I
in corn country,
the scent of rain often
outpaced the clouds
II
a slanting rain,
sounding machine-like
pounds the ground
III
with these mean rains,
my invite to outdoors
has been revoked
IV
mossy mountain,
its flipside is dry grass –
yin to its yang
V
hanging droplets
on the fringe of fungus
drip in due time
streetlamp in rain
each droplet catches light,
the drips glow
monsoon rain-song
isn’t loud, but is deafening —
ear-hushed / mind din
cyclone residue
crawls inland, shedding the sea
hauled to sky
[A tanka is a Japanese form closely related to the shorter form, haiku. In fact, a haiku can be thought of as the upper phrase of a potential tanka. Traditionally, the tanka (a.k.a. waka) is a 31-syllable poem. In modern notation, the additional 14 syllables are put into two seven-syllable lines below the three haiku lines, i.e. 5 – 7 – 5. (That said, there are many — myself included — who feel that the 5 – 7 – 5 – 7 – 7 approach applied to English language poetry loses the sparse, Zen feel of Japanese poetry because English syllables can be — and frequently are of — much longer duration. Personally, I’m more partial to the 2 – 3 – 2 stressed beats approach.) Historically, a haiku presents an image devoid of analysis or commentary. In Tanka, there is a pivot and the lower phrase often presents a response to the image.]
dry season
afternoon downpours
come daily
like one bird nesting
in another’s nest
soggy forest
oppressed smoke hangs low
unseen, but smelt
bone dry wood exists
but only within flame
drippy garden
a bright orange flower
hangs its head high
you warm my mind,
if not my bones
rainy season spatters onto big leaves —
like banana leaves
playing the jungle like a white noise orchestra
close your eyes and the wall of sound
drags over your senses
smearing tactile and olfactory experience
into the bombardment
yet the sameness of sounds offers no hold
and so that rain-on-leaf spatter dance
lulls one into a ragged, tattered trance
whether it brings euphoria or dark fears
or jagged agony or inexplicable tears
one can’t know without surrender
energy spills down my back
a liquid, electric energy
the subtle tug can be felt against tiny hairs
if your mind can move at the pace of that subtle tug
and not be sprung like a panther’s lunge
you can find your surrender
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
Clouds chugged landward
Smothering a festive town
In a dense, gray cloak
Dreary days have come
Reminding me of Britain,
the long nightless nights
Drizzle piddles down
Dimpling the sidewalk sheen
With random ripples
