"rainstorms" poems
in her devilishly shy
is a wild
lips of crimson creams
eyes deep waters blue
candlelight breathes promise into her warmth
the way she holds me tells me shes mine
but moonlight dances with her beauty
without her night would seem so vain
evenings magic at her fingertips
and with its she paints such pretty pictures
dancefloor with a sea of stars
a beach with the gentle sea
meadows with summer sun
such pretty things
are just a happiness that she finds in rainstorms
are just a beauty of living that she finds in my arms
safe and warm
in her devilishly shy
she is a wild
lips of crimson creams just for me
skin willin' and soft neath my hand
and the way she holds me tells me she is mine
in her devilishly shy
i see the naughty girl smiling
and i want to take her right there
in a wild way
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 8:08 PM UTC
rainstorms fiercely bulge the waves
toss honeysuckle and bougainvilleas
blow their blossoms high
towards the rainbow
that in sunny moments
sparkles over volcanic hills
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC
Why do the worms fiercely dig their way to the surface
During rainstorms
As though they're afraid to miss the spectacle?
Don't they know they will end up drowning
In pools of chilled sky-tears
And get stomped by careless and hurried feet?
Strewn across drenched brick and concrete walkways,
Thousands,
Yet each somehow alone in his own conquest.
Drawn
Like the moth to the flame
And my eye to the sun.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
And as I lie in bed,
Staring at the ceiling above me,
The rise and fall of my chest
Reminding me that I am alive,
Listening to the rain,
Landing on the roof,
The sky assures me that
There is nothing wrong
With having a good cry.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
Dorsovertical is what my head is in,
contradicted to each other like
the ocean between us
But you cheer me up
being the beautiful soul
you are.
I dont see how the the
rainstorms in the New World are,
but i sure know if its
your eyes that see it, then
its all beautiful
We went walking in the rain, the sun
grass, mud and gravel rocks and sometimes
pavements
But in that fog of the morning here
and that of the mid day there
We're lost to be found everyday
im glad we still talk
I know you dont like to be written about
by me, at least
please know though that i need
you to stay, so slowly the
melancholy of the day disappears
I need you to stay, in my words
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
sparklers are for the people who
love more
than they could ever
be loved in return,
for the ones who
exhaust
extinguish
their own light for others
to only appreciate them
for a moment and then
be forgotten,
for those who run out in rainstorms
for people who won’t even
stay with them in the sunshine,
for the ones who wait until
everyone around them is shining before they
ignite their light and glow.
but you can’t live by just
borrowing love for an instant or
living with the
ashes of other’s achievements;
you die a fresh death every time you listen to
those voices
that crash down on you like hail until
you’re too numb to move
you’re too over it to try
you’re too cold to ignite
at all.
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 11:22 AM UTC
though skys manipulate woman
white winter wind drives ships beneath the gorgeous sun
lazy and smooth spring floods shine partly in luscious gardens
worshiping the Goddess is a dream
black forests spray weak frantic pictures on the moon
less delicate symphony's of whispers scream you and i together
delirious we smear your chocolate hair and honey skin
mad & drunk with love they beat time in a still summer
their music like rainstorms chain life & death in a shadowy eternity
what I want is to swim your void of sweet milk
leave you running atop mist and water sleeping by me
we sing chants by tongue painting a vision of true love
moan this essential language
in our bed sweat away all aching and sadness
cool light soars from blue petal to pink rose
these raw elaborate moments crush & shake most
up boy
go girl
under bare feet power beauty
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 12:27 PM UTC
Manitoban Skies
Clouds are the mountains of the prairies
Towering cumulonimbus masses
Incredible backdrops across an otherwise plain blue sky
Warning call that rainstorms may approach
Vertical reminders of atmospheric instability
Jetted upwards into vast formations stretching miles and miles
Promises of unrelenting lighting and thunder
Cinematic sequences is country folk are lucky to view
Humidity in the summer, ah
What would we do without you?
Rolling clouds are a fair trade for the lack of rolling hills
Clouds are the mountains of the prairies.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
Parental affiliations shroud the perimeters of sociological desperation. Like a gorgeous eye which cries in Gaelic rainstorms. Feel the texture of bracken, as she scrapes her tangible beauty against your pale and excited skin. But hold your breath, my ever-connected member of covenantal being. Do not let go of the tantric touch of spatial awareness.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
When we see dark clouds,
we think the storm is beautiful.
We sit in our homes
and listen to the rain
soaking into the ground.
We go outside
and dance.
Sometimes there is destruction.
Sometimes there is chaos.
But there is still rain
And with rain,
the flowers and trees
are able to grow.
*They become stronger.
Resilient.
Beautiful.*
Are not humans the same?
We see rainstorms and we see beauty.
Why is it that when we see
the storms of life,
we see only
destruction.
Only pain.
*Even though the storm is painful,
we grow like nature.
Strong.
Resilient.
Beautiful.*
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 10:18 PM UTC
He smelt like smoke
as he leaned away from me,
texting himself with my phone.
We left the campfire outside,
in our shoes by the door
our socks overlapped in a tangle of limbs.
In that leftover guest room,
on the bottom bunk of the microwaved bed,
I remembered why I thought I knew what love was.
He was tired and needed a nap,
I was restless and cold.
Trapped inside because of violent temperate rainstorms.
This boy owed me stubbed toes,
thorn ****** through my jeans,
nicknames and rubber soles.
This was the boy who had always smelt of smoke,
who knocked over dead trees for me,
who lied about being able to rock climb.
This was the boy who went swimming in the ocean
before summer had properly began
when it was still much too chilly.
I taught him a new card game,
he beat me at badminton.
We played capture the flag and threw pinecones.
We sold cookies on the side of the road,
ate dusty blackberries,
traded innuendos and bad jokes.
This was sea-urchin boy,
slug boy,
the boy with the bird's nest hair.
This boy grew taller,
dropped his voice like a used bus pass,
looked past the top of my head.
He laughed when i stepped in a mud puddle,
dared me to walk in bare feet.
This boy suddenly went mountain biking.
I talked extra loud, in hopes that he would overhear me,
offered him rootbeer straight from the can.
Ate pretzels and learned to read his mind.
We shared our childhoods like penny candies,
switching all the peach ones for strawberry.
we agreed these are the best years of our lives.
He layed beside me, underneath as many covers as we could find,
taking up too much space and he knew it.
my cartoon boy.
My hand-drawn boy,
With smoke coming out of his ears
moved away.
We didn't talk again
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
The rain drums down like red ants,
each bouncing off my window.
The ants are in great pain
and they cry out as they hit
as if their little legs were only
stitche don and their heads pasted.
And oh they bring to mind the grave,
so humble, so willing to be beat upon
with its awful lettering and
the body lying underneath
without an umbrella.
Depression is boring, I think
and I would do better to make
some soup and light up the cave.
2.9k
Physically I live here
My veins weave through the house
My limbs dig into the sheets
My voice lingers through each room,
yet I barely feel my own presence
Spiritually I’m on another planet
My heart races with the stars
My soul showers in rainstorms
My eyes dance with galaxies,
but my mind wimpers for a better tomorrow
It’s a choice,
to stay in my own head,
I’ve found solace in my daydreams
discovered a world beyond mine,
but I can never stay there for too long
I get lost in the thought of another life,
because I can’t seem to come to peace with mine
I climb the tallest trees
Just to get close to the sky,
so maybe I could spread my wings and fly
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 1:23 PM UTC
A wise man once told me that all people are like precious metals.
He told me this in different words than I will use, but I took this to heart.
We are mined from ***** places; these miners see the value that lies beneath our harsh surface.
We are plucked from our resting places, sent to great, large cities where we will be put over fire to burn out our impurities.
We will go through pain and fire.
We will melt and be tortured.
We will cry and scream and we will suffer.
All of our repulsive imperfections will float to the top while this is happening.
To purify gold, it must be melted.
To purify silver, it must be melted.
It must be melted and the rough **** that exists within and without these bits of precious metal must float to the top to be extracted.
Sometimes, this process must happen multiple times.
Sometimes, we must use chemicals and medicines to make sure it happens properly.
To purify us, we must be melted.
These are our trials in life.
This fire represents our hardships.
This fire represents every life change that we don't want to happen, but must pull through.
This fire represents each truth that we don’t want to know, but have to accept.
This fire represents each person that walks in and out of our lives like rainstorms, pouring for hours and moments before disappearing on the wind, never to be seen again.
This fire represents each night we must spend alone, crying for someone to save us.
This fire is us.
This fire is self-preservation.
This fire doesn't last.
And after the fire is over, and our imperfections are drawn away from us, we are perfect.
Of course no one is ever perfect, but no metal is ever completely perfect; everything that glitters is not gold.
After the fire has died, and we have been poured into new molds, into new people, we are stronger.
With our disfigurements gone, our molecules bond tighter to form a stronger metal.
With our faults gone, we sparkle and shine for the world to see.
After we have been pulled from the ground, after the fire has died, after we have come out as stronger, prettier people, there is still a chance for staining.
We may scuff and stain, we may grow new impurities, but then we must suffer fire again.
It is an ongoing process.
We are never perfected.
We are ever changing, yet we are solid as metal.
A wise man once told me that I resembled gold, that everyone around me resembled gold. He once explained this to me in such a way that it changed my mind about hardship.
I now meet it with open arms.
If I couldn’t handle the fire, it wouldn’t burn for me.
A wise man once told me that eventually, when the fire was extinguished, I would be a stronger person.
A wise man once explained to me that I am not alone, that everyone must hurt to get stronger, and that I will emerge from the fire.
This man changed my life, and I hope that maybe I can change someone else’s life.
That maybe I can help scrape the imperfections from someone’s boiling surface.
That maybe I can help myself become purer, by purifying some other gold or silver.
After all, at the end of the day, a wise man once told me we are all like precious metals:
We are all gold.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
*a withdrawal
from
cycle of life..
water
cycling since
primordial times..
afternoon rainstorms
diminished..
that rain from
earthly stimulation
now her flow
interrupted impure..
is now time
for fracturing
or for
joining and
return...?*
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 5:06 PM UTC
My teeth
Strolling along the beach of your lower lip
Tongues
Swimming in saliva waves,
I swim to you
Like Baywatch
Watching you
Is like announcing a severe weather alert
Urgently advising to take shelter
There's a storm on the horizon.
Clouds accumulating in your eyes
And
Precipitation down pouring between my thighs
those eyes
When clouds collide
The thunder transforms me.
Boom
Boom
Boom
My rib cage shatters.
Claws secured around your head
Fingers knotted in your dreads
Dragging you down, down
I want you to drown
Drown
I want you to struggle
To scream out in vain-
Your lips caress each syllable of my name
Like lightening.
Like lightening
The sunshine in your smile reminds me that
Naturally, the skys are blue
Meteorology eyes
Do you wonder too,
If the forecast will always be sunny?
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
I always knew I was made of stone,
hardened and scarred by the weather
But with the very weather that tarnished the surface,
The slow erosion is made visible with patience.
These rainstorms eroded and shaped me,
Stripped me down bare and brought an evolution.
Somewhere between the thunder and lightning of the mattress
And the downpour of our hands intertwined
And the gale-force winds of the miles between us,
I cracked.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
when i see you i see zinnias
your hair and your eyes and your rosy cheeks
grow tall and strong and flourish
and know that rainstorms will only make you stronger
i feel like Thumbelina
taking shelter under your leaf-umbrella
and watering you with my tears
in turn i will take care of you when you wilt
and shed many a tear-petal if you need to
(because it’s okay to be sad)
when i see you i see zinnias
your words and your smile and your lovely voice
grow tall and strong and flourish
and know that rainstorms will only make you stronger
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
last night the world slipped in
quietly through my window;
police sirens, car alarms,
church bells, rainstorms
collecting in a pool
on my bedroom floor,
coffee cups clinked and
kettles boiled,
babies were born and
ashes were thrown
and though I was tired
I stayed up all night listening;
the collective madness
of the world
lulled me back to sleep
and i woke with its bitter
sweet taste on my tongue;
craving more.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 1:04 PM UTC
Thunderclaps and lightning bolts
make the symphony of the night.
Tonight they play "3 o'Clock Rain,"
orchestrated by God himself.
All the stars sit in their balcony seats,
adorned in their dazzling regalia.
The moon man but peaks from behind his cloud curtain,
too shy to show his face to the earthly audience.
It is nature's lithe rolls and soft rumbling
that sing me to sleep tonight.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
Cover your nerves.
Stop picking at scars to
Make them wounds again,
Healing is the super in
Superficial.
Dry your tears when looking
Back; you'll see yesterday more
Clearly.
Bitterness is darkness to
The blind, grenade shrapnel
In the body of a brave one now
Fallen.
Stand up and smile at the light;
There are many enough who bask in
The blackness of their history.
You've fought.
Bled.
Cried rainstorms and tidal waves,
Run your hands across the view of Heaven
From the bellies of Hell shivering.
It takes courage to fall,
Grace to fly.
So fly.
It's as easy as trying.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
I know nothing of calm here
I worship entropy in the dark-
and everyone knows i'm full of it
full of missing you
and your bittersweet smile
and im so into it
full of bones aching and shaking during the night and
intensely adoring you
so intense that
my hands shake whenever i try to hole someone else
with fear of loving another
even the skies know it
they pour and pour
but nothing, nothing at all
beats the feeling of missing you and adoring you both so fiercely
so saturated with our rainstorms
tenderness
that i wonder how we haven't drowned out yet
I guess thats what missing you felt like-
a storm that could hold it all
(a.m)
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
Sounds dreams art form
In age norm- brainstorm
Wake -up alarm rainstorms
Carmel Clouds
Barking noises and hounds
Chasing to be found
Sandstorm
Monstrous- snowstorm
Dreams to heal
In uniform
Please no harm
love embraces
Chasing the wrong faces
Gazing- engaging- singing
Dreams touch a nerve
Reacting jump ringing*
Chasing and saving
Memory of words
Wild child-hummingbirds
Floating in the air taps
No time like a normal nap
The cell phone pictures
and apps
Chasing big stir coffee sips
Valuable time trips
Chasing our dreams
Is real what it seems?
Lips* met* the *sunset
Eyes water love just met
Chasing- raging- event
Lullaby Lighthouse
Does your dreams make any sense?
Jun 14, 2023
Jun 14, 2023 at 8:02 AM UTC
for Barton Smock
I
to see the flooding lake I crawl
through the thicket
I imagined
being the devil’s
garden
as a child
a lake
I first called
blue prison
but now
love
after swimming
lessons grandmother
funded
II
squatting arsonists occupy
the town’s church
during weeknights
I am one of four who knows
*When it burns
I'll steal the stoup*
III
I dream rarely and only in naps
waking,
I try restraining
fantasies of
faceless women
IV
rainstorms brake
the lake’s edges,
muddy the bankside flowers,
leave the canal sullied
forever
looking on, I
recall
generosity
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 2:44 PM UTC