Rice paper promises under the hostility of rain,  
all those fragile leaves  
so easily bent and broken,  
the pelting sound is getting louder and 
louder, 
which makes me wonder as to why drops are heavy, 
why drops are thick— almost like hail, 
clattering,
clattering, clattering,
until there is nothing but grousing left from the wind. 

And then, as dusk turns to night, we escape  
the shadows  
into the neon light, consuming our daily troubles 
a veritable inferno of thunderous bass  
and insanely fast drumming, 
clang, click, clink, clash, clink, clang, cluck— 
one would feel the atmosphere 
to be a bit superficial,
but the heart can’t tell the difference. 

Still, the rain falls, untamed and unapologetically 
herself—there is both chaos  
and calm, the night produces  
a caterwaul  
when it blows through the branches  
of trees, washing me clean,  
a foolish thing, to be exact, for how can one be
expected to avoid the world’s mud? 

This ombre night in shades of frosted plum, 
iced violet and soft focus, 
he is the moon that follows me, 
grace of gentle, conscious forgettery, 
an orange blur, 
absinthe so potent, it is believed to be 
surreal— I beseech, 
rise like a lover from the foothills, 
so that I may forsake the rain and give in 
to mist instead. 

One kiss, and suddenly I am a Poet besotted;
this earthy affair has got magnolia petals 
pretending to be skin, 
asking to be touched by the breeze 
and whispering wants, whirring and 
whistling. 
I ask you, dear reader,  
is this poem more about longing for rain  
rather than escaping it? Let’s interpret. 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest 

Bjorn hosts at dVerse where he invites us to use Onomatopoeia in our poems and to strengthen
the imagery through its sound. Come join us! 🩷

Posted for Meet the Bar with Sound @dVerse Poets Pub