Half a Rage

a coy drizzle
half a rage away from a storm
you know you can silence thought
and carry in your vortex
lip and unspoken word-
yet you wear your best dress
and kneel on the damp grass
holding out your
glassy grey hand…
why?

Quadrille: a 44 word poem
Linked to the Dverse Poets (Prompt: Drizzle)

Black Umbrella

everything you say about hurt is a lie,
I know there are never enough words,
not words still dry, still complete,
a gutted lexicon slips into the flooded chasm
between want and fulfilment,
dissolving into platitudes as it pleads ;

see, to explain hurt, you have to explain everything,
but everything is a lattice of unhealed scars that
re-patterns incessantly in the darkness of ache,
always changing, always erasing;
everything is tiny fragments that congeal
into a living, writhing organism,
its heart beating outside your heart,
its breath warming inside your breath;
always growing, always imploding;

everything is a cloudy sky that forgot
the smell of rain,
everything is the memory of hurt
that whispers your drowning name,
everything is never really yours to tell,
whatever you say about hurt is a lie;

yet we will nod and weep, even smile a little,
and the lie will grow soft, glistening wings,
become a silver truth in the empty night sky,
no longer birthed from our silent eyes
that stare out of blurry window panes
at our sodden clothes,
walking that day
in the after wet of a summer shower,
the warm rain locked forever
in the black of a closed umbrella.

Good Clouds, Bad Clouds

sorting,
every morning,
squares of sleeping blue,
good clouds, bad clouds,
they said I must pick a side,
know which is my half
of the endless sky;
and then that day,
cold and pewter grey,
lines washed out,
and we couldn’t tell
where we stood,
awkwardly laughing
over cups of
rain splattered tea,
your fingers accidentally
brushing mine,
the mist bone white,
a lifetime saved in cling wrap,
hooded eyes flying free,
waiting for the heavens to dry.

Wrong Way Home

six thirty turns to seven fifteen,
the storm burns out the last light in the sky,
now just a rhyming lament,
slipping like steel wires between dripping headlights,
rickshaws splash by,
their passengers wet,
crawling on three wheels
through comatose traffic,
the buses have long given up,
turned away by water
waist deep at the intersection,
they say;
through tangled umbrellas,
the wind is making its way,
cold now,
hissing around the fire of handcarts
still boiling stale tea under plastic tents;
every face is a stranger,
every face is familiar,
trapped in an urban swamp together,
lights glow on mobiles
alive inside marooned cars,
in someone’s ear
is the sound of brow-creased worry
from a warm kitchen;

she turns off her phone,
stuffs it into her sodden purse,
the lady at the thrift store
had promised her it would last several monsoons;
there was a time for hoping,
there was a time for dreaming,
that the rain would stop,
that a bus would arrive,
that there was money to call a cab,
that someone would be waiting
in a leaky apartment
nine miles away;

a flash of lightning slides low
to meet the wordless chill in her eyes,
she tugs a scarf over her head,
her whispered prayer swallowed
by the crash of thunder,
greasy water grabs her ankles,
as she steps out of the shelter
into the endless night.

they say
twenty centimetres of rain fell that night,
they say
thirty two people died.

For the midweek prompt at Poets United: ‘Acceptance

#67

monsoon’s overture
punctuates wet asphalt,
the spray from rushing tyres
on stolen plastic shelters
decrypting poems
of the angst riven rain.

Poetweet: Exactly 140 characters long including spaces and punctuation.

The Way

The way the tender grass welcomes the hail, even though the returning sun will only find the air smeared green with the blood from her veins. Or the way the maple drops her last leaf, her bare arms numbed by the icy winter wind. Or perhaps the way the rain gathers her skirts to tumble down the rocks, her screams unheard in the frenzy of her descent.

Does pain recoil like a defanged cobra in the face of incontrovertible truth? Of inevitable charade? Does the heart forget its angst for just a moment, feeling the tingle of its jagged edges, knowing how it felt, once, just to be alive? Does going back to that day you left, take me to the moment when the rain broke through the maple’s shade and in the wet grass, your hand reached out for mine?

little by little
the mask of day loosens
its grip on the night

Edouard_Manet_-_Luncheon_on_the_Grass_-_Google_Art_Project

 

For the haibun prompt at Dverse, asking us to describe how we relax.

Footprints of the Rain

here, finally,
I open my bag of regrets
to the rain

***

misty eyed,
I walk in the footprints
of the early rain

Linked to Carpe Diem Haiku Kai, where Basho’s journey to the Deep North (Oku no Hosomichi) continues. After a wretched night in Iizaka hot springs, Basho plods through muddy roads in Kasajima District, passing by villages, that like portents of wet weather were called Raincoat and Umbrella .
Previous posts in this series are HERE