Tag Archives: Rain

Oasis

Pitter patter rain
clattering from the sky
First summer rain pours..

Splashing raindrops kindle joy
What a pretty feast for eyes!

Midst of torrential splutter
The cry of raindrops unheard..
Helplessness goes unnoticed therein.
If, raindrops could hold onto the clouds?

Alas! The forcible burst onto the soil
failed to camouflage the chaos.

My eyes get wet every time
I witness this phenomenon.
The silent teary raindrops
fall on the desert of my heart
lamented by their unseen pain.

In return, they gifted an oasis!
Perhaps, a rare gesture of gratitude!

A smile presumed on my face
A joyful tear I shed in silence
It reflected on the unshed raindrops.

© Maaya Dev

Between This Life and the Other: The Rain

Do my dirty walls rain, still?
Dots imprinted on dark leaves, scrawling,
Pressing their heads to the crushing dust of human pain?
Do the fingers still dig into
The dark, unfathomable whole,
Beneath the ribs, the pain, stark dead, burning?

Do the primal clouds of monsoon jump in puddles, still?
Longing to steam, to cry in small streams,
Ripples and kisses, running down, the deluge
Slitting throats, trampling my primordial breast?
I have seen the skin, blood, bones
Of the rain, hung on to thirsty fingers
Licking the pickled salt of a fleshy pain.
Is it mine, still?
Forgot its name since we last held hands.

Does it still rumble, growl inside,
The billowing cloud-fire, the necklace of grief?
The night, jumping, leaping, sticking her tongue out
For one last dance, entwines me,
Stumbling over, as I listen to mourning ghosts,
Moving around, in circles, the earth
A whisper of sprinkled ashes of pain?

The smoke, a translucent fusion,
Do I drink it whole? The murky waters
Ruminating on the slumber-buried drone of pain.
Do I shake it off like old dust? Here it comes back
Peels and hums amid grinning, littered rain.

The bird rests beneath the rusted bricks and walls
The flash of cool light, of rain, long gone.
The heart of the wind beating amid the dead leaves in rain,
I stand, smothered between the damp walls,
Breaking and sinking, birdlike, aflame, drowning.

Cubic Words

There are hues of
blue embracing those of red
to vibrate in harmony.
There is a sense
of their movement above
the limits.
There is ceaselessly a feeling in the sense.
The feelings can be objects.

Conceivably, the things have a beginning,
because we believe it,
and maybe
there is neither beginning nor end.

In the spring rain,
there are kissing statues.
In the lulled lodgings
emblazoned with
shadows of shabby objects
on the walls,
there are lonely people
meditating about their life.
There is a measure of vulnerability
For everything that is good

and for the starving birds
in searching for seeds everywhere
as for those cancerous youngsters
having unimaginable pains,
still yearning to be cured not till experience.
In the coverings,
there are riders of the history
dressed in armor
to enter the mind’s imagination and
all that is not the mind’s imagination.

In the spring nights,
there is a moon becoming a curtain
for the great vaudeville
of the stars

formed from the other stars,
no two alike,
and being

like charming women
wearing masks and
wide necklines, nor
like those ballerinas that like to costume
in lactate white to suggest
dandelions dancing to spread their seeds.

In the luxury shop windows,
there are gems looking like flowers
and flowers looking like gems.

In the Sisyphus dimension,
there are tired eyelids in abeyance.
Nothing bends from above, everything falls down.

There are emerald northern lights.

In a puddle of sun,
There are emerald green, tattooed bodies
Dancing tango.

There are cubic dragons,
and there are things that have been taken apart
to be put, then, back together in a wrong order.

So, there is self-loathing,
and there are feelings of worthlessness
in a life spent earning filthy lucre.
There are resentments to destroy the lives.
There are the wrong things that fall apart and
the wrong things that fall together with those that are right.
There are words coming out in a wrong comprehension
to be incorporated into bad memories.
There are wrongly imagined riders of the history.
Uprising dove feather and prying eyes
get at the meaning of the truths in the uprights (there are many
truths left) .

But there will never be…

Blue trees
And eternal corpses.

 

Poem by Marieta Maglascubic words

Consolation

Gentle thumb
Cleared patches
And streaks on
The fogged window
To see the raindrops
Trickling down
Its glassy pane;

You gazed your way
Into my soul,
Until the rain ceased.

I stopped –
You smiled –
Your breath turned
Into my lullaby…
I chuckled –
You consoled –
My tears turned
Into your reason…

Being apart
Even before
Being together
Was perhaps
The only reason
We had to go on…

– June 21st, 2012
~ s.r. ~

Monsoon Blues Again

Once I wanted to die in the rain,
But today, I stare out the window
And no such beautiful pain
Touches my heart, no such tow…

Despite the emptiness in my chest,
The earth drinks her share,
Leaves me to listen, but no zest
Dares me, like I’ve not a care…

Now pain defines its own absence,
And how much I miss what showered
When pain coupled with elegance,
While hurts towered, poems flowered…