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Kitt Sep 2023
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.
I S A A C Aug 2023
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
AE Apr 2022
Somewhere in the tremor of this monsoon rain
Your heart itched in remembrance
And denial took its hands away from your eyes
and so, you cried,
you cried a mountain of tears
Enough to fill the gardening pots
When you watered your roses
With salted despondency
And the flowers began to wilt
You realized to set these dreams free
But even then, they were too far within
Like the arteries in your chest
Keeping you alive
Sally A Bayan Oct 2021
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
for, when rain pours
is when my poetry flows
softly weeping its woes
like ice...that quietly thaws.

sally b

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
July 2020
(just a poem)
Daivik Jun 2021
As ocean falls from the sky
On my glass and concrete umbrella
I am engulfed in the petrichor
And lose myself to the winds
Petrichor means pleasant smell of first rain
Sun is now packing its bag,
Showing everyone its vacation's flag.
Taking a small leave from its harsh duty,
Just to give us a glimpse of beauty.

Now, the blue sky is dressing grey,
Cool breezes are blowing all through the way.
Everyone's having a charm on their face,
Also, carrying a strange happiness.

Today, the birds seems to be playing flute,
Even the voice of crow's sounding very cute.
Frogs are croaking like a guitar,
The wind is behaving as a rockstar.

The roaring clouds are clashing,
Thunderbolts in sky are flashing.
Every creature is feeling confident,
Lovely rain showers 're making the day pleasant.

Raindrops are making morning bright,
Thunderstorms are striking at night.
I'm enjoying a new life in the month of "JUNE",
Today, the great nature is welcoming "the sweet MONSOON". . .
MONSOON - A Short rainy season...
Manvinder Singh Aug 2020
In a tearing hurry, came the clouds
bellies fat, moods dark
They swallowed the moon
They chewed the stars
     each one
          one by one
Whole night the show was on
boom bang – fury & twang

When they were done,
I surveyed my ground:
     dripping trees
          shivering leaves
               wet petals
          twinkle eyes
     an azure sky, and
One angry sun.
farhan Aug 2020
She's wearing rain, and
Fragrance of petrichor;
The best beau for her,
Is life.
Credit for inspiration Sheena (S S).
Shrika Jul 2020
Monsoon's panoply,        
               a dimpled day's
                    windstrewn        ­­      ­              
                    ­          a blushing brocade,
                     'plop'-ing droplets,      
                     a lilting cadence;
                                                ­       ­     
    pervading through                      
  the silver-scented      
       ­            puddles of a        
paperboat's elation;        
July evenings                              
                                         trinkets of

...Tiptoeing back inside in my wet shoes
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