water falling down
it splats on the ground

do you, when nobodys watching
sing in the rain

do you spin around and let go
of all your worries
and who cares if anybody sees
you’ve already made sure
nobodys there

do you pretend you’re in a movie
and turn your face upward
and open your mouth
and let the rain in

please tell me
you’re like me
…that i’m not the only freak
jumping puddles with
Gene Kelly

please tell me
you’re like me
that i’m not alone
in being alone,
… dancing in the rain

cause you can just write a poem and let it go here… it has a home here… this place is better than sliced bread

ps… that damned FP button… uncheck when i should be on the FP and don’t when i’m not supposed to be… what a confusing and lovely place, isn’t it alice


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  1. did you want it on the Front Page or not?

    Nobody has claimed 10 am for today, you could promote it.

    Or you could promote something else, I was looking around.

    If you accidentally end up on the FP hit the promote button, then modify promote and demote it.

  2. lovely poem.

    • melvin on September 15, 2007 at 4:56 pm

  3. of course i sing-dance-splash.  and i dont even care who sees me.

    and im worse in the snow

    • YetiMonk on September 15, 2007 at 5:19 pm

    in all its manifestations matches my soul.

    I am like you except I can’t dance. Or at least people pay me not to when I do.

    • jessical on September 15, 2007 at 7:37 pm

    It’s what the kids nowadays call weed. And it drifts
    like clouds from his lips. He hopes no one
    comes along tonight, or calls to ask for help.
    Help is what he’s most short on tonight.
    A storm thrashes outside. Heavy seas
    with gale winds from the west. The table he sits at
    is, say, two cubits long and one wide.
    The darkness in the room teems with insight.
    Could be he’ll write an adventure novel. Or else
    a children’s story. A play for two female characters,
    one of whom is blind. Cutthroat should be coming
    into the river. One thing he’ll do is learn
    to tie his own flies. Maybe he should give
    more money to each of his surviving
    family members. The ones who already expect a little
    something in the mail first of each month.
    Every time they write they tell him
    they’re coming up short. He counts heads on his fingers
    and finds they’re all survivng. So what
    if he’d rather be remembered in the dreams of strangers?
    He raises his eyes to the skylights where rain
    hammers on. After a while —
    who knows how long? — his eyes ask
    that they be closed. And he closes them.
    But the rain keeps hammering. Is this a cloudburst?
    Should he do something? Secure the house
    in some way? Uncle Bo stayed married to Aunt Ruby for 47 years. Then hanged himself.
    He opens his eyes again. Nothing adds up.
    It all adds up. How long will this storm go on?

  4. for my granddaughter many years ago when she was just a toddler.


    Silver rain drifts down
    a nose-pressed windowpane.
    A little girl waits
    scratching her ankle with an impatient foot.
    The morning’s play cut short
    by dark clouds
    and silver rain.

    Toy teacups overflow,
    mud pies melt away.
    “Rain, rain go away come again some other day,”
    the little girl whispers
    as her breath clouds the windowpane.

    Tiny fingers draw
    in the fog-glazed glass
    of a sun with bursting radiance.
    Childhood wishes granted
    as sunbeams break the edges of gray clouds
    and sparkle in puddles.

    Gone as fast as it came,
    the storm relents to the little girl’s plea.
    The screen door bursts open
    before the last lingering drops depart.

    Tea table reset,
    mud pies reformed, 
    flowers kissed with rain tears
    are gathered to adorn the little table.

    All is right in her world.


    • LoE on September 15, 2007 at 10:56 pm

    • 4Freedom on September 16, 2007 at 6:25 am

    Silver slivers of thought
    Collect themselves
    One by one
    On the brink of my awareness.
    One by one or more
    They build to unseemly heights
    Of complex derivation.
    One translator of obscurities.

    (still lookin’)

    • jessical on September 16, 2007 at 12:35 pm

    When the season isn’t very old
    And mud begins to chill each interstice
    In October, the rain is very cold

    Inventoried harvests are bought and sold
    At rates which are a sacrifice
    When the season isn’t very old

    Meek and quick, or fat and bold
    A faster, colder wind is noticed by the mice
    When the season isn’t very old

    The earth is wet and rich and brown in fold
    And sometimes in the morning, just a little ice
    In October, the rain is very cold

    The wind is blowing, nothing holds
    And prudence isn’t avarice
    When the season isn’t very old

    Leaves end in brown but start as silver, gold
    And water has the same device
    Even when the season isn’t very old
    In October, the rain is very cold

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