bare-footed, bare-legged, we raised naked arms up to greet  rivers pouring down like a waterfall from the sky.  Rain soaked into the gravel of the small prairie town streets, down to the rich black gumbo that filtered out to be washed down the gutters and through the culverts under roads, rushing with such force that it rose back into the air in a liquid rainbow with pressure enough to wash the black from beneath our toes.

We lay under this rainbow as it arced over us, stood at its end like pots of gold ourselves, made more valuable by this precipitation that precipitated in us schemes of trumpet vine boats with soda straw and leaf sails, races and boat near-fatalities as they wedged in too-low culvert underpasses.  Boats “disappeared” for minutes finally gushed out sideways on the other side of the road to rejoin the race down to its finale at that point beyond which we could not follow: Highway 16–that major two-lane route east to west and the southernmost boundary of our free-roaming playground of the entire town.

Forbidden to venture onto this one danger in our otherwise carefree lives, we imagined our boats plummeting out on the other side, arcing high in the plume of water as it dropped to the lower field below the highway.  It must have been a graveyard of vine pod boats, stripped of sails or lying sideways, pinned by them.  We imagined mind soldiers crawling out of them and ascending from the barrow pits along the road to venture back to us through the dangers of the wheels of trucks and cars.  Hiding out in mid-track and on the yellow lines, running with great bursts of speed before the next car came, our imaginary heroes made their ways back to our minds where tomorrow they would play cowboys or supermen or bandits or thieves.

But we were also our own heroes.  Thick black South Dakota gumbo squished between our toes as we waded down ditches in water mid-calf.  Kicking and wiggling, splashing, we craved more immersion in this all-too-rare miracle of summer rain.  We sat down, working our way down ditch rivers on our bottoms, our progress unimpeded by rocks.  We lived on the stoneless western side of the Missouri River, sixty miles away. The glacier somehow having been contained to the eastern side of the river, the western side of the state was relatively free of stones–which made for excellent farm land, easy on the plow.

Gravel, however, was a dear commodity.  Fortunes had been made when veins of it were found–a crop more valuable than wheat or corn or oats or alfalfa. The college educations of
my sisters and me we were probably paid for by the discovery of a vast supply of it on my father’s land and the fact that its discovery coincided with the decision to build first Highway 16 and then Interstate 90.  Trucks of that gravel were hauled  to build first the old road and then  the new Interstate that, built further south of town, would remove some of the dangers of Highway 16, which would be transformed into just a local road–the only paved one in town except for the much older former highway that had cut through the town three blocks to the north.

So it was that future generations of children, perhaps, could follow their dreams to their end.  Find their shattered boats.  Carry their shipwrecked heroes back home with them.  Which perhaps led to less hardy heroes with fewer tests or children who divided themselves from rain, sitting on couches watching television as the rain merely rivered their windows and puddled under the cracks of front doors, trying to get to them and failing.

But in those years before television and interstates and all the things that would have kept us from rain and adventures fueled only by our our imaginations, oh, the richness of gumbo between our toes and the fast rushing wet adventure of rain!

Writer’s note:  I know my sister Patti is going to read this and cry, and so I want to present you with this mental picture of her, college age, Levi cuffs rolled up above her knees, surrounded by five-year-old neighbor kids, enjoying her last big adventure out into the ditches of Murdo, South Dakota, during a July rain.

But wait!  A mere two hours of digging and another hour of editing has produced this proof of my former statement, so to augment your mental image, here is the real one:

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Not quite the gusher depicted in the childhood vignette, but nonetheless, Patti’s final puddle adventure. She had taken my visiting niece out. The next day the neighborhood kids rang our doorbell and asked my mom if Patti could come back outside to play! Ha.

The Prompt: Free Association–Write down the first words that come to mind when we say . . . home. . . soil . . . rain. Use those words in the title of your post.

If I Were Water and You Were Air

The Prompt: For this week’s writing challenge, take on the theme of H2O. What does it mean to be the same thing, in different forms?
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If I Were Water and You Were Air

I used to be restless water—
only the froth and currents
of a moving life.

Now I am still water,
sinking down to where
I can be found
by anyone willing to stand quietly
and look.

Is it true that moving water never freezes?
Is it true that still waters run deep?
Is it true that we are wed in steam?

“What if, caught by air,
it never lets me go?” I ask.

“But even water
turned to air
must fall at last,” you say.

“And what if I fall farther from you?”
I say. “Or what if I never again find banks
that open to contain me?”

I used to be swift flowing water.
Now I am a pool that sinks me deeper every year.
So deep, so deep I sink
that on its way to find me,
even air may lose its way.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_writing_challenge/ice-water-steam/