How Restful Is the Rain

How Restful Is the Rain

How restful is the rain 

a soft hushing sound

that brings me awake 

to soft grey morning.

I’m quick to smile

close my eyes again

and cherish this gift

of sound for my soul

The ebb and rush of 

storm, a gentle tattoo

becomes an insistent

tapping pulse of drops

They wash over roof

clattering in gutters

bringing new sounds

to my drowsy mind

The water, I envision

It washes over roof tiles

through cracks to drip

on me upon my bed

It floods the floorboards

lifts the linens and 

gently swirls me away 

adrift on time’s current

I imagine opening eyes

to stare upward

leaves and branches

passing by to clouds

I spin like a leaf and turn

pelted and washed clean

water below buoying me 

upward to receive this gift

How restful is the rain

9/18/18

a fast write - some editing on the fly, but no real agonizing analysis of form or meter or rhyme - just flow of consciousness and imagery

NOTE: This is a new write ! Can it be that my drought is coming to an end ? I have hoped for a new burst of words, but it's been hard. So hard. This fast write is meant for a voice, I think. A soft whispering voice that is slow to read and that pauses over the lines and paces them like a slow reverie unfolding. 

  

Passing Through Wilmot

Passing Through Wilmot

Tonight old man, your spirit whispers,
“Take care of the fields, stoke the fires.
Close the shades against the sounds. 
Traffic is sure to come.”

It’s summer and Kearsage rises

In the haze of midday.
The old train station still aches
For the rumble and smoke.

Evenings still come on slow.
The tick of grasshoppers tease.
Grasses rustle and click
On the evening breeze.

The minions will surely gather,
To make the pilgrimage.
Wilmot will shudder and sigh,
Knowing that it's just your due.

The autumn’s breeze will descend.
The nights will become chill.
The view of Kearsage will open up
And on you’ll go to the night and stars.

Tonight, old man, your spirit demands,
“Feed the cat and come into the parlor.
There’s wine and talk. No need for a fire.
Let the breeze carry me out the open window.” 

on the passing of Donald Hall, a poem by Susan Lindquist - 6/24/2018

I love poetry. I'll never profess to be any good at it, but I love it. I love words. I love expression. I love the voice that can come to a written piece when it's read aloud. I've written a lot of what I call 'poetry' over the years, but have found myself in a drought for words since the passing of my Dad, Richard W. Miller. Today, on reading of the death of one of my poetic inspirations, the gates opened, if only for a few moments.

For more on one of America's finest poets ... https://lithub.com/donald-hall-poet-of-eagle-pond-farm/