Thunder
Rain taps on my window.
A secret message to relay to me.
News with gossip of love and death.
Stories of heartbreak and redemption.
Songs of hope and murder.
Thunder rattles the windows.
And for a second.
I am alone.
Poems about rain
Poems about rain: drops on glass, wet streets, and the thoughts that only arrive in bad weather.
Rain and thunder as storytellers, leaving you alone with their tales of love and death
Rainy Night
I would love to go outside and count the stars.
I see the moon and night sky every night.
Tonight the sky is raining and my outside seat is wet.
I guess it can wait until morning with the suns light.
I can't go out so I stay in.
I even made some coffee.
I'll put some music on.
I would think of things to relax me.
Staying in with coffee and music, letting the rainy night postpone the stars
RAIN // JUNE
It's raining again,
This time a little more densely.
My head full of feelings,
Yet wondering why all of these are melancholy?
Does this world really needs to be this cold?
Or is it just me, questioning it way too unnecessarily bold?
Load thunders were heard,
Did anyone else's ears perceived it?
Haha! no for sure! it was drop silent, all inside me.
If it was really raining outside,
Why were drops of water rolling down my cheeks?
If it was really thundering outside,
Why were some of there sounds silent, crackling just inside me?
Rain long calmed off,
Thunders got silent and stopped,
Then why were still some thunders crackling, no one hearing it because,
The storm outside mirrors the silent thunder crackling only inside you
"Drip Drip Drop,"
The dampness of the rain,
Gives off such a wonderful smell.
It brings the girl such bliss,
As she sits in the window,
Watching traffic go by.
It's like her feelings are reflected
In the Ohio weather.
Sometimes happy, but rainy most days,
Bipolar.
She thinks, "drip drip drop,"
As the slow, yet calming rain falls.
Watching rain from the window, moods shifting like weather, finding bliss in the drizzle
Monologue
rain makes a mad din all evening
time is our tune
Rain's mad din all evening becomes a rhythmic partner to the quiet drift of time
* * *
My small black thoughts
collide with the cold rain
joy of becoming one.
Dark thoughts colliding with cold rain, finding strange joy in merging with it
Rain
It's cloudy and the air is clean
With a light gray background
Why am I standing here?
I don't know if I have a lot of thoughts
or no thoughts at all
The memopad with the song I couldn't complete last night
I'll finish it today as I shut my eyes and let out a sigh
I turned my eyes to the window and everything looks gray
Gray city, gray buildings, gray roads, gray rain
Everything in this world is slow
Gray city rain and half-finished thoughts mirror standing still at a window
i like it when it rains hard
And in the street people stop and take shelter
I like it when it rains hard
And I watch it through my window
I like it when it rains hard
And I can stand beneath dark skies pouring rains
And I cry
And no one will notice
I like it when it rains hard
And my insecurities fade away
I like it when it rains hard
I will run outside and walk for an hour or two
Away from home
To look for rainbow
I like it when it rains hard
And it is so cold
Like I feel
Watching hard rain through a window, letting tears blend into the storm
Does rain come knocking at your door?
Does rain come knocking at your door
And you open up to it
Welcome it like a long awaited guest
And let it enter,
Not only in your home but also in your soul
You talk to it, as if it were your long lost friend
You pack up your deepest darkest secrets
And hand over the briefcase for the rain to take away
Do you secretly pour some pent up tears into that baggage too?
Or do you save them for when the rain leaves your home
And then let those tears soak you
Do you find solace in letting go when the rain comes
Everything that you've been holding on to?
Do you feel like a newborn when the sky is clear
Knowing there'll be no more rain
For a long long time now....
Rain as a guest let into your soul, carrying away what you've held too long
Insider
doors, forgive me
for having a house
who likes to need
such a common evil
for quiet or content in the rain
a rain that tends to sing well
and eat nothing at all
Guilt of a dry house while listening to the rain sing, quiet introspection indoors
far away
There I go again
Staring at the endless black sky,
Hoping my tears will go away.
The chill from the open window
Enters inside,
Reminding me of
The far away.
Oh how I wish
I could be there,
Far away from where I am.
The rain is slowly pouring,
Peeking inside from the
Small gap between the windows.
It caresses my face,
Almost asking for help.
I look at the cars
Rain seeping through an open window at night, restlessness and longing for elsewhere
On Deciding Not to Travel
From the window of the fourth-
floor walk-up, the umbrellas
slid past each other with
assembly-line perfection,
black & blue mingling with
the occasional red, yellow,
lime-green. The street shone
like a mirror that gives
nothing back. The hiss of tires.
This short loop keeps playing
in my head as I watch
the cloud lift & a white moth,
caught out after daybreak,
yawing & veering against
a backdrop of dripping trees.
This summer won’t come again.
Watching rain-slicked umbrellas from a window, choosing stillness over going anywhere
Rain
RAIN, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
Since I was born into this solitude.
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
But here I pray that none whom once I loved
Is dying to-night or lying still awake
Solitary, listening to the rain,
Either in pain or thus in sympathy
Helpless among the living and the dead,
Like a cold water among broken reeds,
Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,
Like me who have no love which this wild rain
Has not dissolved except the love of death,
Midnight rain on a bleak hut, solitude turning into thoughts of mortality and love
exposition
oh, my world.
Every single droplet heard
Falling onto your room's hard roof
Emptying the atmosphere of noise
Filling it with an ambiance of thought
Every crack of the fire's blaze
Warming your room's paranormal
Echoing heat until it touches your skin
Wandering inside your unmeetable soul
Every chord on the piano's keys
Interrupting your room's unaffection
Ending the voices of dissonant tones
Inclining its ear to the resonant cries
Every buzz of an oddly selected machine
Drying and washing your room's filth
Eating away the vanity of monotony
Droplets on the roof become an ambiance of thought, drawing the inward mind close
I Thought It Was You
I thought it
was you
turning in bed—listening
I know
it is just the rain, heavier.
First I’ve heard
in a long time—
breathe deep.
I rest easier.
Happily.
Floods?
I doubt it,
if so
we'll cope later,
in due time.
Mistaking rain for someone turning in bed, then resting easier in the relief
Ennui
rain all afternoon
I put things
in my hat
A long rainy afternoon distilled into tiny, private gestures of stillness
Raw
wind and rain
we settle one by one
at the little table
Wind and rain outside while people settle one by one at the little table
I Never Mind the Rain
So many poems are about poems.
So many poems are read only
by other poets or—a few—by persons grieving,
hunting for a match for the eulogy,
because poetry taps into our mournful centers
and we seek certain sounds more than meanings, or a sense
of knowing. We are satisfied with suggestions.
After nineteen days of sunshiny cold, our city
returned to its better-known self which is wet-streaked windows,
rain-soaked smells of soil, swishings of cars through shallows
where streets once stretched, and to its preparations for mysteries
by knitting shocking pink hats and scrawling slogans on severed box lids.
No one knows whether a frozen patch
of hard clear days or a week of warm deluges
Rain returns the city to wet-streaked windows and the quiet of grieving, unanswered thoughts
The Midnight Falls
The midnight falls in silent raindrops
From my greylit window forever.
Cars pass through the street in distant sound
And walkers push their hearts against the cold.
Inside my room I hear the sounds of my wife
As she sits upon my bed adjusting her stockings.
I watch her in the mirror above the bureau.
Outside are puddles and reflections.
I am sprawled upon the bed
And run my fingers gently over her white slip
Remembering I am only a child,
A child dreaming of his own family,
Dreaming in a greylit window.
Midnight rain at a greylit window, drifting into childhood memory and domestic stillness
cracked window
i left them outside again
they're outside and it's raining again
should i let them back in?
should i join the rain?
should i go back to sleep again?
even if i slept or stayed awake the rain would still be here
but they're outside again
but i left them outside again
it's raining again
why is it still raining?
why is it still dripping through the cracks of my window?
why did i leave them outside again?
how could i be so cruel?
how could i be so forgiving
when it's raining outside and there's little left till dawn?
Rain dripping through a cracked window while guilt loops through a sleepless, restless night
Red Window Pane
The red framed window
saw many seasons
Chirping linnets on sunny day
Clear skies and no clouds
Mere Coloured leaves and foliage
On winds of autumn.
Some vermillion and chrome
Winter, full moon and starry night
Snowflakes resided and lay
Peacefully on roof and pane
Spring arrived with more lush,
With blooms of
Cherries and chrysanthemums
Lilies full way on the lane
Rains, came with pitter patter on the
Window pane...
A window witnessing seasons pass, rain pattering on the pane while time slips by
Rain House
Is rain a good house, sunshine a good car?
I have one home.
Asks what truly shelters us while rain falls, weighing a real home against passing comforts
Late riser
rain
in the garden
another contented bed
Lingering in bed listening to rain in the garden, the quiet joy of going nowhere
Rain
Water into water
comes to be
my morning’s work:
books into books out of books.
Rainy morning reading and writing as a slow water-like drift of thought
Rainy days
Drip drip drop
Waking up to a soggy morning,
The air cool and light.
The smell of water in the air.
Such a good day,
One of sweatshirts and couches.
A day of watching movies or tv,
Of making food and staying in.
Oh how I love these rain days,
However they always remind me of times spent with her.
Cuddling together while watching,
Snacking throughout the day.
Rainy days were so much better with you.
Now they just drift by,
While memories float through the air.
It's a rainy day
Sweatshirts and couches on a rainy day, coziness threaded with nostalgia
Haiku 46
My window ticks once
at a brushstroke from the rain
wind keepsakes the rest
But how many friends
can you have, if all you see
fills all that you know?
Banana milk, drunk
years ago, long-dead diner
returns to my tongue
The night crests morning
only my two stinky feet
keep me company
Teakettle whistles,
but it’s in another room
along with my mind
How proud of my words!
Window ticking with rain, drifting thoughts and tea-whistle solitude
Sitting in Rain
Walking out the door
It's 4
Going to sit on natures floor
Listening to the rain
The cries let out by nature
Sitting peacefully in her tears
Mother Nature cries
It's 5
We say goodbye
No more tears
A new sky
Sitting still in the rain's tears, finding quiet peace at nature's floor
It Rains
IT rains, and nothing stirs within the fence
Anywhere through the orchard's untrodden, dense
Forest of parsley. The great diamonds
Of rain on the grassblades there is none to break,
Or the fallen petals further down to shake.
And I am nearly as happy as possible
To search the wilderness in vain though well,
To think of two walking, kissing there,
Drenched, yet forgetting the kisses of the rain:
Sad, too, to think that never, never again,
Unless alone, so happy shall I walk
In the rain. When I turn away, on its fine stalk
Twilight has fined to naught, the parsley flower
Figures, suspended still and ghostly white,
The past hovering as it revisits the light.
Rain-soaked orchard walk where memory hovers like a ghost in twilight
January Rain
First cousin to mud, soft-shouldered,
I turn to quagmire. Ou sont les neiges?
God’s rain on the roof. The house vibrates
from the washing machine’s dervish waltz.
Standing on the porch, I hear a winter wren’s
summertime song: thin boneless notes.
Trunks of locust trees at the edge of the field
have turned green from all the rain.
Green columns glowing in the dim light.
The gray-brown ruin of a woods beyond.
January rain, washing-machine hum and a wren's song echoing indoors
a book, a cup of tea, and rain.
It was raining.
Stirring her cup of tea.
Minty aromas filled her nostrils.
Sitting on the comfy seat right by the window.
Water droplets splatered,
Running down, speeding.
It was quite the downpour.
Loud patters of rain as they hit the roof.
Cup of tea in hand.
Nestled in with a book.
When problems and worries arose.
It was her escape.
On crisp pages.
Perfectly baked paper, plastered with ink.
Minty aromas from her tea.
Described a world far from what you'd think.
Tea, a book and rain pattering on the roof — cozy inward escape
Drowning in the wake of the rain
The city was drowning in the suppressed emotions of the heavens above
The sky was a blur of grey fur and voluptuous roars
The patter of the rain grew louder, and dimmed
Like a badly tuned radio.
The chatter of the class almost drowned out the din outside.
Almost.
Volleys of arrows shot towards the roads;
The roads glittered like polished lead innocently
Almost as if were batting its eyelashes oh-so-cluelessly
The rain pounded against every surface
And it always bounced off harmlessly
The sky split into tendrils of thunder
The grey wolves above grew louder;
Trees crashed into tar
Water clung to legs
But nothing could halt the city
Storm outside mirrors inner turmoil, a lone observer trapped behind grills watching rain
Haiku 40
Ash tree scratches air
outside the window still lit
after 3 am
One bright orange balloon
from the bunch, lost to the wind…
the sky’s only color
Two woolly afghans
curled by knees on the bed
kept close; that’s enough
Starlight, come how far
to glisten at the edges
of my open blinds
History is made
about two blocks south of here
I’m warm in the dark
History? Foolish.
Quiet 3 am stillness by the window, warm in the dark while rain and news scroll by
Sheltered & Protected
We are all nothing more than a movement
within a motion of water
forming currents in the ocean;
we are
insignificant.
Thrown into consciousness,
left alone with this ancient
incomprehension,& the glacial erasure of indifference;
the unutterable excess & erosion
of existence.
Each
confrontation
with the void,
inside & beyond
time & space;
every spin of the wheel
Cosmic insignificance soothed by shared shelter beneath rainfall music
Multiplication
up early
like water
being myself only
(a mathematics
that I cannot understand)
being the rain coming into my house
being open
Early morning stillness, becoming the rain that comes into your own house
Haiku 22
After I finish
scribing him through my keyboard
the gas man plods on.
Sun in the right spot
to light up King Street Station
sloped roof, shiny green.
In the middle lane,
in the middle of the lane,
one lone prone ladder.
Blind man folds dried laundry
his long cane propped on a slant
against the doorway.
For a split second
I thought she was calling
to say she loves me.
Feeling Lester’s ghost
Overcast Tuesday introspection, hot rain on the tongue and grey-season humor
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