I love the ambiance, the steady constant of raindrops crashing against the earth
I love how it washes away the pollen and dust
Cleansing the air so I can breathe
I love umbrellas and glossy rain boots in yellow or red
Fat raindrops speeding to bring hope and salvation to the deserted ground
Best of all I love to be completely surrounded by a storm:
Lighting so close it sends a  tingle along your skin and lights up the night like day,
Thunder so crashingly loud it resonates in your stomach and feet,
Stirring the primordial fear of unknown power,
of both darkness and of light
of the shadows and not of what casts them
but of certain illumination wrought with paradox,
The wind that blows up my dress and lifts the hair from my neck
filling my umbrella until I feel weightless
For one glorious moment, I almost believe I may float away with the storm

We cannot help but romanticize the phenomenal
Giving ever-changing names and faces to the forces of nature, believing l
or at least pretending
That they’re alive with us.
And maybe,
in a sense,
They are alive.
Not with us,
But within.

kick rocks, use my pedals to find peace
pluck them petals and repeat
my routine engraved, my days are grey
my actions are too discreet
i crave the sunlight but worry of burns
i summon the rain but fear for the worst
floods, hurricanes, eternal monsoon
drought, famine, no more breaking news

Moods are in synch once again
with this monsoon season
raindrops come with threads of pain,
maybe there's a good reason
why pain...rhymes with rain.

there's pen and paper
here...there...everywhere
for, when rain pours
is when my poetry flows
softly weeping its woes
like ice...that quietly thaws.
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sally b

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
July 2020

As ocean falls from the sky
On my glass and concrete umbrella
I am engulfed in the petrichor
And lose myself to the winds

She's wearing rain, and
Fragrance of petrichor;
The best beau for her,
Is life.

Monsoon's panoply,        
               a dimpled day's
smile;              
                    windstrewn        ­­      ­              
                                 gulmohars,
                    ­          a blushing brocade,
                     'plop'-ing droplets,      
                     a lilting cadence;
                                                ­       ­     
nostalgia                             
    pervading through                      
  the silver-scented      
       ­            puddles of a        
paperboat's elation;        
July evenings                              
                           and      
                                         trinkets of
                         yesterday...



.