"drizzles" poems
Red rain drizzles
Pierced my tongue with dispair
Devil's word in spoken tongue
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
To stand alone on a distant shore
My being stricken with love and grief
The soul, it sings, of lost amore
and beckons back a loving thief
Like petals- surfing, on cold night air
Moonlight- drizzles through the dark,
The moon- it offers a wicked stare
and echoes the acid that fills the heart
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 1:55 PM UTC
Her kind of rain was the kind that drizzled
Her drizzles were like soft rain,
On grey days, they made perfect sense to align with interspersed clouds hanging heavy on blue-less skies
But on days when a storm beckoned it's calling
I lost her,
She drowned
Somewhere
Where it never drizzled
Always rained.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
Rain showers, mazes uncovered
Dancing like a little child with a toy
Reclaimed as the drizzles recovers
Pouncing jumps like a kangaroo
The winter burns as the fire blaze
Warmed by the ambience of the logs
Reflections denuded, secrets unearthed
Times lost bouncing like a ball
Bare and **** in the cool mist and fog
A shadowy phantom arises me
An Orion exhibit, my alpha constellation
Carving me out of the hidden cave
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 3:38 PM UTC
The representative from Ohio
wipes his *** with Jose’s brown
palms after a bout of verbal defecation.
Luckily, Jose’s food truck houses
a small sink in the corner where
he can wash his hands in between
baskets of chorizo prepared
for rich politicians.
Sometimes Jose scrubs so hard dream flakes
rub off of his skin and he throws them
into the wastebasket to be picked
up by the sanitation workers who
eagerly jump like frogs in orange vests
into the waste of Americana. When
the Representative stops by for
a plate of carne asada, Jose’s
dream specks pepper the beef
and his salty sweat flavors
the inside of the burrito. He grills
the onions and green peppers with
a dash of minimum wage and
boils the rice in a mixture of blood
and pieces of his heritage.
He serves the meal in a white Styrofoam
tray and drizzles it with cheese flowing
from an open wound. The receipt is an unpaid
medical bill, the drink an icy reminder
of his future sipped through a straw.
The nightly news tells Jose
the Representative is bedridden
with a stomach infection. He
complains his insides feel like
a million ***** feet kicking the lining,
like unheard mouths with rows of
sharp teeth gnawing at the liver.
Jose to the tv: tonight we’re not starving.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
I may never know what exactly happened,
but I think I know the why of it
Tadhana…Fate…Destiny…Kismet…
Put it in so many words,
but it all boils down to that.
Tadhana…
shivers down my spine,
tears prickling my eyes,
as I hear once more the story,
the destiny
of two souls
one stormy day in July…
She was being stupid,
crashing into the waves that day
just for the thrill of it
He was being pensive,
reflecting on how those waves
just somehow seemed to soothe him
People slowly left the shores
as dark clouds loomed in the horizon
save for these two souls...
She wasn’t even supposed to be there,
just a spur of the moment thing,
forgetting her other worries
she loved storms, she loved the beach
combine them and for her it was bliss…
He went there for closure,
the 10th year of his brother’s death
trying to accept that he did all he could
he loved him, he loved the beach
but guilt drowned him…
The rains then came down in sheets,
winds whipping, storm waves crashing
she was almost at shore though,
when the undertow pulled her back
He thought he was imagining things,
his brother’s ghost perhaps?
When he saw her again,
and fear was tossed like jetsam
Was she the answer he was seeking for?
His redemption in another form?
Was this the reason why he was here now?
Her only hope for salvation?
Rushing out to sea,
adrenaline rushing through his veins
Faith and Fate working together,
he swam towards her
and as they reached the shore
the winds dropped to a whisper,
the waves went back tickling sand,
the raindrops trickled into drizzles
She was breathing, thank God
He lay beside her, exhausted
She could only thank him with a smile
well, a smile that could match the Sun
and she took his hand...
and put it over her heart
It was not so much that their hands fit perfectly,
but there was something else
mole on her right ring finger
perfectly aligning
mole on his left ring finger
Tadhana.
Shivers down my spine,
tears prickling my eyes,
as I hear once more the story,
the destiny
of two souls
one stormy day in July…
and of why I am here.
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 1:20 PM UTC
The writer sits and ponders,
filled with empty silent dread,
‘Sorry, this word cannot be found’
the smug spellchecker says.
Weary of petty complications
he drifts, searching for inspiration,
soaring through the African sky
with glorious, lofty liberation.
The yellow plains stretch far below
herds of buffalo, running free
the lions hide amongst the grass
dotted around sandarac trees.
He soars now, over snow-capped peaks
tableclothed in angry cloud,
by eagles, gliding with their young
their talons stretched in readiness
silhouetted in the fiery sun.
He conjures now, Fijian sand, lazy swaying palms
crashing frothy, roaring waves; silky banana ***
A sparkling ocean glittering, caked with yellow icing,
just a mirror for the setting sun.
But then wings of grace are stripped and
he plummets towards uncertainty,
falling back to swivel chair, staring
at desk lamps, coffee, burgundy.
The rain drizzles down outside,
the heating pours through well-placed vents
as Chinese Communism awaits:
confronting, mocking, dense.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 11:33 PM UTC
Sometime today...
*I look up at the sky
It is cloudy and dark
Flickers of lightning
And growling of thunder
Threatening the day's work
With uninvited wet showers
Bad for business, these rains
Keeping our customers indoors
Filling our potholes to the brim
Drenching our zeal to work
I look, as the drops fall down
In their multitudes
Clattering against my window
Bearing down on my roof
Intent on washing away my hopes
I miss the sunshine and its rays
I miss the warmth of sunrise
I miss the comfort of sunset
And with all my heart
I loathe the rain
Yearning for the sun
Soon a remembrance is awaken.*
Somewhere in the past...
*I looked up at the sky
It was sunny and dry
Debris of dusty winds
And a hot tempered sun
Worsening the day's labor
With unfriendly heat waves
Bad for farming, this heat!
Keeping our seedlings underground
Drying our boreholes to the bottom
Smoking our will to work
I sweated, as the rays blazed
In their fury
Burning through my window
Melting down my roof
Determined to roast my vision
I missed the rain and its showers
I missed the chills of the storms
I missed the drizzles of dew
And with all my might
I despised the sun
Praying for the rains
As if that would quench my thirst!*
Yet I wish it away as soon as it comes...
© Raphael Uzor
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
Speechless
Trying to let something out, maybe burst out
Probably shout out
Possibly break out
..
But no, not even close to talk it out
Ravaging inside me
Like a vulture ripping the **** out of its prey
..
Scared of flaming it out
What if it went wrong?
Since it always goes wrong..
Attempting so hard to gather my thoughts together
But they're like drizzles sprayed into the air
..
Returned to being insecure, on the inside
On the outside, seeking a queen, precious.
Excessively a judgmental world
Harsh claws, digging into prohibited areas
..
Not good, not good enough
I'll never be good enough
Not only to everyone, but especially to him.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
I was asleep when you came in.
Wakening to the intoxicating tequila that drizzles from your mouth,
You've already managed to start the discussion
Combing you’re hands, lips and tongue to orchestrate
A stroke of genius in full consequence,
You now have my attention..
But you’re not alone,
Putting on my glasses
I see you picked once again
Navigating takes four hands ya know.
Now choose:
A spin-cycle or tune up,
temporary vision, lost again.
Each of you raves,
You both used to dance.
Looking at each other,
synchronizing the helm.
Yearning for violence you scratch the flesh
That harbors you’re enthusiasm.
Backbiting lust and forceful appetite,
This is what happens when you
Wake the Wolf.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
Drizzles from the sky
Catch in my eye
It will burn in future time
The cogs are turning and the oil
Floating on the surface of a droplet
As an angel
Dances on the head of a needle
Recycling and renewable energy
Can save our souls
And Mother Earth
Before its too late
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
Muggy murky dawn clogged with gloom the abbey
Where his grampy sleeps ,
Through
the drizzles fizzle
As native orchids embosoms and blossoms in his lost vault.
like a curfew drawn in the church
The pew lost its crowd
With the paws of time.
Lone man sleep
In deep latin chants they petrify you
Before sheol purifies you
And litany literature lecture limbs you
When in overprotected embankments of battlements
They dry their garbs
Where your lore forayed growth
And sweat smeared smelt breathed wealth
Chagrin dreams washed ashore
lay as upon a cold mornings recollection on a tabloids sold column
which drew your freckles bolder
In a savour of remembrance
For your zealous zealots
Who on an another 'all souls day' reoccur revisiting
the truth of their establishment
in prayers
The good Lord adorn you
Let Lekker dreams cradle you
Your consorts concert never consume you
And earth never haunt you
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 1:47 AM UTC
How can Belfast be so cold?
a breeze in a summer front
the unpredictable British weather
Of intermittent warmth and dull
drizzles of a torrential fizzle
The titanic stands erected
stilled by the western winds
In stiles as robust as steel
as shadowy silverly specks
reflect on the unused puddles
Southwards to the coastal shores
where green shimmers magnify
and blue waters justly testifies
of the beauty of the north-eastern waters
flowing from one glen to another
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 5:10 AM UTC
Most mornings are not clear.
Most mornings are not the type with a
ten-state view from the top of
Clingman's Dome, and two very expensive
tanks of gasoline. You're welcome.
No, most mornings are battered
by some kind of weather condition -
rains and drizzles and nebulous fogs,
unhappy bedmates, a productive cough -
or else the sun just remits,
stays dozing until it has slept enough.
Then you get that gray sky-
chalkboard, the punitive slap of
humid cold on your early walks, your
coffee rendezvous. Then you have
too many garments at 3 because you put
on extra at 8. Morning, in short,
wishes you ill.
Be aware that if you were born
this century, you lurched into no
midwife's hands, full of love and wet, but
a surgeon's, gloved and powdery,
who spanked you firmly, knocked you
down with a commanding stare, and gave you
the first of many cuts you were to receive.
But for having woken up, let's say,
on the wrong side of the bed (if
even there's a right one), I would
like to think we've done alright,
are not too warm or upset at midday,
not too disappointed in ourselves, our moments
of astounding social gracelessness
that we leave like bits of sneaker in our wake.
Still, though, a question:
where grows happiness? Where sprouts
the silver trunk, the cypress or birch? Or
ficus or orange or ginkgo biloba? Tell me.
I would tap that tree 'til it withers, and die
under its trunk, and the two very expensive
tanks of gasoline it took
to get me where I am.
May 4, 2010
May 4, 2010 at 7:48 AM UTC
Within the four walls
Below a roof
Busy with play of words
The poet is aloof.
The sky is breaking low
Pitter patter rain
Capture they must the flow
Of drizzles soothing pain.
Outside on a stretch of green
Drenched to the bone
A man with cracking skin
Hoeing from morn.
The toiler is tasked to ****
Paid by the hour
Must earn the precious quid
Whatever the shower.
The poet is lost in the toil
To grow his rhyme in shower
The **** works fast the soil
Growing hope by the hour.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 5:17 AM UTC
i.
he tosses you a chip,
its worth, its worth
it moons over your greedy soul
and you mask them all
with your chained lies,
to your silenced smokes
that wobbles up to your
sunken, tired eyes
ii.
you've been awake and to
the miles along the rims of earth,
your little brother's math assignment
scored over twenty out of fifty
and he told himself to make mama proud,
he, then, scribbled cartoons and addition signs
iii.
you've been awake and to
the valley gaps of the sunshine drizzles
your little sister's finding it hard to
participate in the maze of real life
unkempt to her own voices and she told herself,
"maybe I was just meant to be kept in streets-capes"
iv.
and your home rested on the mountains
of well-lived dreams gauged into your veins
you've tasted perfectly soggy cornflakes
in the morning and in evening, you
could taste the shrill of cicadas, blooming
into the stars-tied rose crescent
and it shut down, I've read novels like these
and heard Kurt Cobain sang to these
it was wonderful, but I'd liked it better
when the sunflower hopes rested into your veins
v.
the eleventh time he tosses you a chip,
it lays perfectly still in your palm
the twelfth time, it took over your greedy soul
with your tear-stained hazels, it whispered
rambling, gambling Willie,
do not let it consume you, as it did Willie
but it still echoed when you knocked on the door
rambling, gambling Willie,
"I'm home," you've been awake
but then, you've found none anymore
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
i. you will miss him in drizzles and monsoons, in swells and tsunamis. you will listen to his favorite song for hours; it will hit you every unexpected moment. it will hurt, stab, ache, and you will suppress constant screams with strained lips.
ii. you will collect everything he gave to you and wonder if it is dimensionally real. you will sleep in his shirts, retaste saltwater kisses, and reread conversations as if there's something you missed the previous thirty times. absence does not make the heart grow fonder; it rips it apart and you cannot stitch the ragged halves with no thread.
iii. you will feel his touch presently in everything you do. it will be soft and cruelly comforting. it will constantly and inescapably linger. it will haunt you in early rainy mornings and dark lonely evenings.
iv. you will read endless musings on love and philosophy. you will entirely understand foucault's prison. you will live in steinbeck's tide pools and stars, and relate to simon bolivar trapped in his labyrinth. you will wonder why everything is like this, ugly and broken (and also if you are becoming delusional).
v. you will drink tea that scalds your tongue and stand outside on freezing nights, numb and overfeeling at the same time. you will ask the silent moon a thousand questions. you will see him and blink, head swimming, heart pounding in surges. the stars will wink and the wind will mock you.
vi. you will have blissful afternoons you forget and sorrowful nights you remember. it will still consume you in bouts, devour you in spells. nighttime will become both your enemy and remedy: it will wickedly remind you, yet help you heal.
vii. you will try and fail to make sense of him (and the universe in general). you will grapple with reality and yourself. perhaps you will never know why he stopped loving you: you will keep wondering how some things can just be left broken.
iix. slowly, slowly, you will sprout on your own; you will be tender and nearly whole. most importantly, you will realize his love brought you an entirely different kind of happiness.
ix. you will stop worrying and trying to piece together an empty puzzle. even the deepest scars find their way of fading. your mom was right: stop picking at the scab and your wound will heal.
x. you will learn to love yourself in ways he never could have loved you.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 2:35 AM UTC
I am trapped in my own memories, an endless whimper through frail bones.
Despite the clocks ceaseless “Tick Toc”, I remain in my own fearful zones.
The sweat drizzles down my heart, Anxiety rushes through my veins.
Stay away from me love, NO NO NO, I don’t want the Pain.
I feel you lurking through those dark corners, I’m afraid.
Running from the fear of you, out of my body I have strayed.
I don’t want you to burn my soul, crush my aorta into stones.
Your trying to pierce my heart, I’m terrified, please leave me alone.
I've met you; I've savored your sweet honey taste in slow sips.
That was before the honey bees came to sting my coated lips.
The horror, the thought of love, the feeling of love is terrifying.
Is love really the phobia, or is it the hurt that I am memorizing.
It all boils down to love; it is out to get me, to hurt me.
How do I make it go away, how do I make it FLEE, FLEE, FLEE.
It's creeping around my lonely heart, to feel is what I fret.
I hide, but love removes my hands from my beating chest.
Persistent, don't you get the point of my reaction.
Love, why do you wish to grant me dissatisfaction?
I know, I want you, I want you it's true.
I'm so afraid of what damage, maybe wonders you may do.
What will you do? Please don't hurt me anymore.
I picked up those pieces that you left broken before.
I will get over this fear, If you show me a little, just a little grace.
Kiss me softly, I will open my tightened eyes, to see your beautiful face.
Even then my palms will be damped with frightful anticipation.
You penetrated your way inside of me, Love you are penetrating!
Please stay this time, I'm really afraid that you will go!
To have love away from me, I can't stand it, I don't know!
**My phobia is not having you Love!
Not having you is my Phobia.
Loving is not the Phobia!
The Phobia is loving not!**
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
It's been raining since you left
It has never stopped at all
And I've never stopped thinking about
The day it started to fall
It's been raining since you left, dear
I miss when the sun used to shine
Every day was bright then and
On my lips there was a smile
It's been raining since you left me
Some days it drizzles, some it pours
But each day it's all the same
I miss you more and more
It's been raining since you left and
I miss your arms around my heart
Now it's cold and unforgiving
And I'm shivering in the dark
It's been raining since you left, love
Oh your warmth proved way too much
You bent, scarred and burnt me
Yet I'm ice cold to the touch
It's been raining since you left though
I try and try to see the sun
Not even a single ray of light
Have I ever come upon
It's been raining since you left oh
Will I ever find my way?
The rain falling, falling to the ground
Is all I see these days
It's been raining since you left but
The fire in my heart remains
Blazing, raging, flaming
Against the downpour of the rain
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 8:14 AM UTC
*If people were rain,
I was drizzle,
and she was a hurricane."*
Maybe I am one, a hurricane.
Inside I crave the peace and serenity
Granted to mid-morning drizzles
Falling gently on side walks,
But I cannot calm my dark,
Repetitive, abrasive thoughts enough
To bring in and accept my
Yearning for some quiet.
I can never stay anywhere,
With anyone,
For too long.
"I need to go. I need to get out of here."
But, with you,
I forget time.
I feel open and vulnerable.
I just want to stop it all,
And just be happy.
Is that alright?
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC
Light drizzles gently brushing on my cheeks
Misty pitter-patters
A butterfly flutters
A solitary stroll in the orchard of mystique
The dewy grass glitters
I am Mother Nature’s daughter
I saunter in the womb of the cherry orchard
Light-hearted tip taps
The squirrels take their catnaps
Gaily skipping under the falling blossoms
Spinning with laughter
Time is not a factor
From a distance, a pianist plays a chirpy tune
The jazzy anthem
A tune of welcome
Arm with passion, I caper windward
One with the flowers and trees
The birds and the bees
Mild winds gently combing my tresses
Soft, rhythmic strokes
My senses they provoke
Then reality came in a soothing ring
My baby calls
Oh, my busy, silly goofball!
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 4:54 PM UTC
coffee drizzles
it’s tasty
& comforting
there’s too much snow
it won’t stop snowing
the window is getting boring
all I can think about
is the muffin I just ate
& what it will be like to be
home again
where all I think about
are the things I’ve just eaten
& sometimes why I haven’t
really left
my hometown yet
& not just for another getaway trip
but for good
I’ve always thought
a grey day
is the perfect metaphor
for how I feel most of the time
but so does everyone else
so I am just like
all of those other boring people
with boring lives
like this window
& the mother with the four
very plain looking kids
three tables down
& the muffins lined up
on the counter top
for boring people like me to buy
as they wait
for a plane to come to
carry them to a whole
new world
where routine doesn’t exist
only margaritas & surf’s up
or else,
to carry them back home
back to reality
back to functioning like
a complete robot
in the safety of
fear
there is a plane waiting to take off
just sitting on the runway
I wonder when it’ll get going
I wonder where everyone inside of it
is going
& where I am going
& what I am doing
here
instead of living
I watch snow fall out of a window
when it could soak me up
& give me a reason to sit
by the fireplace
with blankets, tea & a book
whether I am alone
or with a lover, friend, cat or dog
I can see
how that sounds more boring
than sitting in an airport
eating muffins
but it is exciting
to me
because it is happiness
to me
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
You know how that quote goes, everyone does.
"If I was a drizzle, she was a hurricane"
When we're all just our own kinds of rainstorms
Magically not working with each other
Just trying to drench whatever we can
But I'd rather spend time with you than anyone in the world.
People used to tell me they looked up to me
and the same people barely talk to me anymore
because what they saw was a figurehead instead of
a friend who is on their level,
and they like people who have flaws (not that I don't),
but tell us to strive to be perfect.
And I've worked so hard to learn how to love
flawlessly, but the more I love, the more I
bleed, with every breath you don't appreciate
and every love poem you don't read
And they keep beating me and beating me down
expecting this priceless gold mountain of positivity
and crushing me. It's like they're looking for flaws
in the statue I'm hiding within, and they seek to
destroy it because even tarnished gold is too bright
in their losing eyes. Maybe I'm the flaw in the statue,
my pink flesh and pale blood can't stand
these attacks and violent words, creating
holes in my heart where before there was none. I'm on my knees,
begging because I don't think I can do this anymore.
The blood I give is torn out of me from the passion I have for
you, I've had my suffering and death,
where's the resurrection?
I'm driving my head into the ground trying to
whip up the storm that will make me unique, beautiful, and valuable,
trying to gather little tornadoes around me,
while they're destroying me from the inside out;
standing for these things that are greater than me, and
watching in vain for an equal partner, since
no one can come too close to these whirlwinds
and mountain-high clouds.
It's lonely being a hurricane, too, because
none of the lovely drizzles think they're worth your time.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
Old school, gymnasium, Christmas fair, Thursday night.
Hoops at either end. Tables. People. A woman carries a baby,
could be the PE teacher’s. A Ugandan flag. Jars of dark purple
jam next to jars of chutney, perhaps. The youth, us once,
flit between here and the hall. A choir, maybe thirty strong,
sing Santa Baby. Parents watch, as do we. Half a minute.
The head. Still a towering, suited figure. Handshakes all round.
What are we doing now? Voices like knots of consonants.
Geography man. Flecks of grey stubble. Procedure repeated.
Finger pointed. Scrabble for a surname. Exclamation.
Years rattling back to the front. He remembers, as do we.
Head of sixth seven years ago. Instant recognition. Repeat.
Half an hour. The place, no longer ours. Never was.
Friends the same. Memories. Dust between dark and light.
Car. Back seat. Barely two miles. Little traffic. Turn
into street. Step out. Chill drizzles the face. Handshake
again? Again. Time and place discussed before home.
See you tomorrow then. Yeah. Yeah. Front door key.
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 2:24 PM UTC
The little buds
Soon to wither
Not wanting to die pitifully
On such a sunny day
Under the scorching heat
Prayed for some rain
And it began to rain
With the still bright day
Painted a beautiful picture
Drizzles tickled each of the bud
Teased to flaunt their beauty
It rained gently
Enough to water the land
Make the flowers bloom
To a magnanimous sight
Thought it was just a soft pour
For a brief moment
Of joy...
Of fulfillment...
So they prayed for the rain
To stay for a while more
And so the rain did stay
But then never leave
For a long time
Just like of a storm
Each of its drop
Now hurts the flowers
Heavy fall tears them apart
Every time the rain
Touches the land
Flowers got more drenched
Soon they will drown
And get washed away
Yet they smile
One by one
As they face their end
They glint a smile
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 3:23 PM UTC