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Pitter Patter (Susan's competition.)

Poetry By: PaulChafer
Poetry



The style inspired by the poetry of Anna and Suzanne that I read during the morning, a poem reflecting a view of a storm from the memory of my youth and also casting my mind forward into the future. I have repeated certain lines within each poem to establish a connection, just changed the emotional content. 140 words in each poem offering some balance in the irregular format.


Submitted:Jan 17, 2010    Reads: 144    Comments: 14    Likes: 7   


Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.

adoring the rain

in the quiet of the night.

Wind trifling with the willows,

playfully swishing their leafy skirts,

nature's dalliance, sentient,

flirting, a kindness of wet kisses,

a crescendo of utter bliss.

Rising, rising, until I am lost,

wreathed in the storm's jubilant glory,

unfulfilled yearning of unexplored youth

skipping, twirling through thoughts,

aching to dance in the downpour, alive

becoming wind blown; free from fear,

A magical splicing, sensual imagery of

bright brilliant colours unleashed, feelings

of sheer bliss, skin tingling, almost mind blowing.

A rhythmic tattoo, soothing the soul,

a flash of lightning clarity,

I was part of the storm, bonded, forever entangled.

Winter morning's freshness shines against the glass

Of my bedroom window; offering welcome.

I laugh, just laugh with joy at nature's beauty.

Lingering rain droplets splash upon my window sill

Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.

2

Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.

Rain upon my window-sill

during the dark early hours.

Wind lashing viciously under the eaves

like a malevolent, sentient,

incorporeal force of untold power,

the collision of my thoughts

building to a crescendo.

Rising, rising, until previously

unconnected tangles of memory

(leastways, those that had avoided slippage)

knitted together, forming a twisting,

helix-spiral spinning within my mind, a slow,

rhythmic, ballet of whirling aesthetic imagery.

The twirling dance allowing me to visualise,

in such, bright, brilliant colour,

every storm I had ever witnessed.

I then knew with sudden certainty,

a flash of lightning clarity,

I was reliving the same storm, over and over again.

Winter morning's chill prowls against the glass

of my bedroom window; seeking admittance.

I could hear it laughing under the eaves: laughing!

Then the reality of the rain fell upon my window-sill.

Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.





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