The Risk of Rain [Poem]

There is in the air
the risk of rain
that makes me second guess
my intentions
and turn over my passions
in the palm of my hand
to see what demons lie hidden
behind them

Rain drops
find my fingertips
and linger
between my umbrella and me
reminding my dry hair
of the way the elements feel
washing over
my exposed shoulders

Rain
wash me clean
and hold me
in a blanket of sorrow
so that I learn
to linger
and not be drowned
by life

Soothe my shoulders so I can risk
raising my lips
to the sky
to drink the rain as it falls
and nourish myself
with the sweetness of the clouds
while they cleanse me
with melancholy

Photo by Matteo Catanese on Unsplash


Tonight on DVerse, we are exploring the theme of risk.

The Lighthouse Keeper [Poem]

Dusk
like a blanket
stretched over the sky
making heavy
the world’s eyes
and drawing the lighthouse keeper
from the comfort
of his bed.

Though
it was said
that he never slept,
in truth, the lighthouse keeper
laid in darkness
through sunshine days
so that he was accustomed
at all times
to the night
and its horrors.

If you ever chanced upon him
by day
he might say
what he said to me
on that otherwise unremarkable
midsummer day:

“My
eyes
can see beyond the horizon
in those first minutes
of the night –
In the air
I can smell danger
and
see ships
devoured by the rocks.

I can feel the souls
of sailors
scattered all along this shore.



The more I see
of the night the more I fear.
Nowhere is how little
we truly are
more clear.
Let it be said that
fear
was
my first friend here
and she shall be
my last.
She will have my back
to my dying day.”

He spoke no more
and was gone
and though I saw him no more,
I have heard it said that
though his light
was never extinguished
and no ship perished on his shores
he died young
with grey hair
and skin-spots
and the same weary eyes
I saw all those years before
because that fear
and the ghosts
only he could see
slowly
consumed his life
out in that lonely lighthouse.

Photo by Danish Prakash on Unsplash

On DVerse today, the challenge is to write a poem in the voice of a fictional character. It can be any character you like, and you can introduce it in your own voice if you choose (à la Coleridge, though I certainly wouldn’t insist on this) but the main body of the poem must be in the voice of your character.

A Plant Growing in Wintertime [Poem]

The small, jagged seed
lies silently in the dirt,
swept there by the soft caress
of a summer breeze
which welcomed it
into this unfamiliar home…
in a neighborhood
of ancient and calming trees.

No sooner is the warm seed sown
than he blossoms,
birthed by the bright light
of a brilliant summer sun
and cast forward into the palms
of an old world,
which held him with care
so he was not overrun.

He grows strong in the comfort
of those light dripped days,
limbs sprawling out
across the whole expanse of sky,
longing to breathe in every ray
through tender skin –
never imagining those days
would one day die.

As he grows stronger,
the days begin to shorten,
each imperceptible second
of daylight lost
adding on to a steady stream
of misplaced time,
the breeze hinting the coming
of a killing frost.

The wide-spread, high-stretched arms
of the reverent plant
are first to catch the harsh rays
of frigid sunlight
and he cannot help
but recoil uncertainly,
afraid of the creeping winter wind’s
vicious bite.

His ancient companions
arise dispassionate
at the dawning
of each shivering winter day,
old eyes watching him near death
in cold dirt below,
knowing that to save him
is naught but death delayed.

His outer skin grows strong
under freezing wind and rain,
callused by fierce elements
that cut to the root,
drawing him closer
to his elderly neighbors,
who despite shared time
held him in such low repute.

Rising from the dirt
in steady contradiction,
his soft heart and harsh skin
resonate with the land.
His roots mingle with thousand year roots
of the trees
and his swift bloomed mind
slowly starts to understand.

The summer sun returns
to find him different,
his seed born world shattered
and reformed at the seams
so that when his tempered skin
feels warmth once again,
his young heart will begin
to fathom ancient dreams.

Photo by pure julia on Unsplash

More Than A Stranger [Poem]

When you
visit a new city,
treat it
like home.
Hold it tenderly
and love
all of its
rough edges.
Roam outside
of the usual
tourist traps
and turn
the worn pages
of each
passing street.

Find hidden places
and turn down
chance
side-streets
without warning.
Walk briskly up
escalator
steps.
Glare at those
who
do not.
Grumble at tourists.
Wish you had stayed home.
Experience
the city
as more
than a stranger.

Photo by Kamil Kalkan on Unsplash

Dreams & Nightmares [Poem]

My eyes flicker open
as sunlight peaks its head
through the blinds
and I turn to find
that under covers
and cover of moon
our dreams
filled the room
until it burst
at the seams
And our bodies
were flung apart
by the force
of our dreams.

The pull of shared gravity
draws us slowly
back together
Repairing our fraying edges
in early light
as we cuddle
under sheets,
Our eyes watching
the ceiling
tremble under
the weight of clouds
And the heavy shrouds
of dreams
we don’t remember.

Our gravity has
slowly turned
to something
like necessity
And the breeze
of an impending winter
is becoming our reason.
We squeeze
each other tight
against a backdrop
of falling leaves,
our entwined arms
not comprehending
the season’s brevity.

Our quiet home
could barely contain
the force of
our shared nightmares
And though we rebuilt
these old walls together
to keep us safe,
Plastering narrow hallways
and staining floorboards,
we misjudged the wear
and how soon
we would fall back
into disrepair.

We built
shaky foundations
to hold
our temporary home
and lingered there
until they had
long since
started to crumble.
The nightmares that
shook our walls
and strove
to tear us apart were
far too much
to bear together
and impossible alone.

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

An Artist in Motion [Poem]

You by quiet gallery framed
A work in progress not yet named
By shadows against white walls cast
On your canvas whole worlds amassed

Oh, would that I could comprehend
The way your hues so subtle blend
To form such fine contradictions
Your singular compositions

Framed by crowded canvas lively
Your dancing figure spins lightly
Casting paint across the easel
An image that knows no equal

How long before canvas sitting
My confusion so befitting
When you show me all of your whys
I think them but a deft disguise

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash