POEM: Monsoon Blues

You won’t find the Monsoon Blues in the sky —

the sky – such as it is – a claustrophobic ceiling, clinging to the tops of tall bridges and buildings.

Nor will you find those Blues in the rain-swollen bodies of water —

bodies of water, murky in the absence of penetrating rays and churned with flood detritus.

Walls and billboards, painted blue, will be inflected [perhaps, infected] with gray — the gray that permeates all.

Don’t look for the Monsoon Blues, they’ll find you.

POEM: Moments Lost in the Monsoon

In monsoon moments, all falls still —
sounds of curb flow and gutter spill.
A restful ease from the patter
as raindrops fall, hit, and splatter.
Of lost minutes, I take my fill.

By the window, chin on the sill,
I watch water far below rill.
A car passes, no birds scatter.

-In monsoon moments…

In dim mid-day, I feel a chill,
though Tropics, says the Barbet’s trill.
I’m free — the Madness of the Hatter,
drowned out is the useless natter.
Though tempests may rage; all is still.

-In monsoon moments…

Monsoon Haiku

outside? muggy;
from inside: gray skies look
like Viennese winter

 

cool mornings,
after a rainy night,
soothe the spirit

 

the guard shack,
topped by a wading pool
only I can see

 

rain song
absorbs harsh sounds,
hushing the city

 

trust old people
with umbrellas more than
the blue in the sky

POEM: Monsoon City Night

pavement shimmering in the arc lamp glow
human traffic hardens as water flows
a can glides, twisting, toward the storm drain
riding a ruddy river of rain

a torrent pours, night awash in white sound
sewers fill, the city gurgles and drowns
boarding the bus requires a quay
each monsoon night seeks a revival day