After Long Drought
After long drought, commotion in the sky;
After dead silence, thunder. Then it comes,
The rain. It slashes leaves, and doubly drums
On tin and shingle; beats and bends awry
The flower heads; puddles dust, and with a sigh
Like love sinks into grasses, where it hums
As bees did once, among chrysanthemums
And asters when the summer thought to die.
The whole world dreamed of this, and has it now.
Nor was the waking easy. The dull root
Is jealous of its death; the sleepy brow
Smiles in its slumber; and a heart can fear
The very flood it longed for, roaring near.
The spirit best remembers being mute.
poem by Mark Van Doren
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Related quotes
The Memory of Water (for Scarlet)
Water remembers you
falling now on your sleeping face
waking you from dreams
with its surprise
after you fell asleep
at your first pinic.
Water remembers your childish
laughter.
Water remembers you
holding your body
in its body
as you learn not to fear it
as you learn the words float...sink...swim.
Water remembers you
becoming its friend.
Water remembers you
diving into its honeymoon waters
becoming fishes....kisses
lasting from here to eternity.
Water remembers two
delerious skinnydippers.
Water remembers you
crying in its rain
sobbing 'I'll never fall in love again! '
as if you were an old 1950's tune.
Water remembers such tears
hiding them in its rain.
Water remembers you
laughing in the rain
having fallen in love again
so quick to change
your tune.
Water remembers you
laughing here we go again.
Water remembers you
soaking wet in a sudden thunder storm
flowers held in your hand
having lost their heads
presenting her
with nothing but stalks.
Water remembers you
having to wear her old dress
as she dried your clothes.
Water remembers
kisses lost amonst the roar of a fire.
Water remembers you
& is saddened to find you
with no answers
with no questions
here on this bridge
reflecting itself
here in its depths
where only silence lives
holding you
as before
only water
remembers your death.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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Catastrophe Within Silence
silence as in a room with no sound
but the hard pounding drops of rain against the window
silence as in being in a crowd of people
but no one is paying any attention to you
silence as in the pain that harvests inside
but not a soul is around to help u through it
silence yet another meaning of no commotion
but leaves many oblivious to anything of mention
there is catastrophe within silence
but who are those to even realize it?
not a word against a crowd
or a cry for help
not a simple acknowledgment
or an act speaking an opinion
silence
silence may be the
fear
shock
or agitation
within our world that leaves everyone
speechless
till all that is left is
catastrophe within silence
poem by Erin Sullivan
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Calculations
Space you measure in feet and inches
and shoes by where your big toe pinches;
seasons by cherry, rose and snow,
when may comes and swallows go:
empires by rise and fall of kings;
weather by rain and drought and flood;
dead trees by whether the dragon sings
flowers by when they seed and bud.
But how do you measure silence?
Or the space between two thoughts?
Or the point where forces balance?
Or the product of two noughts?
Or where the shadows fade to
when the sun sinks in the west?
Or how your deeds are weighed you
as your life drifts into rest?
Houses go from stone to dust.
The builder is himself undone.
The gate is broken and gone to rust.
Nothing survives from sun to sun.
What was there before the beginning
lingers when stars now born are dead;
in the absence of suns is ever shining;
when nothing is thought and nothing said.
poem by Brian Taylor
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Roaring higher
My fire in heart is aggressive
Keeps burring all time
Roaring higher! Roaring higher!
My fire can destruct the jealous world
Till it end fortunate and convenient
Roaring higher! Roaring higher!
My fire can create the ability
To create the gentle heart with success
Roaring higher! Roaring higher!
My fire can be the spirit
To light up the heart in the darkness
Roaring higher! Roaring higher!
poem by Swetha Reddy
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Till All the Bad Things Came Untrue
BY blacksoil plains burned grey with drought
Where desert shrubs and grasses grow,
Along the Land of Furthest Out
That only Overlanders know.
I dreamed I camped on river grass
In bends where river timber grew—
I dreamed, I dreamed the days to pass
Till all the bad things came untrue.
I dreamed that I was young again,
But was not young as I had been,
My path through life seemed fair and plain,
My sight and hearing clear and keen.
No longer bent nor lined and grey,
I met and loved and worshipped you—
I dreamed, I dreamed the days away
Till all the sad things came untrue.
I dreamed a home of freestone stood
With toned tiled roofs as roofs should be,
By cliff and fall and beach and wood
With wide verandahs to the sea.
I dreamed a hale gudeman and wife,
With sons and daughters well-to-do,
Lived there the glorious old home life
And all the mad things were untrue.
From blacksoil plains burned bare with drought
Where years are sown that never grow—
From dead grey creeks of dreams and drought,
Through black-ridged wastes of weirdest woe,
I tramped and camped with fearsome fare
Until the sea-scape came in view,
And lo! the home lay smiling there
And all the bad things were untrue.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Elizabeth Childers
Dust of my dust,
And dust with my dust,
O, child who died as you entered the world,
Dead with my death!
Not knowing Breath, though you tried so hard,
With a heart that beat when you lived with me,
And stopped when you left me for Life.
It is well, my child. For you never traveled
The long, long way that begins with school days,
When little fingers blur under the tears
That fall on the crooked letters.
And the earliest wound, when a little mate
Leaves you alone for another;
And sickness, and the face of Fear by the bed;
The death of a father or mother;
Or shame for them, or poverty;
The maiden sorrow of school days ended;
And eyeless Nature that makes you drink
From the cup of Love, though you know it’s poisoned;
To whom would your flower-face have been lifted?
Botanist, weakling? Cry of what blood to yours?—
Pure or foul, for it makes no matter,
It’s blood that calls to our blood.
And then your children—oh, what might they be?
And what your sorrow? Child! Child!
Death is better than Life!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters from Spoon River Anthology
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Tonight, Am In Love With The Rain
Tonight, am in love with the rain
The beating sound on my window pane
The howling wind, the dripping water
Man and beast seeking shelter
Am in love with the flashing light
The roaring thunder deep in the night
Am wondering how frightening it would be
To meet a storm in the open sea
Am in love with pools and puddles
Splashing water and the ripples
And waving wipers of cars driving by
Lighted images of raindrops from the sky
Am in love with cold water on my feet
As i take a walk on the empty street
And i love to have a bath in the rain
To melt away this lingering strain
But i dont always love the rain!
Sometimes, it brings memories of yesterdays pain
And my thoughts would mingle for too long
With the tune of the its mournful song
Sometimes, it brings the thoughts of storms at sea
And that fearsome waves that benumb me
And i, standing, wondering how
I sailed through her fiercest jaw
Sometimes, it brings the thought of death,
Which is the curse upon all birth
And reminding me how times fly
And how one day all flesh shall lie
Tonight my emotions are running deep
With things that make me laugh and weep
Tonight, here in my dingy room
I see flashes of gloom and bloom
My age long fears, are muffled by the pelting rain
And my common tears flushed down the drain
Tonight, am in love with the rain
And its beats on my window pane! !
poem by Okonkwo Osamedua. Allen
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A Rain To Remember!
Rain lashed out with lightning and thunder!
For every lightning phone also rang without fail!
It continued till I switched off light and went to bed!
Next day morning some death news due to lightning came!
Storm has dissipated but rain lashed now and then;
It's raining time nothing can stop it from falling!
Today there is complete silence prevailing!
Night is cold and wind has stopped after evening
Yet rain warning is given and is expected for 24 hours!
The summer drought without rain is causing so heavy rain now!
Farming fields without rain crops are waiting for rain
A week's rain at least will make it okay now!
When there is no rain we cry for it and when it is there we don't want
Whether we say this or that rain will do the best it can when it comes!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Betrothed
You have put your two hands upon me, and your mouth,
You have said my name as a prayer.
Here where trees are planted by the water
I have watched your eyes, cleansed from regret,
And your lips, closed over all that love cannot say,
My mother remembers the agony of her womb
And long years that seemed to promise more than this.
She says, "You do not love me,
You do not want me,
You will go away."
In the country whereto I go
I shall not see the face of my friend
Nor her hair the color of sunburnt grasses;
Together we shall not find
The land on whose hills bends the new moon
In air traversed of birds.
What have I thought of love?
I have said, "It is beauty and sorrow."
I have thought that it would bring me lost delights, and splendor
As a wind out of old time . . .
But there is only the evening here,
And the sound of willows
Now and again dipping their long oval leaves in the water.
poem by Louise Bogan
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In The Puddles
Rain bashing, rain crashing,
In the puddles, children splashing,
Mother's tongue has started lashing,
Everyone is wet!
Rain slopping, rain stopping,
In the puddles, children hopping,
Mother's hands have started mopping,
Everyone, I bet!
Sun waking, sun breaking,
In the puddles, children quaking,
Mother's arms have started shaking,
Everyone, she'll net!
Sun applying, sun drying,
In the puddles, children crying,
Mother's breath is now a sighing,
Everyone's upset!
Sun gleaming, sun scheming,
In the puddles, children steaming!
Mother's smile, now is beaming,
Everyone's her pet!
poem by Ernestine Northover
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In Autumn
The leaves are many under my feet,
And drift one way.
Their scent of death is weary and sweet.
A flight of them is in the grey
Where sky and forest meet.
The low winds moan for sad sweet years;
The birds sing all for pain,
Of a common thing, to weary ears,--
Only a summer's fate of rain,
And a woman's fate of tears.
I walk to love and life alone
Over these mournful places,
Across the summer overthrown,
The dead joys of these silent faces,
To claim my own.
I know his heart has beat to bright
Sweet loves gone by;
I know the leaves that die to-night
Once budded to the sky;
And I shall die from his delight.
O leaves, so quietly ending now,
You heard the cuckoos sing.
And I will grow upon my bough
If only for a spring,
And fall when the rain is on my brow.
O tell me, tell me ere you die,
Is it worth the pain?
You bloomed so fair, you waved so high;
Now that the sad days wane,
Are you repenting where you lie?
I lie amongst you, and I kiss
Your fragrance mouldering.
O dead delights, is it such bliss,
That tuneful Spring?
Is love so sweet, that comes to this?
Kiss me again as I kiss you;
Kiss me again;
For all your tuneful nights of dew,
In this your time of rain,
For all your kisses when Spring was new.
You will not, broken hearts; let be.
I pass across your death
To a golden summer you shall not see,
And in your dying breath
There is no benison for me.
There is an autumn yet to wane,
There are leaves yet to fall,
Which, when I kiss, may kiss again,
And, pitied, pity me all for all,
And love me in mist and rain.
poem by Alice Meynell
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Heavy Rain
Fields everywhere, now are completely sodden.
No more can their surfaces be safely trodden.
The grass in the fields was all turning brown,
But now, I fear that the fields could drown.
This year, it looked like we were facing a drought,
But now, I can’t believe how much rain is about.
It rains all day long, without even a pause.
Only by the plants, is all this rain is adored.
On the roads, there are massive puddles.
In the fields, under trees, the cattle huddle.
I know we all said we wanted the rain,
But now, it’s becoming a bit of a pain.
There are grey skies constantly overhead,
And I’m not that tempted to leave my bed.
The water in the fields will take ages to go,
And, now many of the vegetables won’t grow.
In this weather, you're constantly soaking wet,
And, by many a gloomy face, are you often met.
At any moment, I fear there’ll be a thunder storm.
This weather makes me feel very far from warm.
Every day, there is more heavy downfalls forecast,
How much longer can this dreadful weather last?
Even the weather forecaster gives a sympathetic look.
This weather is really pretty bad, even by his book.
In the towns, the High Streets are somewhat deserted.
On some roads, floods cause the traffic to be diverted.
Leaves and general rubbish clutter up the drains,
So that, on the road surfaces, the water will remain.
It’s summertime, and the weather is supposed to be hot,
But we’ve had all this rain lately, so obviously it’s not.
People everywhere are cancelling their summer barbeques;
Informing all their guests of the rather disappointing news.
There was a time when summer was hot and winter was cold,
But, into one, the seasons now seemed to have been rolled.
The whole nation over, organisers are cancelling events,
While fed up campers are speedily packing up their tents.
What the weather would be like, you once were able to guess,
But it’s all turned topsy-turvy and is now a real bloomin’ mess.
In an ideal world, during the day, the sun could shine nice and bright,
Then the rain could fall for hours on end, as long as it was only at night.
A healthy mixture of sun and rain is what we really need;
Both of which are needed to germinate newly sown seeds.
I really do wish that this constant rain would just go away;
Allowing us to carry out activities, we’d planned for the day.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Song III: It Grew Up Without Heeding
Love is enough: it grew up without heeding
In the days when ye knew not its name nor its measure,
And its leaflets untrodden by the light feet of pleasure
Had no boast of the blossom, no sign of the seeding,
As the morning and evening passed over its treasure.
And what do ye say then?--That Spring long departed
Has brought forth no child to the softness and showers;
--That we slept and we dreamed through the Summer of flowers;
We dreamed of the Winter, and waking dead-hearted
Found Winter upon us and waste of dull hours.
Nay, Spring was o'er-happy and knew not the reason,
And Summer dreamed sadly, for she thought all was ended
In her fulness of wealth that might not be amended;
But this is the harvest and the garnering season,
And the leaf and the blossom in the ripe fruit are blended.
It sprang without sowing, it grew without heeding,
Ye knew not its name and ye knew not its measure,
Ye noted it not mid your hope and your pleasure;
There was pain in its blossom, despair in its seeding,
But daylong your bosom now nurseth its treasure.
poem by William Morris
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Soulmate
As a key for one lock,
We -heart for heart,
Through actions or frozen moments,
Miscommunication or hailstorms,
In word or silence,
Still, our thoughts will remain intertwined,
Thy beauty; thy spirit will possess my mind,
When rain clouds engulf our eyes,
Our solace behind the Sun's shadow,
And though our lives mortal,
Our love be immortal,
Mute women will sing our song,
Blind men will paint our future,
I will always breathe through your lips,
Give you life, -
Like a gush of wind through grasses,
As we revere our cascading loves horizon,
'Till death takes your hand in marriage.
poem by Isunge Mwangase
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Blossoms
Flowers lovely, marvellous gift from God,
They deck the Earth, they give delight,
They drape the dales and adorn the hills,
They feast the eyes and fill the hearts.
My life blooms when plants are abloom,
Each morn, I gaze at flowers in myriad hues,
That adorn the garden my mother keeps,
Her prized possession next to her kids.
Through the arch window, Roses are in sight,
Chrysanthemums and Daisies, they grow in rows,
The white Lilies and the purple Tulips,
They seem to delight in their contrast shades.
In summer I watch the butterflies flitting around,
Also the honey bees that come to steal the pollen from the blooms,
Small birds that dart into twining boughs,
Build nests in the secret hide of bushy trees.
In rain, I watch the flutter of silvery leaves,
Washed anew and sparkling in radiant glow,
After rain, I count the droplets trapped within,
That struggle to escape from the chamber of hollow blooms.
In breeze, I see the flowers dancing in cheer,
And swing their heads in synchronizing motion,
These sights fill me with indescribable joy,
And set my heart racing in glee.
But when a withering flower comes in view,
It aches my heart and makes me grieve,
Then a question crops within my mind,
Why should a flower wilt and wither so fast.
Before I let the question fly from me
A consoling thought fleets across my brain
Transient it be, it delights all,
Spreads its fragrance all around,
Serves nectar to humming birds and bees,
And decks the Earth in brilliant charm.
What more-needed to fulfill a life,
Than be a source of delight to many!
poem by Valsa George
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The Drums of Battersea
They can’t hear in West o’ London, where the worst dine with the best—
Deaf to all save lies and laughter, they can’t hear in London West—
Tailored brutes and splendid harlots, and the parasites that be—
They can’t hear the warning thunder of the Drums of Battersea.
More drums! War drums!
Drums of Misery—
Beating from the hearts of men—the Drums of Battersea.
Where the hearses hurry ever, and where man lives like a beast,
They can feel the war-drums beating—men of Hell! and London East.
And the far-off foreign farmers, fighting fiercely to be free,
Found new courage in the echo of the Drums of Battersea.
More drums! War drums!
Beating for the free—
Beating on the hearts of men—the Drums of Battersea.
And the drummers! Ah! the drummers!—stern and haggard men are those
Standing grimly at their meetings; and their washed and mended clothes
Speak of worn-out wives behind them and of grinding poverty—
But the English of the English beat the Drums of Battersea!
More drums! War drums!
Drums of agony—
The big bruised heart of England’s in the Drums of Battersea.
Where in fields slave Englishwomen, Oh! the sound of drums is there:
I have heard it in the laughter of the nights of Leicester Square—
Sailing southward with the summer, London but a dream to me,
Still I feel the distant thunder of the Drums of Battersea!
More drums! War drums!
Drums of Liberty—
Rolling round the English world—the Drums of Battersea.
Oh! I heard them in the Queen’s Hall—aye! and London heard that night—
While we formed up round the leaders while they struck one blow for right!
And the old strength, that old fire, that I thought was dead in me,
Blazed up fiercely at the beating of the Drums of Battersea!
More drums! War drums!
They beat for victory—
When above the roar of Jingoes rolled the Drums of Battersea.
And where’er my feet may wander, and howe’er I lay my head,
I shall hear them while I’m dreaming—I shall hear them when I’m dead!
For they beat for men and women, beat for Christ, and you and me:
There is hope and there is terror in the Drums of Battersea!
More drums! War drums!
Drums of destiny—
There’s hope!—there’s hope for England in the Drums of Battersea.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Back To An Old Place
it is summer
scorching summer
season creeping,
grasses are wilting
trees are shedding of
their last leaves,
what i see are bones
of trees,
skeletons of
branches,
the dry wind keeps
blowing the leaves
away,
what i have is this
bald surrounding
emptied of their
essence
beyond me are
brown mountains
vultures are
in the skies
eying for
death as prey
i sit upon a rock
the only rock
left here
i have no cover on
my head
i am half naked
i have no one to talk
to,
they have left this
arid place
a long time ago
i am back
i am telling the
sand soil,
i have something
to write and
tell the world
about it
it is summer
in this vast desert
a long time ago
this was ours
and the trees are green
grasses verdant
butterflies flutter
and innocently
land on our
hands.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Flower of Death
The life is all we have; the death is all we need
It sets in our souls as an unfertilized seed
We know it will root soon, and take over our mind
And its stalk will sprout and wind
Death will take blossom, and it shall never fade it shall stay bright
And oh it shall be a beautiful sight, as it holds its petals into the night
And the leaves shall spread as green as green can be
And if you look close you will see
It's roots shall grow deep in the pot of eternity, in the dirt of the mind
The flower shall shine, so magnificent so kind
It's pollen will fly, will sour
And wait at the front of someone's door
The sun of the next world shall shine and nurture, the rain shall fall
Thanks to that the vines shall grow, and overcome the wall
The minerals of the soul will strengthen the warmth shall grow
This process shall grow, like snow falls, fast at first then slow
For the life is all we have; the death is all we need
It sets in our souls as an unfertilized seed
We know it will root soon, and take over our minds
And its stalk will sprout and wind
For now the flower shall bloom
The darkness shall leave, take the gloom
It shall leave us and we shall follow in the light of what's to be
Only then, we shall see
The flower of forever
As it takes root, you use it as a lever
Lifting you to the flower
And now you shall not cower
For you know this will spread and the flower shall grow shall thrive
And then you will know you are truly alive
As it takes root in your soul, and it shall becomes the power
For this is the blossom, this is the flower
The life is all our have; the death is all we need
It sets in our souls as an unfertilized seed
We know it will root soon, and take over our mind
And its stalk will sprout and wind
Bethany Hill
(This poem is not supposed to make you contemplate death, and I would not like to have people think that it is. It is just meant to show you that you should not fear death yet you should not reach for it but to take it when it is meant to come. Thank you)
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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The Ape
Blue seas red summers
Long years in slumber
Deaf ears hear thunder
Dump lips speak wonders
Red eyes burning through the night
Giant wings rise up in flight
On the dark earth choked with life
Natures creature stands upright
See the beast upon the land
Kneeling in the burning sand
And his heart beats in his hand
Dead seas long summers
Lost years in slumber
Blind eyes seek wonders
Old hearts beat thunder
song performed by by Level 42
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Magnetic Lady To Her Patient
I.
'Sleep, sleep on! forget thy pain;
My hand is on thy brow,
My spirit on thy brain;
My pity on thy heart, poor friend;
And from my fingers flow
The powers of life, and like a sign,
Seal thee from thine hour of woe;
And brood on thee, but may not blend
With thine.
II.
'Sleep, sleep on! I love thee not;
But when I think that he
Who made and makes my lot
As full of flowers as thine of weeds,
Might have been lost like thee;
And that a hand which was not mine
Might then have charmed his agony
As I another's--my heart bleeds
For thine.
III.
'Sleep, sleep, and with the slumber of
The dead and the unborn
Forget thy life and love;
Forget that thou must wake forever;
Forget the world's dull scorn;
Forget lost health, and the divine
Feelings which died in youth's brief morn;
And forget me, for I can never
Be thine.
IV.
'Like a cloud big with a May shower,
My soul weeps healing rain
On thee, thou withered flower!
It breathes mute music on thy sleep
Its odour calms thy brain!
Its light within thy gloomy breast
Spreads like a second youth again.
By mine thy being is to its deep
Possessed.
V.
'The spell is done. How feel you now?'
'Better—Quite well,' replied
The sleeper.--'What would do
You good when suffering and awake?
What cure your head and side?--'
‘What would cure, that would kill me, Jane:
And as I must on earth abide
Awhile, yet tempt me not to break
My chain.'
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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