When the rains subside,
they beg to go outside,
and we catch the moment.
Swiftly we walk
along country lanes,
and inhale the freshness
that lays all about –
buried, as it is,
under fallen leaves and twigs.
In Cornwall, twixt the mist and drizzle,
which is something that’s called the Cornish Mizzle;
for, it’s when two like things do meld as one;
that they become a confladum.
In Transylvania, long ago,
there was a thing that joined, just so;
a twilight rising of the mist
known back then as the Transylvania Twist.
“Whatever happened to my Transylvania Twist? spoke Dracula.
Then, he hastened to add, “It is so sorely mist!”
Thus he spoke from his castle keep
when he deemed to arise from his daytime sleep.
Looking out windows,
seeing the pourtentous sky
relieving itself.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #poetry. #poem, #WetWeather, Cornwall, Kernow, Rain, weather
Here comes Tony,
Here comes Heather,
Here they come again;
it’s puzzle weather.
Every time it’s rains,
it’s always the same
here comes Tony,
here comes Heather;
“Have you got a game?
It’s puzzle weather!”
I can see the sun shining,
I feel the raindrops;
so where is my rainbow?
Where?
I look about,
doubt in my heart
that one will be there;
when there should be one there.
Where is my rainbow?
Where?
Or am I just imagining
that when two facts collide
a resulting phenomenon
should be to my side?
Where is my rainbow?
Where?
Oh, where?
For it isn’t there.
April The Twenty-Ninth
arrived with a plomb.
I was a lert;
others were, variously,
a droit, a fraid, or a miable.
Disregarding all that,
April The Twenty-Ninth was,
variously, wet, dry, stormy, calm,
an irritant, a balm,
hot, cold, young, old
and liable to amuse, confuse
and leave us all wondering how and why
a day like this could call itself anything other
than a day of ease…
or bother.
