The exercise:
Your prompt for the day: it's only raining under the trees.
I've had the idea for this running around in the back of my head for quite some time, so it was good to finally find inspiration to get it down. I'd love to hear any critiques you might have - in addition to your takes, of course.
Mine:
The clouds are gone
But the rain keeps on;
But only, you see,
Under the trees!
And every kind
Has a style that's so very refined.
Drooping willow
Drops drips sooooo slow!
It's a short drop
Before they go plop!
The great big oak
Drips drops that croak,
"Hello! Hello!"
As they tumble to the ground below.
But that's not all!
Watch the rain fall
From the tall pines
In zigzag lines!
And the old spruce
Likes to let loose
Green drops so big
They look just like giant falling figs!
The sun does shine,
The view is fine;
But then the wind blows
And there it goes -
Look! Can't you see?
Once more it's raining under the trees!
5 comments:
It might be because I just read something of Archi's, or because I'm half-asleep (most likely both), but something about this struck me as a tad bit surreal... I liked it, personally. Although, I can't offer anything at present, really.
- - - - -
Raining, you say? Well then, get under the tree.
You say it's raining under the tree Why, get out from under there.
What do you mean, you don't want to? If that's the way you want to be, use an umbrella.
You're saying you don't have one? Then why don't you use a towel or something to keep dry?
You don't have anything? Well then, in that case I only see one option: embrace it. Yes, it may be raining under that tree, but you haven't been dressed up, in a field, and with a precarious stack of books, have you? Just roll with it, it makes for a conversation piece later.
- - - - -
I can confidently say that I do know what it's like to be in a fancy dress and sitting in a grassy field next to an insanely precarious stack of books. I did it for some of my senior pictures.
I can also confidently say that this is pretty good proof as to why I usually let my brain turn off at 10-ish, not keep it up until quarter of midnight. Meh.
But, I at least gave you something. That has to count, doesn't it?
It's only raining under the trees
Can you hear the rain?
No, of course you can't.
It's my own private rain, inside my head,
Making my brain wet.
What? No, you're wrong, so wrong,
Wronger than bees' knees.
It's not raining inside your head,
It's only raining under the trees!
No, I think I know my own soggy mind,
It's definitely raining inside my head,
And how can rain under any of your trees?
They're almost all dead.
My trees are special, more special than you!
And if I say they rain then that's what they do!
And if it were raining inside your head,
Your ears would leak and your eyes would turn red.
---------
It's a little silly, but I think it fits the title :) I like yours, Marc, the way the trees are introduced and their types of rain explained. Having walked through trees in the rain before, I can agree with almost all of them!
g2 - yeah, reading Archi's stuff will mess you up. In the best way possible.
It certainly does count, I'd say. I quite liked it, particularly the bit about embracing the rain :)
Greg - that's more that a little silly, I reckon. I approve :)
I was writing mine with the idea that when it's raining, you stand under the trees for respite. But then when the rain stops, the trees continue to drip long after, so you have to avoid them.
Or something like that.
The Day It Rained
It had been dry for months, 'a dry winter', they said.
After last summer's floods, it was almost a relief not to see rain for a while...
until the water tank ran dry.
You go along thinking it can't happen again - all the water restrictions, the tightened tap washers, the catching of shower water into buckets and hauling them outdoors to pour over the crackling, crispy grass - until it starts again. Three months of dry, even in winter, that's all it takes to start the minute timer on the shower again or count the dishes thrice in the dishwasher before daring to switch it on.
Three months...a blink in the eye of a professional yuppie; a lifetime for a three month old baby.
Three months, 'it's time to wash the blankets and pack them away for the summer' you said, but you hold off. Summer has not yet arrived despite the dryness of the ground which belies its true nature...that of an earth parching before your eyes!
Forget those perennials you put in last autumn. You got carried away with the planting, didn't you? Foolish woman. You should have stopped at one punnet or at least put them into plant pots but that garden bed you freshly dug there...? What were you thinking?
Optimism gets at you like that.
Then you woke up one Sunday and your bones ached. Yes, you remember that feeling, although it hasn't happened for a while - not since last summer, actually.
It gave you hope.
You looked outside, casting aside the drapes and gazing - squinting - skyward.
Was that what you thought it was? A wisp of white there, or perhaps grey, there, in the west...?
You'd almost forgotten what they looked like but your bones don't lie. They know rain's a-coming even if your visual sense tells otherwise.
Then, finally, it cracked. A peel of thunder followed an arc of lightning that reached out over the ocean. From behind the hills beyond your home a grey monster loomed, carrying with it good news, despite its ominous, foreboding glow...
Crack! and then...
The rush came...
It didn't just rain, it poured, just like the adage said.
The spouting overflowed, yes, you remember that sound, don't you? Water not escaping quickly enough down the guttering towards the water tank will overflow with the gay abandon of a pagan May Day dance.
The tank filled.
The glass fence you installed in the autumn was cleaned by Nature of its phosphorus deposits left by the parrots roosting on its edge; it fairly gleamed anew when the Sun burst through in its more shining moments.
You breathed in the ozone scent, watched the grass greening up before your eyes, and drew a long, thirst-quenching gulp of precious water from the glass you just poured yourself; no need for champagne in this moment, even if it called for one.
Ten Days of Rain
Sequel to The Day It Rained
Browsing through that hippie crystal gift shop, you bent to turn over a card - you know, one of those Readings of the Day type of things - it read, 'storm'.
'Yeah, right', you thought. 'As if a bit of hard wood pressed pulp painted with a pretty picture of grey swirling clouds would know!' you thought, and idly put it back in the pack. You drove home with confidence...top down on the convertible, sun shining in.
It's easy to forget how recently it had stopped raining when you have a convertible. Any chance of a stray ray of light from yonder high and you rush to de-roof the car, ever the weather optimist.
But no one could call you a weather guru, surely...
You just had time to stow the car in the garage and pack the last of the things in the caravan, but you couldn't ignore the niggling memory of that card.
It was time to hit the road again, this time in the opposite direction.
'It's always sunny up north!' he said. Now who's playing the weather guru?
Twenty clicks up the highway and you got a call. 'It's raining!' the voice warned.
'She'll be right, we're coming anyhow,' answered the optimist, using the Aussie vernacular.
Seven hours later you were being towed up the driveway by a rain drenched farmer in his tractor.
Having got there, and the rain became a storm.
This time with no ocean to arc over, the lightning played its raucous symphony over hills and valley.
The rain drizzled and when it got bored it poured. Into gutters, filling water tanks and plant pots, it continued so into the night.
Next day, the sun tried but failed. The clouds stayed, the wind arose and dried the ground. Until nightfall.
The storm returned with more force. Just when you thought the heavens had dumped their load, more rain came. The caravan canvas was wet. So were the pillows. Your head felt clammy. It wasn't cold, just damp.
Cloying wet.
The days blurred into one.
Towels wouldn't dry. You couldn't dry off well. Clothing felt damp and so did the bedding. Your head felt heavy with it. The sun even lost the struggle. Argh ...no breath of wind to ease the clamminess, either. You thought it would do your head in. You literally ached for an April Day in Cuba, as that old song by Dragon said.
One thought crept in...is this an early start to the rainy season? A hint of what's to come?
You packed up the caravan, damp canvas and all, and headed south again.
'When the sun comes up again...' you hummed to Sophie B. Hawkins singing her chorus on your iPad2 as you drove homeward.
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