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?
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.
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.
Although my north end’s fully cloaked, when rain clouds come, my south gets soaked. I guess the fault is really mine. The raincoat that I bought, size nine, that I insisted would fit fine, combined with excess when I dine means that though it swathes my seat, the buttons in the front don’t meet the holes they’re meant to go into
no matter what my fingers do. That’s why my front side’s sorta soggy when the weather ends up foggy. If you approach me from the back, I swear, you won’t see any lack. You’ll only see my dripping clothes If we meet up nose-to-nose
I just can’t get myself together
to protect myself in stormy weather.