Tag Archives: poem about rain

Hide-and-Go-Seek

 

Hide-and-Go-Seek

My attempts at active leisure are challenged by the rain,
so it’s possible that I will go back to bed again.
Raindrops slash and pummel. Rain soaks my shoes and hair.
I wouldn’t mind it half so much if I were wash and wear,
but, alas, I crumple up. I languish in the cold.
I’ve a propensity for colds and coughs. My shoes develop mold.
And so with no more ceremony, I’ll remain inside.
When rain seeks my company, I choose to spare my hide.

 

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2018/12/04/rdp-tuesday-rain/
https://fivedotoh.com/2018/12/04/fowc-with-fandango-leisure/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2018/12/04/pummel/
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2018/12/04/your-daily-word-prompt-ceremony-December-4-2018/

Dust to Rain

Click on any photo to enlarge all.

Dust to Rain

The world, my dear, is dust to rain
over and over and again.
It is as true as it is sad
that relief cannot be had
unless some travail happens first.
How can we quench unless we thirst?

Those times you go without a trace
of raindrops on your upturned face
give way to petrichor—they must
as finally rain comes down to dust.
Bountiful years follow the drought.
It is the way the world’s planned out.

Grandparents tell their younger kin
that drought is the result of sin
or hurricanes our penance for
those misdeeds the gods abhor.
But this is all mistaken lore
dispelled by whiffs of petrichor.

The prompt words for today were trace, kin, bountiful and petrichor ( the pleasant, distinctive smell frequently accompanying the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather in certain regions.)

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2018/11/08/rdp-thursday-petrichor/
https://fivedotoh.com/2018/11/08/fowc-with-fandango-trace/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2018/11/08/kin/
https://dailyaddictions542855004.wordpress.com/2018/11/04/daily-addictions-2018-week-44/bountiful

Stormy Thursday Doldrums

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Stormy Thursday Doldrums

I awoke to thunder all around,
skies clad in gray, no other sound.
My whole world tucked into itself,
the white cat on the bathroom shelf,
cuddled into once-folded towels.
The old cat hidden in the bowels
of my closet, seeking peace,
wishing this thundering would cease
so all the other cats could go
outside again so she could know
some peace of mind free from the rankles
of other cats around Mom’s ankles.

Now a lightning bolt that shakes
the house until it groans and quakes.
Unaccustomed to this morning storming
and these dense clouds so closely forming
cover that screens out the sun,
the cats and dogs wake, one-by-one,
but do not clamor for their food
as though this dense dark interlude
bonds us all within its shell,
each thunder clap a warning knell.

Safe within our selves we dwell,
these fears of nature there to quell.
The calicos are on the couch,
accomplices in ready crouch.

The dogs still in their beds, awake,
but still no breakfast demands make.
I fill their bowls and all awaken,
Kibble given. Kibble taken.

Shadows through Virginia creeper
reveal that each noisy cheeper
is now taking to the wing,
as in my waking everything
now comes to life and morning’s born.
Hibiscus opens to adorn
the greenery it’s held up by,
yet still the thunder fills the sky.

This rainy season’s thunderous might
was once sequestered by the night,
but now it’s taken over day,
sealing half the world away
under covers, wrapped up tight.
A car alarm now sounds its plight.
Dogs howl. The whole world now seems bent
on furnishing accompaniment
to that long timpani rumble—
constant loud and rolling mumble.
Perhaps this entire morning with be
a constant natural symphony.

In rain’s surcease, the young cats go
outside again to spots they know
where they can shelter from the rain,
knowing it will be back again.
The old cat remains, safely hidden
in her tumbled closet midden
of shawls pulled down from hangers for
a nest she’s built upon the floor.
We stay inside, protected from
this storm’s pelt and constant drum.

Time for snuggling close in bed,
pillows cushioning my head,
computer balanced on my knee
to furnish me with company.
The rain now beats on ceiling dome.
I’m glad that I am safe at home,
fortunate in its protection,
safe from this stormy day’s detection.
Safely here within my groove,

I will not stir. I will not move.
Only fingers softly tapping.
Later, perhaps, a bit of napping.

The Ragtag prompt was groove.
Fandango’s prompt was accomplice.

Swimming in the Rainy Season

 

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Swimming in the Rainy Season

To the end of the pool and back again,
I love swimming in the rain.
The economy of it is such
that though you’re wet two times as much,
it’s clear as day to sage or dunce—
you only have to dry off once!

The first two lines of this poem came to me as I was trying to get in a hurried exercise session in the pool before dressing to drive into town to a poetry group I belong to.  It was, in fact, raining, but there was no thunder and lightning as there always is at night, so I had put a shower cap on over my hair and done a half-hour session.

When I got back into the house after my pool session, I realized that I had only ten minutes until I had to leave, so I hurriedly scribbled the two lines  down on a sheet of paper in the bathroom as I put on makeup and brushed my teeth. I finished it when I got back home a few hours later.

For dVerse Poets open Link.

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?

.

The FOWC challenge word today is control.

Creatures under Rain

 

 

 

Creatures under Rain

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.

Though I won’t say that I’m feeling down,
I do not choose to paint the town
and marks on paper have 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 nature’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.

 

I was intrigued by the self-set challenge of composing a five stanza poem where each stanza made use of the same six rhyming words in the same order. I think it isn’t terribly noticeable except for the unusual world “curlicue” that eventually tips the reader off as to what is happening.  Still, it was an engaging challenge to make it work six times.What should I name this form? Six-Step? Any other ideas? The prompt today is creature.

Against the grain

 

 

Against the Grain

On those days when constant rain
spits against my window pane
with droplets forming into chains
and rushing down like liquid trains,
I try to keep my thoughts in rein
to guard against the certain pain
of remembering one who was the bane
of my existence. So I fein
a cheerfulness that is inane.
Attempts at humor that in the main
go against sincerity’s grain
are voiced in vain.
They do not light a shrouded brain.
They do not stop the constant rain.

The prompt today is grainy.