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Kinetic waves of sweet water blessings , steaming blacktop
thoroughfares , trickling from gutter caps , rushing from downspouts , tapping my bedroom window like a childhood friend calling me to venture out
Petrichor melodies , Sun glistening Red Tip hedges
Wetted , diamond zoysia gardens
Culling roadside berries with cool naked
feet , with operatic fantasia rumbles the ubiquitous ' Thunder Roll ' , Blackbird gaggles resume their familiar treetop chorus in the ebony sky retreat of the afternoon Chattahoochee Summer heat* .......
Copyright July 29 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
The kids frolicked in the steam of hot summer streets
Rainbows appeared in the western sky
Rain cooled Main Street , a Tennessee breeze
removed raw heat , rushing downspouts and gutters
before welcome eyes
Tree frogs sang songs of dusk
'Stormwater' fell from oaks in perfect time
Crickets began to chime
Sailing stick boats by moonlight
A cardinal burst into song in the young night
A young dove sang a hopeful tune
Cicadas bid praise for unpredictable June ....
Copyright Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
The Devils popping the bubble wrap
Hail is bouncing off the front door steps
Blustery tree lines wrapped in sheets of lightning
blue , rivers forming at downspouts , thunder
growing louder
Cars come to a crawl
Peace and violence are poised to draw
Suddenly showers stall , a lull ensues
Quiet resumes , the night is rescued
The treefrogs strike a tune , the June bugs swoon
The timid moon looms , the insect musicians balloon
The oboes , the clarinets , the piccolos and the cellos
Sweet voices , the harps , the guitars and the pianos
A whippoorwill calls the orchestra to order ,
the thrushes , mockingbirds , the katydids , the cricket
chorus , the coyotes , the bobcats , the hoot owls and
the sprites
The jays , the cicadas  and the songsters of night
Goodbye Old Man Squall , may the creatures of the eve
now come to call , may the maidens of the forest render
ballads of rest , may the fledglings of the morrow lay
peacefully in their nest* ...
Copyright March 1 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
david badgerow Nov 2015
it's rainy cold days like this when
i don't want to write at all i'd rather
sit on the porch as it comes down in curtains
& rushes through the downspouts onto
crickets squeaking happily & watch the
gigantic fox squirrel that's nearly as old as me
bounce dutifully across the yard

i tell myself i was never in jr high
humidity-caked-on-makeup never turned me on
& i wasn't remotely curious about sweater mountains
i convince myself that i do my best stuff
when the sun is shining anyway
or the stars are falling from the black sky
beside the esoteric but flavorful moon
& i'd rather get coffee-drunk & giggle at cartoons
watch the world jitter through emblazoned pink eyelids
or ******* to a time-lapse video of a dazzling
white tulip stretching up toward the sun
when i have the gypsy cave to myself

but i bust out the pen & crack knuckles
or pull up a pristine word document
& scar it anyway as the rain drops down to a drizzle
still kicking down the puffs of dust & lime-rock
that usually flutter around & wait for
the internal river of thought to overflow or
crumble thru the dam of my mouth & i shout
like a neurotic with savage zest &
thunder pulsing thru his veins

i don't want to merely know it
i want to feel it
William Clifton Jun 2015
In-Side-Out . . .
In which five hearts beat
Aluminum, glass, wood and iron
Exoskeleton

Realist-state . . .
Last night I dreamt
We were riding the house down.
Are all our bills paid?

House Warming . . .
Downspouts drip
Rabbits strip expensive shrubs
First clear signs of Spring
Whit Howland Dec 2021
All night it rained
and water coursed

through the downspouts
like blood through our veins

this morning
a red leaf leftover from the fall

floats

in one of the many finger lakes
that was once our backyard

and does pirouettes
in a water ballet all its own
A word painting. An original.
Ron May 2020
Exiled from my own home, I walk through
A lattice of shadows in the hushed rooms.
No one speaks, but in that emptiness, I sometimes hear
The sticky vernacular of the unreal.

The scents that used to wisp around me when she passed,
Gardenia on an evening out,
are but memories past pleasant now,
Ethereal butterflies gone back to their cocoons.

Nothing relents: I deal with the damage
to my downspouts, drainpipes, the kitchen sink.
One more hard storm and I’ll be drilling weep holes
In the basement walls to let the stink out.

— The End —