"rainwashed" poems
How does it feel, walking the rainwashed streets without me ?
I hope your hand is comfortable in your pocket,
Or a hand you chose over mine.
On the dining table we never dined
"together", its warmth froze in my heart.
The soup always went cold
and I counted every single bean
Never seen, or tasted before .
I binned the beans and bid them farewell.
I went back to my cold bed
and felt my head explode
and felt my body twitch in need
Oh honey! Lest your soup go cold
Lest you count your beans.
I ate the trashed beans and beamed.
How could I trash the green of your eyes that spoke through the beans?
I think I'll leave the empty bed for sale
It's a free life in jail
without you in my veins.
With me in your dustbin
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 6:48 PM UTC
To the rainwashed man,
no sun nor daylight came,
but Scarlet appeared
in red lips and red locks.
An angel in the fire
with heaven in her eyes,
an ethereal sight
that made him alive.
And she became his.
His gold sunlit dancer,
the fire in his *****
the every ache of his heart
Nov 7, 2021
Nov 7, 2021 at 9:37 AM UTC
On this first day of September
as I look up at the rainwashed sky
with cheerily flying grey white storks
I grow fonder of belonging.
This is the place I call mine
where in the autumnal shine
open all doors
and the wind whispers
*All is yours
yours
this is your place
forever and no less
all of today
and tomorrow
for you made
yours in essence.*
This September day
insignificant becomes transience!
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 5:57 AM UTC
Sweet Winterberry
Born in a womb of glaciers
Fall on my tongue crisp
Sweet Winterberry
Feel the kiss of the sunshine
As rainwashed is pure
Sweet Winterberry
Plucked and baked into **** pies
Tendrils of warmth blossom
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 9:59 AM UTC
There was a time I wanted to go home
Rainbow acid pop in my grip
and grilled chicken in my gut
a power to pull my lips sideways
for a wistful smile.
I lie now at the base of a grave
sharing my chicken with worms
and snakes!
And snakes with their ugly fangs
rob me off my pop
and the evergreen beauty I thought infinite
Lost in my eyes
gone with my tears.
The fair land of my heart
barren of any light to harvest,
And I'm degraded through the mocking
momentum of life..
If there was any path to home at all
One to the rainwashed windows
and one to the tender fall
I would go back and stand tall.
Left to the hands of time,
Right, it is lost! There is no path at all..
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
I sit alone on the pond’s ghat in this rainwashed noon.
Her ripples dead
She ruminates once more
In the deafening silence of the crickets’ buzz.
*Came the men to splash upon me
The women within me bared shame
Frolicked the boys in me carefree
Made me alive in their joyous game!
Swam on me hope’s stretched hands
Sunk in me the broken heart
Left over me the girl her hair strands
At the end they all did depart!
Now I must wait for the sun to set
To drown my memories of the noon
Dreaming the stars to open heaven’s gate
Wrap me in night’s ripened moon!*
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 5:51 AM UTC
I prefer to sleep all day long
You see, keep my eyes closed
Than stare at this multitude of ants
following the taste of something sweet
Where are you? In a hopeless dream I had
as I wallowed in the bitter reality
of your absence..
your absence..
your absence..
I will live to dream you are here
darling,
I hope those ants keep away from you
Lest you be bitten..
Lest you close your eyes.
-Tina RSH
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 5:49 PM UTC
Between the woods and broken wall I sit,
Atop the rainwashed stump and mossy earth.
Nothing contemplated but the sun and yellowed leaves,
Windows of existentialism floating
Through my eyes like wind.
Look to that greeny canopy;
A lonely goldfinch sings at dawn,
With all its tiny feathers ruffled by a midnight owl
Pursuing food and death and filtered moonlight.
Seven simple sparrows sit atop a gleaming birch;
None can hear their songs but I,
And nothing but the gentle babble of this tumbling brook
Can carry their tunes away.
This lonely road I walk talks of death, of half-life,
Of the softest stolen whisperings of those dawny sparrows
In the hazy heat of noon.
And then in the ochre fall of dusk,
When all but I are sleeping,
A wandering fox darts deliberately
Through the brackeny brush of night.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC