Rain
I felt like walking in the rain,
_Can’t say exactly why.
I make great efforts in the main
_To stay completely dry.
But once you’re wet it feels just fine
_So you can stroll or chat,
No more a worry than sunshine.
_Most fears are much like that.
The Golden Child
The oldest son was subject to
_Near daily denigration,
The youngest son, meanwhile, enjoyed
_Near total approbation.
The disapproval dished out to
_The oldest wasn’t mild,
The youngest, on the other hand,
_Was deemed the Golden Child.
As time marched on the oldest was
_An unforeseen success,
The youngest struggled though, in ways
_Which no one could have guessed.
The oldest, always humble, just
_Gave thanks for what he had,
The youngest grew in jealousy,
_His gold had dulled a tad.
Observers see the oldest’s life
_With all the joys he savors,
And say the parents did not do
_The youngest any favors.
Good After Bad
Oftentimes I’ll have some memory,
Of a stupid thing I chose to say,
Then the only thought that comforts me,
Is I would not be so dumb today.
Russel Winick started writing poetry after ending a long legal career. He resides in Naperville, Illinois.
As a lover of rain, I do so need it, Russell. We’ve had a 3 month drought and it’s killing us. It squeezed a poem out in pain :
THIRST, by Eugenio Cappuccio
Each sun blasts its blinding light from each sunrise,
a torch passed to broiling sunset,
each sun after sun after sun, and fries
us sick, week after week, relentless jet
of flames in the blanched sky’s arid abyss,
while the monthly Web forecast depicts this
as chains of sun discs grilling us all in it.
Lone clouds might provoke a sigh,
like ice cream scoops that melt on the sky’s skillet.
My tears are spent and our rivers run dry,
ghostly trees dust up with Saharan sands, our dry land cracked as our faces and hands…
I would have preferred ice floods to this hellfire
for the final apocalypse.
Since you left, days evaporate like years,
your absence roasts me dry, a drought-cursed lapse ;
nothing like love’s thirst to cook us insane
and no miracle like rain
Thanks! The three poems are cute, hilarious, and wise…..
here’s a limerick from Vancouver Island in 1976 that’s sort of the flip side of rain:
The rain in Tofino comes down
With a terribly regular sound.
I got up one day
In my regular way,
stepped out of the doorway & drowned.