Something About Rain

My first kiss was in the rain.
Or at least, that’s what I tell people.
It definitely beats the story of his second-hand couch upstairs, with Transformers playing in the background.
It was raining the first time I said, “I love you.”
It was raining.
We were just inside at the time.
It was just starting to rain when I said, “Goodbye.”
Not “Goodbye” as in, “Catch ya later!” or “See you around.”
A real, rock-solid, never-going-to-see-you-again Goodbye.
It was drizzling.
I remember being frustrated because the sky couldn’t even match what my eyes were producing.

There’s something about rain that makes memories.
You’re more likely to remember the game you won by sliding through the mud for that last goal, home run, touchdown, whatever.
My mom remembers the years by, ‘That’s the year it almost flooded,” and “That’s the year everything died.  No rain at all.”
Nobody remembers the wedding when the sun was shining perfectly.
But there will always be that one backyard ceremony where,
against all odds,
it started pouring down right after the “I do”s.
Everyone ran inside, holding programs over their heads.
The bride’s dress was completely ruined, but she was laughing,
because all she could think about was the grin on his face when they were pronounced “man and wife.”

It may have something to do with how it just happens.
You wake up one morning thinking it’s just another day, but oh,
it’s raining!
It’s a pain because you still haven’t bought those rain boots you’ve been eyeing at Target,
and none of your school bags are actually water-proof,
but somehow,
it usually all works itself out anyway.
It’s kind of like—the world can be totally wrong, absolutely chaotic,
but then it rains.
When everything is failing,
when you just need something to keep on going,
there it is.
There’s always one thing that can just take care of itself.

Of course, I may simply be biased because I get so much inspiration when it’s raining.
And after all,
my first real kiss was in the rain.

Orgullo

This poem I wrote for my Creative Writing class is about people in America that celebrate their culture from other countries.  Specifically, Mexican-American.

Orgullo

She flips her long black pelo forward

and brushes it nice and suave.

Two studs and one hoop in each ear,

todos de oro, and gifts from her novio.

Un crucifijo hangs from her neck,

marking her a Católica.

Everything else about ella

screaming her Mexicana American

pride.

orgullo – pride

pelo – hair

suave – smooth

todos – all

de oro – gold

novio – boyfriend

un crucifijo – a crucifix

ella – her

Mexicana – Mexican girl

Pantoum - Light in my Kitchen

Would you believe it?  This creative writing class has prompted me to write another poem that I like.


The light is better in the kitchen
Though it faces south
I could read in here for hours
And pretend that I’m alone.

Though it faces south
I can see the empty windows
And pretend that I’m alone
Sitting here at my table.

I can see the empty windows,
Once so full of life.
Sitting here at my table,
It’s empty here, too.

Once so full of life,
The courtyard’s tree is bare.
It’s empty here, too.
There’s no one left to care.

The courtyard’s tree is bare
It’s been a long time since it snowed.
There’s no one left to care
Spring is almost here.

It’s been a long time since it snowed.
I like to sit beneath the window.
Spring is almost here
The colors will be returning soon.

I like to sit beneath the window.
The light is better in the kitchen.
The colors will be returning soon,
I could read in here for hours.

Robert Frost

I'm not really a big fan of poetry.  A lot of it is just lost on me, because I don't understand obscure metaphors right off the bat like everyone else seems to.  However, every now and then I fall across a poem I can appreciate, even come to love.  This is one of those poems.  One day I hope to have it memorized. :)

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

Thunderstorm Poem

I was thinking about this when I was writing for my Creative Writing class.  And, somehow, I ended up writing poetry.

"Texas Thunderstorm"
There really isn’t anything
like a Texas thunderstorm.
Before anything,
the smell skips ahead,
and you know without a doubt
that your arthritic grandmother
was right
about the coming rain.


Everything
changes colors.
A little tinge of green
permeates your surroundings
and gives hue to even the deadest,
longest summer grass
you’ve ever seen.


Your daddy reminds you that a
hint of yellow colorin’
(not green like everybody thinks)
means a twister’s on the way,
so keep yer eyes peeled.
And momma tells you
about that day, when she was
driving you home from the hospital
by herself
and it came up a hurricane,
nearly sweepin’ her off the road.


It can come up from outta nowhere.
Big, angry clouds, ready for
a release.
Sometimes a two-minute warning
is all you’re going to get
before it just pours down
on top of your head
and your car
that you finally decided was time to wash
yesterday.


Sometimes it falls hard enough
to pull the petals off of
momma’s flowers.
If it really gets goin’,
the wind makes the trees dance around.
Scary,
but completely mesmerizing
at the same time.


The music swells with the
tittering and smattering of the drops
on the porch and roof,
and the big bass of the thunder
ranging from the little timpani’s
to the house-shaking, momma-scaring
booms that you can feel all the way down to your
bones.


It’s an uneven rhythm,
an unpredictable kind of song,
but rain’s beautiful however you play it,
and nobody plays it
like Texas does.