Five Rain Poems

 

THE ISLAND

Bobbing atop the prow of our slender boat,

I spy the shadow of a dark green island,

Ill-defined smudge in the misty rain, the sky

Opaque and filmy, snakeskin freshly shed.

Slicing forward, our front beak is whipped

By waves both sides, spray flying about, rude little explosions.

Drenched fireman, shirt glued to my skin, wet bird,

Shivering, I lick my lips, tasting salt.

My flip-flops float in a shallow pool at the bottom.

One of my companions bails out water. Serene,

He must be an angel because he smiles at sharks.

They patrol these waters, grinning at travelers like us,

Fretful, riding wooden planks rattling to a rickety motor.

Beneath us dark green water rushes, shadowy leviathan.

One with the sea, the wind whips up a tempest,

Brows of storm clouds glower, gray veils of rain.

Swiftly landfall approaches, half-moon beach beckoning,

Welcome pie. Solidly, our bow hits the shore,

Bulldozer grinding into raspy grit…leaping off, 

I dig my toes into the sand, an ardent missionary.

 

 

 

 

RAIN

Rain is pushing fingers into the soil, murmuring like winnowing rice. Daylight grays perceptibly.

Water twisting down roof runnels collect in drainpipes shooting bullets at pools expanding rapidly.

Splashing grows louder, runners slapping puddles. Waterfalls spill down steps.

Lightning jabs his blade, lunging at the ground. Thunder loudly slings his whip. Cloud cohorts rumble a war cry.

Rapids swiftly forming in the streets transport dead leaves navigating rudderless around stones and branches.

Rain hammers the roof, rattling construction site. Springing, a leak begins a steady countdown.

Chaos invades the sky, clouds battling the wind. Dislodged by strong gusts, a rain gutter swings wildly, banging repeatedly against the wall.

Water rises all around—canals and rivers surge as dams spew forth streams. One side, the ceiling drips, a coffee percolator.

Electricity goes dead. Whirring fans wane into lifelessness. Hush joins hands with dread. We can only sit and wait in darkness.

 

 

TAG-ULAN

   

Earth dwells in a tent, suffused in light weakly estranged from darkness.

The lowering sky is a mordant mangkukulam, invisible. He eyeballs anxious passersby chary of tripping bolts of black magic.

Moisture wafting from the soil lingers indefinably like fine confection melting between the teeth.

The wind rises and falls. Stillness settles into a corner, waiting, a dog curling opposite the front door.

Expectancy is a recurring dream—pregnant storm clouds, the space between breaths, promise of a child, the moment before crossing over, hope that rises to heaven.

When the rain arrives, it bursts into flames.

The spectacle is electrifying: a flash flood, a sprinter bounding forward, a dog barking excitedly.

 

 

 

MELANCHOLY

The words of a rainy day

Drift incessantly, sighing.

Clouds wander about, homeless.

Soughing water vanishes.

The earth melts, insensate.

Shiny rocks rise in assembly.

Silence bends a strong arm.

Belief sits, quiet as bread.

 

 

MONSOON RETREAT

We waken to a musical world—

Rainwater pigtails

Spiraling downward,

Bright choral after a storm;

Tiny gales, whistling ghosts;

Birds warbling a capella,

Spherical notes sliding down

Sides of a glass of ice water.

For Lilia Tantoco

 

Shopping

  

SHOPPING

 To my mother

 

The time to purchase fresh clothes is before winter begins.

We ride a limousine sitting as if on a sofa inside an air conditioned vault.

Our destination is a department store with imported goods from China.

Stepping outside the car, we are greeted by the sea salt breeze of Hong Kong harbor and steamy gusts from roasting chestnuts.

Inside the store waft the pungent aromas of strange brown herbs and dried fruits.

We inspect the rows of sweaters tossed into piles, shirts neatly pressed inside sealed plastic,

Hanging lines of sweetly scented leather belts, and immaculate underwear shining like the moon.

Surly Cantonese salesladies step forward to help you only if they are asked.

Tugging out a sweater from a pile, you say, “This one will fit you.”

Measuring it across my shoulders, “You like it?”

Yes, I like it, this roll of thick fragrant wool dyed with mountains and valleys.

Swinging it inside the crisp folds of a shiny red plastic bag, I carry it home.

Inside my bedroom, I hold it balled up to my nose.

Burrowing inside my blanket, I dream of a verdant garden path chilled by mountaintop winds.

 

 

 

Star Ferry, Hong Kong