"downpours" poems
I always suspected electricity
Ran rampant through my veins
To make me dazed and dizzy
But unable to sit still
It made me prone to flights of fancy
So I left giddy trails of sparks
Blazing proof of my restlessness
That once brightly caught your eye
Once your gaze had found my own
My moods came in swooning flares
And you crackled alongside me
Filling my aching, empty silence
With shiny, blessed noise
We burned so beautifully
With my electric fire
And your trilling declamations
Light and sound intertwining
Like thunder that had finally caught up with its lightning
It seemed like Nature's order
A completion of the whole
Two halves that followed each other
Unthinkingly and automatically
So one day when I found silence
It felt like Earth itself was splitting
Panicked, I burned more brightly
Stoked the fire just in case
I feared that I had dimmed
And been the cause of this new quietness
So when I still heard nothing
I thought my efforts insufficient
And I ran my highest currents
Until my wires nearly melted
Thinking the sun and I were comparable
And anticipating a response
And still I heard no trilling
No crackling at my side
So I wondered if perhaps
I had shined beyond your limits
Swiftly, I contracted
Reined in my flares and doused the fire
Thinking sudden darkness
Might just shock you into sound
I finally heard the faintest popping
Not quite the rending that I wanted
But a break from quiet all the same
Afraid of spoiling the moment
I leashed my electricity
Kept myself dim so I could hear you
Though I felt the writhing beneath my skin
It finally became unbearable
So I flashed like wild lightning
Lashed out and struck the ground
Hoping for your thunder
A dark and roiling storm
Swirling raindrops and clouds colliding
And deep, ugly noise
All I wanted was your thunder
But in the end
It was only me yelling
Screaming out for downpours
Alone
Listening to my own echoes
Waiting for you to harmonize
In the end
I was always waiting
Wondering when you'd chosen silence
Wondering why I'd let you dim me
Wondering how it was we'd ever burned
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 1:45 PM UTC
I dream of clouds
that never rain.
I dream of orange-colored umbrellas
that shade us from both the sun
and the downpours.
I dream of sweet, sandy shores.
I saw something in your countenance
that almost haunts me.
We all let ourselves dream
as much as we want.
I want to stop dreaming
and have the real thing.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 2:50 AM UTC
*I loved you 'tween the rushes of love
and downpours of ecstasy,
midst windswept rapture for the ages,
'til the storm ravaged our destiny
left behind crumpled passages in its wake
still, I hold those love letters to my breast
whence those dreams of passion
wake amid dormant slumber*
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
*Tell yourself to breathe
as the stratosphere is falling,
imagining verses tumbling
midst downpours' dissension,
sans sentimentality's
loquacious language,
and the land is left barren
as verbosity disintegrates
and emotions wholly perish
'neath fickle cloudbursts
of poetry's extinction*
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 7:12 AM UTC
Sticky Sticky, So **** Sticky,
Us Brits and our Weather
are so **** Picky
Sun Beats Down, Evaporates the Frowns
Then there's the complaints for which wer are so renowned
Too Cold, Too Hot, Please Just Stop...
I was waiting all winter long and now you strop
I much prefer shades to a winters coat
Up round my **** not up round my throat
Own far more Mini's than I do Scarfs
and it was the Summer Holiday's I had most Laughs
So you can keep your dreams of cosy nights in
As I excite the 'Vit D' and Tan my Skin
All trhose extra layers keeping you wrapped
I prefer the White lines where my Crop-Top Strapped
"I can't Move, Think I'm Melting",
I quickly choose 'Rays' over 'Downpours' or 'Peltings'
Sitting at this screen writing is now getting Tricky
It's Sticky Sticky....Too ****** Sticky... Yeergh!
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 7:07 PM UTC
I want to know you
The way a meandering river peruses the Earth
As it twists endlessly toward the sea,
Touching everything it can,
Yet in no hurry to arrive.
Whisper to me just how you want to feel, the way
The ocean exposes all the secrets
Of the universe, one by one, with
Each crashing wave onto white sand.
Just speak to me how you like to laugh, like
The ebullient summer's downpours joke with kids
And parents alike as they puddle together with glee,
Splashing through eternity.
Call out to me how you desire love, just as a
Waterfall delves deep down into the pool, creating a rainbow,
continuing its unending journey, rushing sometimes, but often, simply enjoying the rhythm of its perpetual renewal, coming again as a comfortable river.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
words protect us.
they shelter us from the storm of life.
they wrap themselves around us,
engulfing our every movement.
whether they are sung or spoken or written,
words have power.
more power than you could ever imagine.
they can hurt.
your words can cause torrential downpours
in the hearts of others.
but kind words are just as powerful.
they can inspire.
your words can achieve someone's dream.
why would you choose harmful words when your kind sentences can change the world?
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 1:18 PM UTC
The sun shines on us all, as well as the rain
Torrential downpours of pain, we lose and we gain
We veer into cliched territory to verbalize our response to more tragedies that a lost world continues to offer
The signs of the times the Holy Text forewarned becomes ever more visible...except to the blind and the Scoffer
Why does the blood of the innocent and unknowing continue to shed for the next man’s awakening of his own imminent flatline?
At times I, picture myself in someone else’s fate, how would I have handled myself in that same place?
How would I have responded with bullets suddenly flying around me as potential dead bodies surround me, in that unexpected moment of truth...which characteristic would have ultimately found me? cowardice...or courage?
I find myself at times discouraged by my struggle with self-assurance in knowing that my demonstrating answer would have been in the latter rather than the former
How many times have we entered into a school, mall, concert venue only to have a passing or pressing thought enter into our conscience only to ask “what if I’m not supposed to make it back out alive”?
I often wonder if Rachel Scott struggled with these internal inquiries in the years, months, days, hours, final seconds before she stepped foot on that columbine soil destined to receive her call to became a maytr for the Gospel she lived...and died for.
What exactly are we dying for? Are we dying to self? Or because of it?
Whether our final earthly breath is due to a natural cause or one unsuspecting...what are we dying for?
Many people will not be able to answer that question…until it is forever too late...
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 4:12 AM UTC
Walking down the wet pavement was a tall, young man in a black, silk yukata robe with matching leather shoes, spandex half-mask and large, opaque umbrella with a round, wooden handle.
One could say that he was posing as a sharp-dressed samurai without a sword; that he was eager to recreate the experience of a samurai strolling through his ancient hometown. But there were no cherry blossoms falling on his umbrella, only heavy raindrops.
In fact, raindrops have been falling on his umbrella ever since he purchased it from one of his favorite clothes department stores. Back then, he used to carry it with him whenever he wore his favorite grey, cotton trench coat and navy-blue jeans in the rain.
One may mistake him for a chameleon changing his colors once a day or a piano ballad shifting tempo and style with each verse; maybe even a cottage with lights flashing at different speeds like sweet turning sour in the blink of an eye.
Regardless of it all, he would always carry his trustworthy, respectable umbrella and count on it to keep him dry even in the heaviest of downpours.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 6:52 PM UTC
The heavy downpour
took longer,
easily, it spread all over,
the weight of water,
drenched the ground,
the plants.....it doused
the body and
silenced the mind.
I stared
at the gloomy, grayed
horizon...while rain
poured without end.
the water level
rose...and swelled,
all active and dormant fears
lost their tethers
and darkened the floodwaters.
It seemed, the sky
really needed to cry.
and here we are, humans,
twisted...tangled up in the chaos
of a grieving universe.
With just thin raincoats
and light scarves as shields,
how do we escape the aftermath
of life's heavy downpours?
For lots of reasons, the sky
disencumbers...and cries.
sally b
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 31, 2022
Aug 30, 2022
Aug 30, 2022 at 9:45 PM UTC
downpours in june are expected in london
like the rushing to the tubelines at closing time
the warmth of the morning undone
raining in june is nothing short of a crime.
like children in suits the 9-5ers
leap from raindrop to raindrop
with umbrellas writhing against eachother like tethers
only for the briefest connections can we stop.
there's no point looking into a rain-battered soul
its only when we move apart can we truly be whole.
Jun 15, 2019
Jun 15, 2019 at 6:08 PM UTC
I will miss Uganda
The people that made us feel most welcome
That helped us learn as part of the team
I will miss the sunshine
Even the downpours and storms that stunned us
And the dryness of earth that dusted our skin
I will miss the hilltop views
That look upon the cityscape of hectic humanity
And roads filled with the danger of boda-bodas and matatus
I will miss the expectation of casual tardiness
Of moving like there’s no rush
No better place to be so why hurry
I will miss the adventure of discovering new places
Of eating new things with new people
And sharing stories of varied past
I will miss Uganda and it says it misses me
But as long as I remember
I wont need to miss the memories
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
You the are ripple in a pond that once lay still.
And I wonder if the wind could speak would it ever reveal
why the sky sheds such a solemn tear?
Mountains will roar Loud and Fierce;
But the pond, it always lay still.
Through thunderous storms and endless downpours
it remained serene.
A peaceful pond,
until you intervened.
That single clouds tear sparked a ripple that would never disappear-
a ripple that refuses to adhere to the known laws of this sphere.
As if the roots of the tree grew above the tallest leaves
so high it could see beyond the seven seas;
my world, upside down.
As if the beating of a bold heart broke through the skin to show all its scars;
My pond, unsound.
Grasped by your ripple.
Unable to breathe.
Unable to drown
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
Plick,
Pluck,
the tiny little strings in my mind.
dancing to a different tune each and every day,
the world plays my songs.
eyes wandering around the room while I play with my thoughts,
like the child I never won't be.
cross-legged and slumped over as the heated droplets dribble down my spine,
and fall from my weary lips,
that which are worn from the words I never got used to saying,
singing the songs of my each and every day,
coalesce the thinkings that have somehow let me dance to where I sit today,
forlorn petals fall from my branches in beautiful pastels, cursed to live in the winding winds.
Aday to each and every day that I sing and prance within my tiny little heart,
washing my pains away.
ill-weighed upon my shoulders,
as yet i dance some more,
beneath the turbid downpours engulfed in shades of red.
i wish't to see the blue,
the green,
the steam, arising from my skin.
narrowly weeping within my little box of horrors i keep by my side,
in remembrance of each and every day i have and will yet shed a tear.
haunted lullabies revel on and on,
each and every day,
i crave the pieces of the peaces i'd once known.
to here,
today,
i shut my eyes,
and into the blackness bursts forth colors i've never seen,
and will never see again.
to see that which i've never seen.
silent shapes shaping away falling through my fields of vision,
and inform themselves to the visions I write today,
so here,
i simply continue,
to plick,
and pluck,
the tiny strings inside my mind,
each,
and every day.
~Robert van Lingen
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 8:34 PM UTC
Workers migrate for the coast
At the first hint of holiday,
Winging their way past lorries and vans,
And coaches coated with spray ochre tans,
Flying along motorways in single file,
The music of freedom for mile upon mile.
Father steers straight with his eye on the road,
Insisting on mix tapes he made as a teen
While necking sweet girls in his imaginative dreams.
Kids shriek games on the warm backseat,
While air hostess mums offer peanuts
And cushions, and packets of sweets.
They arrive with a fuss, and a sigh of relief
While father shakes his weary feet
And the mum takes the girls for an ice cream treat.
They unload their bags of shorts and vest tops,
And the hotel looks grand, at least from the side,
But a moment of doubt creeps in, I confide.
It can’t be this nice, thought the father too late,
I bought it for tuppence, or at least so I thought,
As he read the terms of the room service bill;
The cost of cool water was like climbing a hill,
Just when you thought it couldn’t get much higher…
But I digress; it gets considerably more dire.
The room was a state and mum had a fit
Cleaning up tissues and strange looking stains,
And the girls were fighting and being such pains.
Father took a beer from the fridge,
Ignoring the cost for the sake of some peace,
And stepped on the deck to get some release.
Five seconds later he was running indoors
As the clouds broke their cover in heavy downpours.
Expecting a break, they were fooled once again.
The weekend was spent in the room like last year,
While rain and thunder spoiled all their cheer.
There’s only so many board games to play,
And the food gave the girls a sore and sour tummy
And turned the grand weekend into a desperate plea.
Please let it end, I want to return
To the office of slaves who make my life fun.
Workers return from the coast
On the third day of rest,
Splashing their way past lorries and vans,
And coaches coated with burning red tans,
Dragging along motorways in single file,
The sound of the rain for mile upon mile.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
He gave swerves to uncategorized happiness, with spins that ******* back into his despondencies. He was never given a chance to applaud himself for being a second-long happy or get back to the spotlight where he did belong to his whole **** life. He's properly beautiful when he dances, or when he's proud of his weakest points. Him singing, even the most heard songs will sound re-engaging as if he owns it. Our eyes pace head-on against our cars' contraries. Every scar I had given to my wrists soothe when we wrap our sinful hands in an ill-starred manner.
Love, for him, is altruistically pouring around like sudden downpours on a midsummer day; he had everything to offer yet nothing for himself. He invests a lot with what he wins back. He's the grandeur of a boring ensemble of actors yet still believes he's the subpar star when in reality, no such star existed like it. No one would ever dare to leave him with a river to bleed, or cherry wine bottles with teary send-offs.
Anyone who does that will rest assured have a slot in his own obscenities - oh, how I wish hell would be a lot better than that.
I wasn't briefed for safe keeping such recherchés, that I had to jilt. A handful will be curious, why my decision is a ****** or rather, why am I a **** up. But I would say people with better anything deserve his still-endearing dissonances. And all I have are lyrics while he gives song compositions. All he ever needs are happy mornings who hugs him back so right. Behind their curtains are joy-tinted windows with episodes of cuddles and husky 'Good morning's'. I am not that person, so I had left him in his most heightened situation yet - loving me. In a bed full of my inconsistencies, he was sleeping beside his hard-to-swallow Ecstasies.
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
*You remind me of the earth,
like deep burnt umber woodlands
mid downpours' fresh aroma
& spring's foliage lushly reborn,
twinkling explosive pinpoints
grazing beyond dark ether,
sparkles dappling 'pon depths
of eternal seascapes's nature,
amidst breath of relentless airy winds
gusting above her majesty's hazes
beyond purple mountain's apex
and streams of meadows' wildflowers in
deftly painted horizons after moonbows,
vivid consciousness' uttermost reminisce
of all things recollected in the long ago
essence of your memories' presence*
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
feel the rush of the wind against your cheeks,
and taste the arid air, suddenly interrupted by torrential downpours.
warm. wet. moist.
scintillating dewdrops in the midst of gray skies and hot weather.
fog masking our view.
coquette: her skin plump and soft, like peaches.
thin fabrics tinged with the slightest traces of sweat.
and the sweetest scent of summer.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 8:34 PM UTC
The madness of money,
exploiting the human mind.
Never enough money,
never enough time.
The disasters of our time,
the result of natures resistance.
Rebelling against mankind,
Mother Nature can be persistent.
And while we watch the tide,
slowly go and rise,
we must remember, it won't be long,
till we are all gone.
Tornados and hurricanes,
wind whipping cyclones.
Heat waves and solar storms,
disrupting cell phones.
Landslides and flooding,
from torrential downpours.
Forrest fires and blackouts,
from ruthless lightening storms.
Some may say the sky is broken,
some may say the sky is crying.
This is natures rebellion,
Mother Nature is dying.
But our motive right now is money,
and nothing will stop our addiction.
We will pollute this world till the skies are black,
and when we do, there's no turning back.
Let the gaping hole in the ozone layer,
grow until it's big enough,
to burn our Earth down to the core,
till we are ashes, nothing more.
Mother Nature has sent her warnings,
Mother Nature, wish us goodbye.
Mother Nature will slowly die,
and nothing she does can change our minds...
We will destroy ourselves for money,
we will commit,
without knowing,
our own suicide.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 11:41 PM UTC
A contrite flash of blue
Coolly coquettish whispers
Are a far cry from the temper
Tantrums of yesterday's
Heated tropical tears:
Torrential downpours amidst
Sultry sobs and gusts
Today's clear skies contrasted
With Irene's angry outburst
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
forgotten are
those bright
autumnal colours
of the freshly fallen
no longer able
to offer
a crisp rustling
with each step
a whisper that
invites child
and adult alike
to kick
and shuffle
playfully
ignoring the bite
of frost
unwelcomed
by noses
and fingertips
those downbeat leaves
lately of such
seasonal delight
have been rejected
by bough
and branch
drifting meekly
without protest
or wrenched
from arboreal familiarity
by gusting wind
or gloved hand
turned to mulch
by constant downpours
muddily trodden upon
without second thought
clinging to any
passing boot
trainer or shoe
only to be scraped
and scuffed
on pavement
or curb
stomped in a puddle
left behind
Nov 22, 2022
Nov 22, 2022 at 7:37 AM UTC
Love is patient,
It willingly waits,
Accommodating the pace,
of others,
it is never in a haste.
Love is kind,
It provides support for the long haul,
even in the heaviest downpours.
It appreciates the efforts others make,
However small.
It does not envy, it does not boast.
It exudes humility wherever it goes.
Love is not proud,
"I" is never what it's about.
Love is not rude,
even when it's in a foul mood.
It is not self-seeking,
It does not fight for rights.
Love is not easily angered,
It does not stir up fights.
It keeps no records of wrongs.
Love is forgiving.
It is always protecting,
rather hurting itself than hurting another.
It is always trusting, hoping and persevering even
when the person repeatedly does the wrong thing.
Love never fails.
This is the love that I have.
The love bore to me in death.
When you died on that cross,
You paid the cost.
And now, I'm no longer lost.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
Rainy days make
your joints
And my heart
ache
Grisly greys, dampened dirt,
The scent of earth
Rich with grief and
consternation
I taste the mist and
Feel amiss, shivering in
Showers, a wilted
Flower,
Salty tears and fears
Masked by downpours
That drip and drown my
Burning humiliation
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 2:01 PM UTC
I still find myself hurting over things that have been done to me in the past
things that have been said or directly wronged me to the point of heavy sobs and torrential downpours of tears
and everyone always said to not let it get to me because these people aren't my real friends, I am better than them by not retaliating or they are just miserable, so they have to take their hate for themselves out on others
but
how do I really let go, if I'm left with an emotional scar of how I was treated and how some people I care about didn't defend me like I needed?
now I treat people I meet for the first time differently because I'm skeptical of everyone now
I only feel like they do not have good intentions and are only capable of being hateful and judging me
or hurting me
I was so beaten down to the point that I wondered why I was here
why I wasn't good enough
why I even tried everyday
that kind of mental brutality can really take a toll on a person
Most of all, I am hurt that from now on or for a very long time,
I don't see the good in people anymore
I used to believe people were truly good,
we just all make mistakes
but now I just think this world has turned into a pretty awful place
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 8:06 AM UTC