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My Grandmother's Love Letters

There are no stars to-night
But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
In the loose girdle of soft rain.

There is even room enough
For the letters of my mother's mother,
Elizabeth,
That have been pressed so long
Into a corner of the roof
That they are brown and soft,
And liable to melt as snow.

Over the greatness of such space
Steps must be gentle.
It is all hung by an invisible white hair.
It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.

And I ask myself:

'Are your fingers long enough to play
Old keys that are but echoes:
Is the silence strong enough
To carry back the music to its source
And back to you again
As though to her?'

Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand
Through much of what she would not understand;
And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof
With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.

poem by Harold Hart Crane
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The Drying of Hair.

Jane's mother gave you both
a towel from the airing cupboard

after you had been caught
in the rain

running from the church porch
to the parsonage

and then she went off
to carry on

with her pie making
and Jane took you

along the hallway
to her bedroom

and opened the door
and after you had entered

she closed the door
with a soft click

and you both stood there
in the quiet room

rubbing you heads
with the towels

pushing away
the wetness

from your hair
and you smelt the room

the smell of polish
the lavender scent

the smell
of fresh linen

and smell of the flowers
outside caught still

in the rain
and Jane said

You are only here
because she trusts you

she seems to see through
people's veneer

and weighs them
in the scales

in her mind
and you stood still

rubbing your hair
looking at her

the way she had
the towel in her hands

over her hair
the hair all messed up

and she having
that sparkle in her eyes

like the first spear
of the sunshine

pushing through
the window at dawn

and she gazed at you
with her eyes

like polished marbles
and her words

hung there
on the air

like musical notes
on an invisible stave

and you said
I'm glad she trusts me on

just the one look
and Jane smiled

and kissed your lips
her flesh on yours

and the pressing
of skin on skin

and she gently
moved away

and pointed to the sky
and said

Looks like more rain
and you just nodded

wanting her to kiss you
once again.

poem by Terry Collett
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The Mother's Soul

When the moon was horned the mother died,
And the child pulled at her hand and knee,
And he rubbed her cheek and loudly cried:
'O mother, arise, give bread to me!'
But the pine tree bent its head,
And the wind at the door-post said:
'O child, thy mother is dead !'
The sun set his loom to weave the day;
The frost bit sharp like a silent cur;
The child by her pillow paused in his play:
'Mother, build up the sweet fire of fir !'
But the fir tree shook its cones,
And loud cried the pitiful stones:
'Wolf Death has thy mother's bones!'

They bore the mother out on her bier;
Their tears made warm her breast and shroud;
The smiling child at her head stood near;
And the long, white tapers shook and bowed,
And said with their tongues of gold,
To the ice lumps of the grave mold:
'How heavy are ye and cold!'

They buried the mother; to the feast
They flocked with the beaks of unclean crows.
The wind came up from the red-eyed east
And bore in its arms the chill, soft snows.
They said to each other: 'Sere
Are the hearts the mother held dear;
Forgotten, her babe plays here!'

The child with the tender snowflakes played,
And the wind on its fingers twined his hair;
And still by the tall, brown grave he stayed,
Alone in the churchyard lean and bare.
The sods on the high grave cried
To the mother's white breast inside:
'Lie still; in thy deep rest bide!'

Her breast lay still like a long-chilled stone,
Her soul was out on the bleak, grey day;
She saw her child by the grave alone,
With the sods and snow and wind at play.
Said the sharp lips of the rush,
'Red as thy roses,O bush,
With anger the dead can blush !'

A butterfly to the child's breast flew,*
Fluttered its wings on his sweet, round cheek,
Danced by his fingers, small, cold and blue.
The sun strode down past the mountain peak.
The butterfly whispered low
To the child: 'Babe, follow me; know,
Cold is the earth here below.'

The butterfly flew; followed the child,
Lured by the snowy torch of its wings;
The wind sighed after them soft and wild
Till the stars wedded night with golden rings
Till the frost upreared its head,
And the ground to it groaned and said:
'The feet of the child are lead!'

The child's head drooped to the brown, sere mold,
On the crackling cones his white breast lay;
The butterfly touched the locks of gold,
The soul of the child sprang from its clay.
The moon to the pine tree stole,
And silver-lipped, said to its bole:
'How strong is the mother's soul !'

The wings of the butterfly grew out
To the mother's arms, long, soft and white;
She folded them warm her babe about,
She kissed his lips into berries bright,
She warmed his soul on her breast;
And the east called out to the west:
'Now the mother's soul will rest!'

Under the roof where the burial feast
Was heavy with meat and red with wine,
Each crossed himself as out of the east
A strange wind swept over oak and pine.
The trees to the home-roof said:
' 'Tis but the airy rush and tread
Of angels greeting thy dead.'

poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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Listening Back

There are no comrade roses at my window,
No green things in the lane;
Upon the roof no sibilant soft patter-
The lullaby of rain;
Without is silence, and within is silence,
Till silence grows a pain.

Within is silence, and without is silence,
The snow is on the sill,
In snow the window wreath’d instead of roses,
And snow is very still....
I wonder is it singing in the grasses,
The rain, on Russian Hill?

poem by Ina D. Coolbrith
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Shangri-La Hotel

A visit to Shangri-La Hotel,
To my lover's room;
A visit to Shangri-La Hotel,
Like the eyes of an elephant;
I want to be in everybody's shoes but,
My mind is bigger than my shoes.
Like a message to the blue bears,
Like amessage to the white bears,
Like a message to the black bears,
LIke a message to the brown bears,
Keep it clean and soft;
a simple life to the muse of love.

A visit to my lover's room,
I am always moving and i don't look back;
Forward ever!
A visit to my lover's room,
I am always moving without looking back;
Backwards never!
A visit to my lover's room,
I know my back could be crooked;
But, i always move on.
I will surely reach to the end one day,
Like a visit to Shangri-La Hotel;
Forward ever, backwards never.

There comes a time when all seems so lost but,
Don't give up on your dreams in this life;
Like a marriage in the rain,
I do have a lover to visit.
The visit of my lover's room is like,
A love song in the rain;
The visit to my lover's room is like,
To marry in the rain;
The visit to my lover's room is like,
To make love in the rain;
The visit to my lover's room is like,
To walk naked in the rain;
The visit to my lover's room is like,
To sing in the rain;
Life is like that at times and,
I have my mind on you.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Meanwhile

She sparkles, she dazzles
She lights up the room
We walk together to a table for two
Every man stares but her eyes are only for me
We take to the dance floor
She squeezes my hand
I cant believe just how lucky I am
Meanwhile back in the back of my memory
Youre still dancing with me
And Im holding you once again
...meanwhile
We move to the end
Of a beautiful night
Tender the kisses
Soft candle light
She draws the curtains
Slowly we climb up the stairs
And reach for each other
The passion begins
We fall together as lovers and then...
Meanwhile back in the back of my memory
Youre still lying with me
And Im holding you once again
I try and I try
The lord knows I do
But each time my heart beats back to you
Meanwhile Ill go on living my life now
Ill find a way somehow
Oh but meanwhile back in the back of my memory
Youll always be with me but Ill never hold you again
.... meanwhile...

song performed by by George Strait
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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4 O'clock In The Afternoon

a small maroon van
is parked beside an unfinished pillar
along a gray road

a pile of rocks stands still
at the other side

a thin woman with short blond-dyed hair
is wiping the roof of a yellow painted pedicab

and then she pedals away
towards an old cemetery

the rain begins to pour heavily

the sonorous sound of the rain amplifies
itself on the rusty galvanized roof

of this building where i am
writing

the ceiling at the typing room
leaks some drops of rain

as though it is
crying

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Billy's Rain

When I'm lying awake, listening to rain
hammering on the roof,
the phrase comes back to me,
our code for 'Let's get out of here'.
We were huddled in the back of a van
with the lights, the videotape equipment
and the man with the rain machine.
'Why can't we use the regular rain?' you asked,
as rain hammered on the roof.
'That's God's rain', said someone.
'It doesn't show up on film.
We need Billy's rain for this one'.
When I find myself soaked to the skin, tired,
or merely bored with God's rain,
the phrase comes back to me.
I'd say it now if I thought you were listening.

Anonymous submission.

poem by Hugo Williams
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The Melodic Rain on My Roof

Believe it or not, I hate music
But when rain pours on my roof
And runs through the trough
I hear strings of a cello
Then to a child I become

When rain runs into the stream
And the river sends it back to the sea
Then to the ocean to silent sky
I wonder if life unlike rain
It comes back once again

If science can make me greater
I will then seek the path to past
To reclaim those that I never had
But I must speak to my own creator
Not to my father, not to my mother
For I am…..I am my MUSIC

poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
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Up On The Roof

When this old world starts a getting me down
And people are just too much for me to face
I climb way up to the top of the stairs
And all my cares just drift right into space
On the roof its peaceful as can be
And there the world below dont bother me
Oh no
So when I come home feeling tired and beat
I go up where the air is fresh and sweet
And get far away from the hustling crowd
And all that rat race noise down in the street
On the roof thats the only place I know
Where you just have to wish to make it so
Lets go up on the roof
At night the stars they put on a show for free
Yes they do
And darling you can share it all with me
Thats what I said I keep on telling you
That right smack dab in the middle of town
I found a paradise thats trouble free
And if this old world stars getting you down
Theres room enough for two up on the roof
At night the stars they put on a show for free yeah
And darling you can share it all with me
Thats what I said I keep on telling you
That right smack dab in the middle of town
I found a paradise thats trouble free
If this old world stars getting you down
Theres room enough for two up on the roof
Up on the roof oh yeah
Up on the roof

song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To A Teacher/Poet Named Fred

i know Fred
and i remember him
he always wrote
about the rain

there was no flood in
his rain
i mean
there is no rage or anger
in him

just the gentle
shower of rain
a soft spoken kind
of rain

a patient shower
caressing fine sands
on many dark nights
when he was always alone

watching those stars
those silent stars
he loved loneliness
and loneliness loved him

he did not live
that long
he died
at forty

the rain remembered him
and in his grave
that day when he was buried
the rain, as gentle as

the early morning wind
fine feathers cotton soft
sings the last
hymn for him

it was sad & it was lonely
the flowers and
the butterflies all sighed

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Soft Rain

Soft Rain

I like rain, not hard, angry rain with an attitude
who, was neglected by the mother cloud, and
angrily show its hate towards those who had
nothing to do with its misbegotten infanthood.
No I´m thinking of soft rain that is like a caress,
a kiss of eternities promises.

And nature is still, this is a moment of rapture
a longing for so long denied blissfully fulfilled.
The dampness of my skullcap and my alpaca
jacket is so soft that it almost feels like oil, but
I know I´m just a spectator under an umbrella
who ought to go home and lit the fire.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Rain... Rain... Rain...!

Rain on tinned roof
Rain on concrete
Rain soaking into sands
Rain on soft earth
Rain on metal road
Rain on windscreen

Rain falling into the sea
Rain in the river

Rain on flowers
Rain on leaves
Rain under trees
Rain on hills

Rain on my skin…

Each with its own unique raga
Reverberates across the sky
On to the earth…

05aug2010
10.30hrs

poem by Indira Babbellapati
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In Memoriam: Anna Akhmatova, poet

Last Spring I stood
in front of the bronze statue
they’ve put up in your honour
on the banks of the Neva
not far from the prison's red wall
just as, half in jest, you requested it,
never expecting this...

the thaw had just started
and a white snow crystal, already half transparent,
melted in the corner of your bronze eye
as if it were a tear

I watched it slide down Spring's warming bronze,
down past your name on the base,
across the trodden snow of the pavement,
into the Neva whose memory is time itself,
and as it joined the river's flow of breaking, creaking ice and snow
the sunlight caught it, briefly.

The next day
I walked to your dacha in the woods
as the first light rain of Spring
gently washed the birch saplings
and the brown leaves of last autumn now revealed
made a silent carpet for my feet;
and the pale sunlight
caught a raindrop, briefly.

In some future Spring
a poet’s tears fall as gentle rain.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Snow Fall in the Moonlight

Snow fall in the moonlight,
Like soft cotton falling from the sky,
Covering the ground and bushes in pure white,
Glowing beautifully in the night of December.

Snow fall in the moonlight,
Like a child I walked happily through the pure white snow,
Making soft crackling sound in the silent winter night,
When I reached the far end of the open field,
I turned to see the path I had taken,
A straight line through the pure white snow.

Snow fall in the moonlight,
Can there be a more beautiful sight than this?
As I look into the night sky,
And the soft snow flakes touches my face,
I breathe the fresh cold air of the winter night.
As I stood alone in silence, stillness in the air,
My feeling and longing comes to my lips,
And I thank Allah for this beautiful moment,
A chance to see snow fall in the moonlight!

(In memory of Belgian winter,1986)

poem by Spiritual Seeker
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My Grandmother

When she would talk about her mother,
it was as though there were another person in the room

She could see her mother in her mind;
It was as if my grandmother was dancing across the kitchen floor

It was as if she were talking about an imaginary person
who was not in the room

Her mother was in her mind

My mother was standing on the kitchen floor, cleaning a glass, and thinking of my grandmother

I could see it through the silence

poem by Samuel Stuart Pennell
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A Room Without A Fan

there is a room without a fan
but there is a piano there
where a child practices for the whole day

there is a room without a fan
but it has a mother with a stick on hand
there are fingers on a musical piece
too hurt to say that it is too hurt

there is no blood
but shall it mean that there is no bleeding of his heart?
how can mother
not understand how is it to be a boy
deprived of
his normal play
in the backyard of the house.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Field Of Death

we make love
in a small room
underneath a tin roof...
your body praying for rain.

or perhaps it's just delusion,
or memory twisted by passion,
or what an old man settles for
in the echo of his life!

kissing's like undressing,
slowly turns the spit,
not conscious of mirrors
or the need to hurry....

soft words almost forgotten
fall like stones in a bottomless well...
and the only cry of passion
is the hawk circling
the field of death!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Blank, Numb, Floating

it is 1: 55 a.m.
i hear the rain falling
she is fast asleep tired of the demands of her day
i leave her and she takes the pillow for me
i turn on the light
and see this room of books and paperworks
i turn on the computer
i am feeling nothing and i am floating like i am but a spirit
i am numb and i am feeling so dumb
i see this blank wall
i am feeling so empty

i look at her again
she utters words in her sleep and i will not wake her up
i lay my hands on the keys
run my fingers on some letters
there is nothing to write
in particular but there is something to run my fingers on
this feeling
this attempt to imitate the sound of the rain in letters
to put the motion of the rain to put its smell
to be wet and to have the rain run over me
all over me all over me all over me all over me

blank, numb, floating and wet
this is the poem now
at 2: 03 a.m.
it has gained finally this form
and scent and motion and color
that you have never seen
or felt the way

i do.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What Was

I can't go home;
even if I do
because that me going home
would be expected
to be
someone I haven't been in so very long.

How to be with family and friends
who constantly want to talk about
that young kid
who's long since moved on.

Out of klndness and memory
I play along
and let them
brag and fawn
over a person
long gone
into the forward years
while they look back
into what for you
is only the dimly remembered.

I told my mother to dismantle my room
dismantle the museum
keeping it that way, I said,
was inappropriate and too tempting
because I don't have the luxury
of looking back
while I am trying to move on.

So home is somewhat like an old love affair
nice while it lasted
but something which needs to be outgrown
as the truth is
one can never really
go back home
unchanged
from what was
then
the hurt in Mom's eyes
not withstanding.

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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As The Snow Falls (song)

As the rain falls down,
It turns to snow.
As the snow falls down,
It hits the ground.
You look outside,
And it’s a sheet of white.
So you think,
Oh what a beautiful night.
The fire is warm,
And the coco too.
And you wonder,
What is next to do?

Looking outside,
All you see is white,
And stars in the sky…ayyy.
The stars are falling,
The stars are falling,
And they cover the ground.
The snow has fallen,
Snow has fallen,
And it covers the ground.
You sit there,
Lookin’ out your window,
Sippin’ on your coco. Oh
Watching as the rain falls down-
The snow falls down-
The stars fall down.
And you see,
All of natures beauty.

The rain falls down,
And it turns to snow.
The snow falls down,
And it hits the ground.
Lookin’ outside,
And it’s a sheet of white.
you bundle up,
and step outside.
standing in the cold,
you look around.
its all so calm and still.
Oh there’s not a single sound.

It’s a silent night,
Oh what a sight.
Snow covers the trees,
So beautiful to see.
Back inside you go
To the fire you stand,
With coco in hand.
You’re cozy and warm,
All alone.
It’s getting late,
So you sleep the night away.

As the rain fell down,
It turned to snow.
As the snow fell down,
It hit the ground.
And the sheet of white,
It disappeared.
The next day you wake,
And the beauty is gone.
The morning sun,
Thawed the lawn.
And the snowy wondrous night is done.

poem by Tessa Monaghan
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