Water is my favorite poem that I’ve written.
The poem was written on a winter’s night in early 2018 at about one in the morning in Washington state. The rain had been coming down, it seemed, for weeks. Darkness came early. It was dark when I went to work, and it was dark when I left work.
In the middle of the night, I woke up, and the sound of rain was extraordinarily strong. I reached over to get my cell phone to check the time, and I started writing this poem in the Notes section of my phone. Sometimes I jot down ideas there, but I’d never written a poem before. I wrote the entire thing, saved it, and went back to bed.
The next morning, I got up, read it while I ate breakfast, and I liked it. I still do. I love its music.
The pelting pitter patter of precipitation
tick tip tip tap
on the rain washed window
during the dreary day
sends me, wends me,
bores me, as no sun can gather.
Another rain washed day:
grey and heavy storms,
forms of rain in sheets,
windy wreaths of rain
spin like cyclones in the lane.
The dreary drops go drip drip drip;
the gutter filling rain
makes slipping hours pass, peculating time
on stealthy phantom feet.
The steady clock goes tick tick tock,
Pock pock pick, pick pick pock.
Seconds sound in time to steady drops of rain
clock pock tick tock;
Seconds sound in tune to rain that nurses earth…
A water song, a sing along:
rivulets of rivers run,
languorous lakes will swell.
A water song with wet world words:
moist monsoon, sea storm squall, great ungainly gales;
sails and masts and levies snap in times of wet travails.
Tap tap tap, tip tip tip.
Ships snapped; sailors dead,
sunk in whirling eddies deep, in whirlpools, fish schools,
entombed in worlds of water,
in a never dreaming, seaweed feeding, never ending, sound unceasing sleep.
Such a sad unnecessary slaughter of superstitious sailors,
star-crossed seafarers, unfortunate mariners,
in scenes both past and present has never been succeeded nor never yet surpassed.
What a word is water; what a world is water!
Drip drip drip,
tick tick tock.
Clocks chime ten,
the dusky hour,
and still the rain pours down:
days and nights, nights and days,
months and months of rain.
The endless drip, the dreary dusk,
the weary walks from work
in incessant rain on ho-hum days,
rain interminable as an hour.