Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month.

Write about a rainy day.

April Grins

April wears a foolish grin, beaming
blossoms from bare limbs, blending
birdsong buzzing sounds, warming
up our eyes with flowers, urging
green from underground, peeking
sunshine between showers.

As we feel the weather, turning
now from worse to better, luring
us into the sunny, catching
us off guard with blowing, laughing
though it isn’t funny, fooling
us- suddenly snowing.

Explanations Wanted


The rain gauge in
my back yard reads
a half inch but
the one out front
beneath a little tree
says three inches
and a half
this morning after
thrumming midnight
with light drizzle falling
just enough
to disturb the birdbath.

Where’s the science
in that?

Caillebotte, Paris Street; Rainy Day, 1877

Rain thins the shadows
on cobble stone streets
amid the canyons of Paris.

Umbrellaed pedestrians
Proustian figures
wander in every direction
heads bowed to watch
raindrops intercept their steps.

Immortal now
a moment stolen from the sky
and born again on canvas.

(04-03-2024, 11:25 PM)TranquillityBase Wrote:  Caillebotte, Paris Street; Rainy Day, 1877

Rain thins the shadows
on cobble stone streets
amid the canyons of Paris.

Umbrellaed pedestrians
Proustian figures
wander in every direction
heads bowed to watch
raindrops intercept their steps.

Immortal now
a moment stolen from the sky
and born again on canvas.

Good one, Tim

---

In Another Station of the Metro

Like Pound’s “petals on a wet black bough”
yet on a different Metro now-
the apparition still the same somehow.

Murky shadows on the subway tiles,
faces blurred by daily trials-
a touch of sunny if one smiles.

It rained that day.
That is why the stones
and bricks and glass and posts
shone so fiercely
that night.
Not some trick of the light.

Not the power coursing
through the grid with more intensity
than usual,
nor the moon and stars
finally exposing themselves
to the city below.

Not whatever crystals
were embedded in the rocks
with which our world was built
nor the flowering vines
that laboured to return them
to the earth.

Not the squabbling of dogs
nor the staring of cats
nor the way people walked
all almost running
careless if they slipped
rushing home.

Not the evening breeze clearing
the smoke from the club,
nor the drinks I've had passing
out whichever orifice
they chose to pass out of,
nor even the piercing

sadness in your eyes,
the disappointed search
for a shared memory.
It rained that day, I tell you:
that is why we both
nearly drowned.

Of a Kind

No two rains are ever the same
and a poet must play the adjective game
to set a true and tangible scene.
 
Today, she may be blessed in the west
                                                               yet cussed and cursed in the east,

but tomorrow is tomorrow
                                   and    winds 
      change.
 
You and I
first date
just done dinner and drinks
laughing our asses off
running to the car
in that delicious downpour
me fumbling and failing
to cover your head 
with a stolen menu
and you whispering 
something about chivalry being alive

and well, 
that's all I need to know about rain.

(04-05-2024, 01:49 AM)RiverNotch Wrote:  It rained that day.
That is why the stones
and bricks and glass and posts
shone so fiercely
that night.
Not some trick of the light.

Not the power coursing
through the grid with more intensity
than usual,
nor the moon and stars
finally exposing themselves
to the city below.

Not whatever crystals
were embedded in the rocks
with which our world was built
nor the flowering vines
that laboured to return them
to the earth.

Not the squabbling of dogs
nor the staring of cats
nor the way people walked
all almost running
careless if they slipped
rushing home.

Not the evening breeze clearing
the smoke from the club,
nor the drinks I've had passing
out whichever orifice
they chose to pass out of,
nor even the piercing

sadness in your eyes,
the disappointed search
for a shared memory.
It rained that day, I tell you:
that is why we both
nearly drowned.

WTF is right!  I can't even...
Well done

Awakened by the rain wearing socks and jeans
on top of the covers after night
began with orange sunset and ended with fog
hugging earth, I do not shower.

I splash cold water on my face
before leaving the house
in late morning.

In the rain, it is clear my hair
is thinner than it was yesterday,
and that bus drivers get a bonus
for hitting puddles when I'm on the curb,
and that no one shares their umbrella with a stranger.

Golden park is empty but for birds and worms
and myself with nothing to eat.

(04-06-2024, 07:55 AM)Tiger the Lion Wrote:  Of a Kind

No two rains are ever the same
and a poet must play the adjective game
to set a true and tangible scene.
 
Today, she may be blessed in the west
                                                               yet cussed and cursed in the east,

but tomorrow is tomorrow
                                   and    winds 
      change.
 
You and I
first date
just done dinner and drinks
laughing our asses off
running to the car
in that delicious downpour
me fumbling and failing
to cover your head 
with a stolen menu
and you whispering 
something about chivalry being alive

and well, 
that's all I need to know about rain.

So delicious I might keep coming back for a snack.

(04-03-2024, 10:35 PM)dukealien Wrote:  Explanations Wanted


The rain gauge in
my back yard reads
a half inch but
the one out front
beneath a little tree
says three inches
and a half
this morning after
thrumming midnight
with light drizzle falling
just enough
to disturb the birdbath.

Where’s the science
in that?

---

G'day Duke. Good question. Probably shouldn't worry too much about the science and just enjoy the rain. Unless of course you wanted to sit under that tree and write a poem. Hey you just did and I enjoyed the way it made sense to the reader by continuing the topic logically from each line to the next. Short and poetically to the point. Nice one.
Wazza

---

(04-05-2024, 01:49 AM)RiverNotch Wrote:  It rained that day.
That is why the stones
and bricks and glass and posts
shone so fiercely
that night.
Not some trick of the light.

Not the power coursing
through the grid with more intensity
than usual,
nor the moon and stars
finally exposing themselves
to the city below.

Not whatever crystals
were embedded in the rocks
with which our world was built
nor the flowering vines
that laboured to return them
to the earth.

Not the squabbling of dogs
nor the staring of cats
nor the way people walked
all almost running
careless if they slipped
rushing home.

Not the evening breeze clearing
the smoke from the club,
nor the drinks I've had passing
out whichever orifice
they chose to pass out of,
nor even the piercing

sadness in your eyes,
the disappointed search
for a shared memory.
It rained that day, I tell you:
that is why we both
nearly drowned.

Hi RiverNotch  a very entertaining story. It read fluently verse to verse and I loved the way each verse articulated what it wasn't. Let me get this straight ... the rain is a metaphor for a connection that wasn't to be? Maybe I'm wrong. Anyway apart from that I did enjoy the imagery you wrote into the verses. Well done.

---

No School Today
 
The rain is dancing down the street,
across the park and up the lane.
It’s teeming where I stand to meet
the clickety-clackety morning train.
 
The rain is hammering on the rooves
and causing such a fuss.
It’s drenching where I stand to meet
the braking quaking bus.
 
The rain is splashing on the ground
creating puddles deep.
To get to where I need to be
I’ve got to hop and leap.
 
The rain is filling all the creeks.
The gutters run with foam.
It’s wet day lunch at school today,
I think I’ll just stay home.


Wazza

I want a book
that wraps me like a blanket
on a wet January morning, while mother
stirs the tea. I want a book
like tea and spicy fritters
on a rainy day. I want a book
whose covers conceal a universe
of strange belonging.

I am tired of travel.
I'll never go to Chad,
and Ecuador bores me. I have seen the world
through practical eyes. Jerusalem
undid me. The sands 
of lost Cretaceous seashores I see in my mind
and half remember
The Sands of Time
by P Schuyler Miller
and a summer long ago.

The sky kept crackling bright;
wind and thunder rattled our bones,
while the warm summer rain
gushed down in torrents—
a storm to steal the breath
and electrify the blood.
And we were out in it, dancing 
under the moon like little fey folk
in pjs and muddy bare feet
shrieking into the night
with childhood glee.

today driving
in a distant sky
under a towering cumulus
within its attendant downpour
I found a rainbow

it followed me all the way home