Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Eleanor Rigby Jun 2017
it's terribly humid
and this cigarette
is terribly harmful
this life is horrid
it's terribly horrid.

and i terribly die
each time
you kiss my forrid.


-- Eleanor
Raghu Menon Apr 2017
The early days of April
Have started resembling
Those of May and June
For a coastal city like Pondy

It is too dry and hot
It is driving humid
It is too nasty
and....

this pattern is going to stay..
Pondy is the short name for Pondicherry, India. The  weather pattern is changing fast and what are we going to do about this?
The old black and white photo was taken
the day my life had changed forever.
It was a humid morning in July.
My hair had sprung into tight silky curls.
I was standing in the sun. Hands on hips, with a self possessed grin.
I was confident. Forward. Naive, and full of potential to be anything I wanted to be.
CRAZY DAISY Aug 2016
I watch the rain
as it washes away
all the sidewalk chalk
the smeared paintings
floating away
in a stream
of beautiful color
a vibrant rainbow
on a rainy afternoon
fuchsia pink swirling
around my naked toes
children running
and laughing
in the hot streets
the smell of fish and spices
makes my belly rumble
hot white rice
upon a bamboo plate
an old woman
scooping boiled fish
and smiling
her toothless smile
her soul filled
with liquid sunshine
as we sit cross legged
and laugh like kids
Sally A Bayan May 2016
Brownout

A not too loud explosion pierced the quiet hours
..................immediately after......lights went out

Twelve midnight, and two minutes later
there gently blew, a whiff of cool air,
brushed past my cheeks and shoulders
but...that was it

Every hot, humid second of every burning minute
took too long to get out of my sweating body
the heat seemed stationary
in the stillness of this limited territory

Lukewarm water
flowed out of the shower
being wet.......was brief
it didn't bring much relief

It was cooler....out at the verandah
but mosquitoes are more active in the dark
the flickering candlelight
teased them all the more, this moonless night

This should be a good time
to ponder........to write
but my head feels limited...empty
swelling with something else, that is chilly
this silent.........uptight
uncomfortable summer night
...the hours, consumed with blight
a disappointment outright...

just waiting....for my eyes to give in
no longer defying,
but surrendering,
to the hot...humid
dark wee hours of the morning.

Sally

Copyright May 12, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
...either too dark , or too bright...makes us, weary...
Ari L Mar 2016
Standing here, in 90-degree land
Where nothing is right
But the drink in my hand

Sweet saving coolness, fine eastern breeze!
I welcome thee warmly,
I welcome you, please

Stand fans may blow this languor away,
But I cannot stand
These bills I must pay

Summer is hot on my heels as I run
Through prickly white sands
– and the daydream is gone

In thick sticky air, seconds trickle and crawl
As sweat from my temples
To the sides of my jaw

The sun's got a fever and my blood could be boiling
I laze inch by inch though my insides are roiling
To be productive in this haze – this hell of a heatwave
But instead I'm in bed, just rotting and spoiling
For the tropical summer I'm melting in, right now. )-:
Aria of Midnight Sep 2015
Most of my creativity emerges
from crestfallen summer nights,
where I tear the seams of the scars

that have reopened
after a thoughtless word
after a tasteless comment
after an inconsiderate finger,

jabbing into the insecurities
I imagined myself to bury,
but in reality,
I have not.

Humid,
crestfallen summer nights
encapsulate me,
until the pain numbs
me.
M Apr 2015
Humidity in theory
harbors images
of nights lit up
by bioluminescent flying jewels
that you catch in between your fingers
like a cage too large
and they fly away
into the sky.
The evenings are thick
with sweltering droplets
that hang beneath
the orange street lights
that cast a muted glow
onto your salty lips
and hazy eyes.
The day's steam.
And as the water fills your lungs
And as your clammy hands run through sweaty hair,
summer is alive.

Humidity in practice
invents beads running down your back
that pool in your shirt
and matted hair that sticks
to the nape of your tender neck
while you claw at your throat,
suffocated breathing
in between the condensation.
The days are layered with
mirages on the bubbling asphalt
like a sea that only burns you
and the yellow lines are
the only safe haven
when crossing the street
with just your soles.
The summer's plastic bag.
And as the sun blisters your skin
And as your hands only long for arctic rain from a calcium faucet,
summer is alive.
Next page