Posts Tagged ‘Rain’

Star Storm

Posted: April 14, 2003 in Poetry
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Stay drunk, you;
Keep worrying.
Preoccupied
With what’s next.
Can’t sleep
Without churning
Sheets like shorebreak.
Tumbled concrete,
Husking winds,
Hissing palm trees,
Gravel bullets
Of sky-spat rain.
The hole is growing
Withdrawn chill
Bring out the star storm
Get it over with.

Fragment 001

Posted: November 4, 2002 in Poetry
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Here in my cabin in the woods
I feel trees leaning over me
Rain coursing down their trunks,
A sad splishing of water
Pooling, making wet mud
Stirring load, packing leaves
Measuring time patiently.

Stays the Same

Posted: January 22, 2002 in Poetry
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You don’t know what you’ve done
Wrecked the car by going too fast
And I along for the ride
Get the lash of blame
Because I pumped the gas.
Your shirt has come undone
These windows are steamed from the inside
Oh? What? This stupid game
That can’t survive the morning sun;
Now just memories from my past.
And as the tires start to slide
And as you search my fevered eyes
Bare shoulders spangled with drops of rain
Realizing that we’ve crashed
Because nothing stays the same.

In a dream that plucked me
From the couch that I slept on,
I walked, ant sized, through the growth
In my garden,
Shaking nasturtium stems
To feel the dewdrops like rain,
And climbing mountains
And ferns
Like a child with no friends.

Reminiscing like a fool,
These dreams torment like reminders;
Gleans of silver behind the tarnish,
Cigarette smoke fanned out the window.

When waking I walk
Through the garden I planted,
I can hear, I can see, I can smell
But not understand
Like I was able to way back when
In the gloaming of orange street lights,
Summer solstice and heat lightning.

The rain came down
Like cartoon anvils,
Spending itself on the cement
In an assault on the town.

The parachute-less troops
Gathered in the low-lying spots
And took over the streets
In order to regroup.

Rioting raindrops,
Seething and churning,
Swallowing curbs and sidewalks
And the floors of a few shops.

En masse, they moved
Like a swarm of fluid ants,
Chewing up the asphault,
Around, under, and through.

They occupied the intersection
Several steps from my domicile;
A congregation of soldiers
Moshing in misdirection.

The storm drain was debris overrun
By the midnight attack,
Mouth buried in what was handy,
Gagged by the silver-headed ones.

They celebrated down the gutters,
Their comrades swept down from the hills,
Retreating, they left for the ocean
Until their cries became gutters.

Discontent and garbled threats
Of heavy grey clouds yet to come,
Of their shock troops, the hail.
Big drops, little drops; they’re all wet.

Promises of thunder, their drummer boys
Their standards of lightning
And the wind-demons who bear them;
This I hear in the storm’s noise.

I stood in the lee of my apartment
Water draining from my hat and jacket
I watched the fury of the rain banshees
With a certain amount of excitement.

I love the rain and the wind; all weather
Which drives people inside to read books.
They boil kettles and build fires –
An opportunity to be together.

But I like to be outside in the dark
Of wildness and wetness and the glory
When the streets are reclaimed by the Mardi Gras rain
And the world’s turned into an amusement park.

I
I can imagine a perfect spot
to have a picnic with you today;
the sky is a wee bit grey
at the edges —
I caught as many clouds as I could
with my butterfly net
(I came in wet
early this morning from the rain-dew
on the unmown grass stems).

II
I’ve found a circle of trees
by the brook in the forest
where it takes a toddler’s tumble
over a jumble of rocks;
the moss grows shaggy like old men’s beards
wisping from the branches;
faerie streamers from last night’s revelry —
perhaps Pan was here just a little while ago
rearranging or arranging this spot and my walk.

III
It’s only raining a little bit now
not like how it was this morning —
you were sleeping, darling —
I was watching the whole time;
the same clouds that dampened my socks
were protectively wrapped across your eyes;
It was no surprise that I found it so easy
to slip outside to explore, to find
a real secret garden for your majesty.

[for Dawn]

I
I love you most
when you are sleeping
and around the corner
I am peeping,
shadow in the box of light
that falls from the living room;
I hear the rain is coming soon
from the whish of the wind
‘round the corner of the front porch
lifting the edges of your hair
while you sleep tight.

II
time alone, quiet and silent
a peaceful drizzle outside
and a long nap under my belt
is good for a busy soul,
bustling with errands:
remember the value of free time,
lazy time: laziness is an
art form that can be productive
in its own sense — money
is not everything.

III
the Elves are gone.
it is the Age of Man;
can we continue
pointing arrows
at everyone
until there is
nothing left?

Playing Hardball

Posted: November 14, 1993 in Poetry
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The tears come hard and fast
mimicking the sound
of the sheets of rain
blowing over the cab of my truck.
They pool in my lap
and get cold running down
my legs, in my shoes,
cheeks caked with salt
from the crying,
wind chasing tears
from the corners of my
eyesockets.
And all I can do
is keep my head in my hands
and ask: why?
why?
why?

Take 200

Posted: August 31, 1993 in Poetry
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and when
I fall in love
with you
again,
it is all over,
pain and
frustration
again,
like a promise
for changing
the same
again,
if I can beg
for the sun
and the rain
again.

Painted Cave Creekbed

Posted: May 13, 1993 in Poetry
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with all those spring rains
the Painted Cave creekbed
is full of raw boulders being softened
by green children with
still, poised fingers like
ricocheting fireworks.

I poke my head under huge stones
into spaces like lion’s jaws
to the screeching of irritated scrub jays.

A Flood

Posted: May 13, 1993 in Poetry
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I flood each time
I hear you or watch
you move sinuously
just to get a book to read
or to reach your coffee mug.
then I run like ink
in a rainstorm.
a note, a poem of you
streaming off the edge
of the page, a snake
dropping from the countertop,
pools on the floor
while I tongue-tied
try to point out your wet feet.

Just Watching You Now

Posted: April 29, 1993 in Poetry
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now you move in your unconscious arts
soaked like rain through every pore;
your love for your form
is inconcievably lovely,
believable, beyond me –
transforming, like a dress worn
for a special occasion:
a fantastic ball or a secret liason.

Seeing Green

Posted: April 25, 1993 in Poetry
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I want you to see green
the way that I see green
in all of its fluorescence and grandeur:
a lawn and a suit
and a rain-clean forest in Hawaii fed by moss-strung waterfalls,
frog skin and garden hoses and glow sticks,
the bindings of books with gold letters,
childrens’ animated watercolors;
the hue and cry of the lifelong green
of the ocean where kelp beds hang,
or of a new car,
or of an apple.

Rain Song

Posted: April 18, 1993 in Poetry
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I
I pray for rain nowadays when I see
Those dark clouds splayed above me, threatening.
I can’t always tell what rain will fall
Or what tears you’re crying to comfort me.
When the sunset’s burning and crowded for space
In the sky with your pain so apparent,
Your heart is tearing apart with these questions,
No answers; let it all fall as rain.

chorus
Go out and bathe and dance in those streetlights,
Let the nighttime come down as ink
With the rain, all your pain, it’s your tears, all your fears
And frustrations – they’ll leave you
Soaked and alone crying out for the joy of the rain.

II
Can you see the sky and how it mirrors your eyes
And your tears as they’re streaming down your face.
Do you think I can stay here and wait?
I’ve got to get up and play, get soaked and catch cold in your rain.

(chorus)

bridge
These heavens will fall like thunder but water
On you, so alone in your misery.
Drenched to the skin look within at your shine
Be an Angel and cry and it clears you inside
Just like the rain.

III
So when this storm has passed and
All the fury of lightning’s been spent,
Your strength may still ache but you’ll dry and be fine
Then maybe you’ll learn how to pray for the rain.

the wind left my door open
and in came the rain,
in came the rain;
he blurred my pictures of you
by dulling my pain.
and like Spandau Ballet: it’s true
that the wind left and
left my door ajar
and I never thought I’d go as far
to forget instead of coping.

Untitled Poem #146

Posted: February 11, 1993 in Poetry
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I am free of ties to glide the skies
and romp and play like a colt in a field
of clouds and grass and care no less
for life is a packet of sugar I eat
while chatting with a pretty girl
on the sidewalk where an ice cream cone
has fallen and looks like crayon or chalk
the color of strawberry milkshakes, easter eggs
and we watch the rain come in and get us
wet and warm and tropical release of angel’s tears.

[for Dawn Spinda]

I’m Out Walking in the Rain

Posted: January 6, 1993 in Poetry
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This is to tell you
that I went walking in the rain.
I’ll be back in a little while,
after I follow some leaves down
the sides of the streets,
after I watch water-drops
shoot like stars through the streetlights
and after I dance a jig
with the water pouring from the raingutter.

MudBong

Posted: January 6, 1993 in Poetry
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a seed flexes beneath the soil
muddied by the tramp of the feet of
the armies of the drops of the rain
falling and soaking, slipping
through the canopies of trees
melting the carpeting of leaves
drifted, a patchwork quilt, to molder.

He Stood Like a Tree

Posted: December 6, 1992 in Poetry
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he stood like a tree
on the edge of a cliff
before the sea
and raised his arms
as if wearing a cloak,
as if they were wings.

his voice flew
to the clouds in the sky
calling them to fly
for him.

the breathing of the wind
hummed in his ears,
the earth fell away;
his body lay twisted
and broken open
where his mind had left
it alone, just a tool
that didn’t work this way.

climbing stairs
of cold dry air
ascending to grasp the halos
of those clouds,
flocking with birds
and smoothing his way
with the power of his thoughts.

no need for the wings
of physical flight;
the rain couldn’t touch him,
the dark couldn’t hold him,
and the songs couldn’t
sing him away.

I am Adopted

Posted: November 14, 1992 in Poetry
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Adpoted, I adopt my own ideas
About who my real parents really are.
My mother; ocean and spring rain; the dew
On grass stems sparkling, a field of stars:
All water, blood that courses past my eyes.
My father – rocks and wood and muddy bones,
The mountains laid behind and raised before,
All sturdy piles of softly mortared stones.

Puddle of Tadpoles

Posted: April 27, 1992 in Poetry
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tadpoles, grow fast and strong
in the light of the eyes
of the boy who kneels
by your puddle,
shrunken from the heat
of the dry days
after the rains.
standing, the boy can see
the river running, chasing
through the jumbled stones,
just over a ridge of gravel
several yards away;
miles to legless tadpoles
and semi-frogs still retaining
stumpy tails in a pool of
brackish water, bursting with life.
wriggling tadpoles in the sunlit warmth,
waiting for the legs to leave,
for throats to peep tiny songs
on their way to embrace
the river bed.

Falling Violin-Strings

Posted: April 26, 1992 in Poetry
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the rain-sheets of water are hung out
like grey laundry from the clouds.
she dances through them
like they’re stage curtains,
smiling to the waltz, the music,
of the hidden sunshine and thus
for the joy of the rain.

Untitled Poem #-17

Posted: March 6, 1992 in Poetry
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light is spilling through the clouds,
and the whippoorwill wind is getting louder;
a storm is coming.
I can see the line of rainfall
blurring the trees across the way.
the dark is rising,
and my shoes are untied.

I
I can wish as hard as I want without trying.
Maybe it takes a nervous breakdown
To examine the croak of a frog.
A rich man tapes his hands to his sides
Drowning in treasures but refusing to decide
Which pearls he wants to wear for eyes.

II
To the grey lands to search for the sunken man,
Glowering in the shadow under a rock.
“Come in under the shadow of this red rock –
“I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”
Of ash, of bone, of moon, of stone;
Cadaverous, skin a dizzying kaleidoscope of veins.
I screamed, hands clenched to my eyes, alone,
Falling apart under that brittle stone.

III
pretending to have misplaced my watch,
I asked a current friend for the time.
she looked at me curiously, sadly,
then asked why I no longer rhyme;
walked away as I demanded an answer
from myself; I never saw her again.
time to find another friend.

IV
Sweating and dirty from working,
I keep forgetting to steal some of the diamonds
I’m mining for other people.
At home, I’ve got this dusty blowtorch
Right next to my aspiration to smelt the world.
Been a long time since I burned anything
On purpose. Last time it was my wings.
Pushing the dirt around on my face
With the same oily rag, I promise
Again to go on a picnic in a forest,
Then pause, shaking my head slowly
To get rid of an echo.

V
O black soil, heavy and rich, warm
With the fires of life, thick and moist
Under my nails, in my eyes and ears,
Filling my lungs with blood,
Burnishing my skull with her coppery breath,
Arms sunk to the shoulders in the forest earth;
Black earth goddess.

VI
A poem incarnate: thee, poet.
Vision, mind, thought, dreams,
Thinking in every sense of a word.

And a blackbird.

VII
I came forth with a handful of seashells
(to the froggy applause
of the people’s jaws
creaking in their mechanical sleep),
Following May, who’s going home
To dwell with her enigmatic stone.
Placing shells to wait on the sill
And for her to discover
Like a faucet-spray of dry flowers.
Walking on the sidewalk I’ve
Empty hands in my pockets,
Imagining how she’ll find them
Over and over.

VIII
Flying through the rain on a wind of strings,
He flew with the ease of a soul,
Tall and clear-eyed with violins in his hair.
I saw him from the shore
And waved him out to sea,
Rushing over the water’s open grave.

IX
The dreams,
they poured their hearts
out into the bowl of my fingers,
flesh and water and soggy stitches,
Lost and drowned
in the ashes of childhood,
the sorry sons-of-bitches.
I breathed into my palms,
Taking each by their tenebrous hands,
And throwing them into the darkened heavens:
stars like two flung shoe-fulls of sand.
Spinning around and around underneath,
Watching them swim, these stars, good-bye;
Constellations of the smiling faces
of my parents,
One on each half of the sky.

X
I ran through the stacks of cars
After him that flew away by the seat of his pants.
I, too, cannot answer the question:
“What is the grass?”
I can no longer remember.

Standing under a leprous moon,
In a field of strobed weeds,
In a circle of garish flowers
Bowing outwards,
Heads trembling in a sort of gleeful fear.
Looking at my arms, my hands,
my fingers,
The vegetation was purple, orange, yellow, green,
turned pale by the light of the stone in the sky
shown bone by the fire suffused in my eye.
The moon grinned, sunken in the dust of a scream.

Taking a Look Around

Posted: January 22, 1992 in Poetry
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when the thunder stopped rolling
around the sky like a marble
in a fishbowl I stuck my head
out of the closet to take a look around.
my room was fine; I was scared
that the rain might have come in
stamping his muddy feet on my bedsheets
and stealing all my comic books.