I let the rain fall upon my shoulders.
It is cold,
yet welcoming somehow.

I taste the salty sadness
as it runs in lines
down my face,
and drips off my chin.

After months of the emotional hiatus,
this storm has ended it all.

I feel the electricity welling inside me.
I wait for the lightning to strike,
before the deafening boom of thunder.

And I am awake.

For the first time in months,
I feel everything instead of nothing.
I am somber.
I am impassioned.
I am free;
to feel
and to let the feelings take me in their arms
and throw me until I can’t move.

This monsoon
is long overdue
and the numbness of emotion beats
the paralysis of feeling nothing.

Blood runs down my blistered fingers
and my hands are cramped and shaking.
My pen runs dry but still I write
yet my resolve is slowly breaking.
If I give up, just die alone
and drown in my thoughts tonight
would anybody care enough to notice,
would they wish I'd put up a fight?
I was told to write out my emotions,
that they'd dissipate like lost love,
but instead there's been a monsoon
that I never will be free of.
Instead of sticking to the page,
the ink is raining down
filling even the vastest oceans
in which I'm going to drown.
So if I am gone before the morn
just know it wasn't you.
It's the ink that got the best of me,
and so I say adieu.

Squall
by Michael R. Burch

There, in that sunny arbor,
in the aureate light
filtering through the waxy leaves
of a stunted banana tree,

I felt the sudden monsoon of your wrath,
the clattery implosions
and copper-bright bursts
of the bottoms of pots and pans.

I saw your swollen goddess’s belly
wobble and heave
in pregnant indignation,
turned tail, and ran.

Published by Chrysanthemum, Poetry Super Highway, Barbitos and Poetry Life & Times. Keywords/Tags: pregnancy, pregnant, goddess, belly, wrath, anger, storm, monsoon, hormones, pots, pans

after a long monsoon,
the sun dries the cloud's tears.

Poetry is not written,
poetry is found.
And there’s a secret
to finding poetry,
and I’ll tell it to you,
but only to you,
and the secret is this:

When it is October,
wait for the rain,
and when it rains,
sit
besides the rain,
and when you’ve sat,
search
for words and dreams
in the space between
the drops of rain,
and when you’ve searched,
look
for love and madness
in tiny streams that run
through the cobblestones,
and when you’ve looked,
see
hope and faith
in blurred reflections
of yellow-white lights
on the wet cement floors.

When you’ve done all this,
then, at last,
get up,
and walk into the rain,
hold out your tongue,
taste the world,
and let a little rain fall
on your paper too,
so that the ink runs
like tiny black streams
through paper-stones,
and the words blur
like the lights’ reflections,
and meaning melts,
like rainwater into mud,
and just so,
and only so,
Poetry is Found.

In monsoon period
the gray clouds release a lot
flooding the riverbeds.

you are the monsoon that suddenly left after causing a flood in a village called I.