Drip
littlest sound
tentative on the roof
then all around
bee-like
in droning surround
until finally
with morning near-drowned
coda
in the downspout
bits of shower
tap
earth bound.
Tag Archives: rain
March 27.21: Coping
Hope is the thing with feathers,
according to the poet;
this wind-coiffed matted stalwart
is adamant to show it.
Waterlogged, bedraggled,
moroser by the hour,
he watches plashy pond,
indomitable and dour.
But persevering, patient,
resolute in attitude,
it isn’t raining rain, he says,
it’s raining fortitude.
I salute unpretty Hope,
my admiration bestirred:
it may be the thing with feathers,
but it’s surely a tough old bird.
With thanks to Emily Dickinson.
And to the purists I make no apologies for “moroser.”
It’s a poem. Ergo, poetic license.
May 13.20: Coping
When rain takes down
the petals of spring
and color lies dying,
when bough and branch,
weary of weight,
sag groundward,
do we pretend not to see
how much like us?
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
June 13.19
In droplets weighed,
rain’s final word,
purling postscript,
barely heard.
May 4.19
The word of the year is GLUB
the world is a sloshing bathtub
I rant and complain
shake my trowel at the rain
but I can’t stop this merciless drub.
I’m tired of endless grey
I want it to go away
I miss sun and moon
I’m becoming a loon
I want to go out and play.
I’m tired of work half-begun
for want of a sky with a sun
it’s a dastardly plot:
spring comes to naught
and summer attacks like the Hun.
I would find it exceedingly rude
if you told me to adjust attitude
it isn’t my bad
Nature’s the cad
gardeners will grant my bad mood.
May the 4th
be with you, dear reader,
soggy though it may be.
Disconnections: August 31.18
It rained a mirror
and a firmament shone underfoot,
looking up at itself,
blue and white,
above and below
the indolent leaves,
their rhythmless drips
like driblets of dreams,
afterthoughts
of the night rain,
mizzlings
on the morning glass.
.
Connections: November 19.17
Like wingbeat
a million splashes
each the size of one cricket note
but together rising, falling
in hypnotic patter
tell the time
of in-between
neither fall nor winter
but cradling interlude
to hold the year
one minute.
Dear reader, ever since I started using this new computer, I’ve noticed that the photos in my blogs come and go. Sometimes they’re there, and sometimes they’re not. Please bear with me. I have no idea why the photos sometimes don’t appear. This one is supposed to have a photo in it, but it doesn’t at the moment. Perhaps sometime before the end of time I will figure out what’s going on. Or isn’t going on, as the case may be.
Connections: July 14.17
It’s an earthen air
sagging over the dawn
musty
sweating on the lawn
popping with toadstools
and yesterday’s rain sits still
gathering the scent of soil
and a nameless farmer’s till
ghosts of crops past
rain-wafted now
old farms unburied
by summer storm plow
smells of wet summer
airy thick soup
fragrant toothsome
morning droop.
Connections: May 1.17
Connections: March 31.17
If my camera could
I would
make a picture of the sound
this yawning day —
busy pattering soft
rain
mud-muffled,
tire splash
as people trespass
into worms’ world,
robin flutes
through the dripping dark,
splats
syncopated
on the roof.
Oddments 