Poems on the topic: rain

Poems on the topic “rain” on Poets.by.

Any author

With audio

Sort

Dave Bonta

Multiplication

up early like water being myself only (a mathematics that I cannot understand) being the rain coming into my house being open

Dave Bonta

Roof music

we desire the broad water belonging to ships— bedtime rain

Dave Bonta

Inventory

Bed and rose, wine, fire, candle, soap and many other things… Time and trouble give me rain and a hat and I am a sad king.

Dave Bonta

Cowboy haiku

noon field— I find nobody and a horse after foolish talk the discourse of rain I keep a great distance in my truck

Dave Bonta

Raw

wind and rain we settle one by one at the little table

Dave Bonta

what faceless bureaucrat wears so gray a uniform gray as the paper mask inhabited by hornets molded in a spiral around its single dire orifice a sump that swallows all assumptions an eyehole that shuts like some toddler god thinking we’ll all just vanish under sheets of rain

Dave Bonta

Carpe Noctem

full moonlight at half strength due to rain a slow and seemingly deliberate tapping on the roof one of the last warm end-of-summer nights katydids singing this is it this is it this is it this night with its singular pelage will never come again let sleep go on without you like a zombie apocalypse flying squirrels open the dark sails of their bodies a spring peeper calls three times in defiance of the season

Dave Bonta

Rainiac

In the house of rain, all are kin. Consider the toadstool releasing its spores when the rain comes knocking. Many of those spores drift up into the atmosphere, where they become cloud condensation nuclei and give birth to new raindrops—with moisture released by the trees. I recite this true fable to myself as I trudge through the downpour. that scent of wet rhododendrons— Pop-pop’s place I like how the world is textured. Visually and aurally and in food webs and ecological niches. The endless intricacy and beauty of it. It’s utterly entrancing sometimes, like the best rave ever. Whatever i tell myself, it’s never enough. Understanding begins with listening.

Dave Bonta

Saved by Death

forest downpour heard first in the treetops i picture a cinematic rain of arrows or maybe small frogs like the two in the road earlier one still moving the other just bones and wasps i took picture after picture on my phone which now rests like a joey in a dry pocket soon the gravel road is two torrents and i am a turtle hunched under poncho and umbrella

Dave Bonta

Mission creep

i watch from under my umbrella the complexly bladed ferns dancing erratically in the rain my feet and their forever war on stasis the ruts reasserting themselves through fresh stone i was only going for a walk and now i’m pondering the obligations of ferns the prerogatives of feet and the way a green tongue snakes through everything as if wisdom grew on trees as if it were made of gray paper

Dave Bonta

The will to sadness

“la volonté de tristesse”—drawing by Alejandra Pizarnik (from The Galloping Hour: French Poems) one ought to remain at least partially buried at all times let lost pieces of oneself get eaten by opossums one must learn to read the paper upside-down and backwards give names to the flies but not to the joyful spider and when one is invited to dance one must not cling as if drowning one who is oneself a sort of small salt lake one must follow decorum as one follows the weather everything one knows about rhythm

Dave Bonta

Walking Blues

woke up this morning with my shoes gaping at me like open graves the tapping of rain on the roof made a rhythm I could almost feel this isn’t walking weather and my feet need to move restless for no good reason that bivalve in my chest keeps opening a mussel gluing down its good foot so it can rock in the current I want to go where the river goes to the sky or its best mirrors which have the blues too in at least three different ways all of which call to me in the melisma of a mirage

Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem

Or try: