BasilLvoff Aug 8
Drizzle, mizzle, mizzle, drizzle, drip.
Boiling coffee, gray newspaper, sip.
Boring neighbors upstairs stomp and cough.
In New York, no one’s a theosoph.

Drip, drop, drizzle, drip, drop, drizzle, splash.
Puddles, hurdles, honking, stinky trash.
And “excuse me! Sorry! Getting off?!”
The sky is dull and gray like a damp cloth.

But lo! And don’t get blind! Midst shouts of fear
And joyful cries,
With cherubs at his side,
Lightening the skies,
Dazzling to sight
Westwards he dashes, the radiant charioteer.
out on the main street
cars and trucks sluice through puddles
that pothole the road
Amanda May 1
Do you remember those nights
We laughed and talked until sleep?
With you laying by my side
I had no need for medication or sheep.

Remember the inside jokes?
The dishonest promises we made?
I do not see how you could forget,
For me the memories will not fade.

Remember all the puddles?
With bare, cold, feet our bikes we rode,
Down your drowned driveway,
At the end we slowed.

We shared our simple secrets,
Things no one else knew,
I thought you would be there for me,
Because I am always there for you.
Sometimes we expect more from others because we would be willing to do that much for them.
And like that she became wet.
Undressing before she bathed in the storm.
Umbrella left home, by the door.
She wanted to be cleansed.
Clothes thrown to the side.
Where's the fun in being dry.
To rush every moment that craves to be moist.
Splashing in puddle after puddle.
The Infatuation of being free.
The depth of being caught in a portrait just before it drys.
Covered in layer after layer of heavy blue.
A foam of white.
A kiss that quenches every thirst.
Our lips the brush that sops the wetness.
Forever more.
To purposely be caught without an umbrella
i
am
refined

in
an
ring of fire
found under
my
halo
?



















...
..
.
sensitivity
...
..
.
mjad Jan 14
we get ice cream and fries
we don't actually eat we go outside
the retro music blares over the speakers
we splash in puddles with our beat up sneakers
wow you have my heart beating
even if it is only our second time meeting
it's dark but the neon sign lights up a spot
of the empty dance floor parking lot
the restaurant window seaters give us a glance

we dance
it was such a wonderful night i want to marry him
Ophelia O Nov 2017
yellow nights and bluebells
puddles of water, deeper pools than
the constant lake we muddled through
sunbeams always as bright as possible
torrential downpours of Zeus’s callings
ever enchanted we watch as she follows

curiosity growing;
a wiggle in the wet!

an earthquake of micro proportions
she, a young god, watches diligent
blank features, and the anticipation-
He’s here; creeping along, thick fingers reflect
drops of water and mud encasing small paws
Grabbed!

He is here
but not for long, she
a shriek of young birdsong
reverberates loud enough to break
the melody of a rainy afternoon
each drop sings
remembering childhood
Yuka Oiwa Jul 2012
Spring comes
as grasses leap forth
and emerald hues are added to the landscape,
with wildflowers peeking up from the
dewy roadside.
The world smells
fresh like worms and earth,
while birds drift down to finish last year’s
seeds.
Yellow rain boots hop
out of shelves and into the puddles,
while mud gathers and plays in the road,
gurgling with mirth at passers by.
The badminton net is resurrected,
regally looming over the lawn,
as the swings squeak joyfully in the breeze.
The fireplace gives a sooty yawn
and falls to sleep.
And in the kitchen, fiddleheads unfurl upon
a hot pan
as the old and sour scent of the earth
settles upon our plates,
spring steps lightly
onto the world.

~Yuka Oiwa
May 6, 2008
This is an old poem I dug out of my computer's memory. Even though I wrote this in middle school I still really like the imagery little me came up with.
Seanathon Jun 2017
How deep is a puddle?
Underneath the sky
Atop the earth
And soaking into the dirt beside the rugged asphalt

Created beside the hand of man
How it reaches in
Just to stir itself into a frenzy

How it seeks to meddle and mend the crooked stream
From its own perspective  
When the preference is not to wind but to align

For this I say
Unto the man
Who holds the line
With his elbows locked and intertwined

That a winding way is not a way
Or a challenge from the immortal hand
It's just a steam of the natural
It's just the earth trying to begin again

Pulling the water back to the sea
To grind the eternal rock to sand

Ever so slowly

And this is why
Directly beside your creation
The puddles began
(:
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