Walking has a rhythm, the gortex rain jacket crunching against my shorts, follows that beat, in a crunching-swish way, and the streams of water--falling, falling, falling from the clouds-sky, from the tree-branches-needles-leaves, hitting my head, my arms, my dog, my legs, the ground.
But what do I see? I see the streams of water—falling, falling, falling onto the surface of the ponds and splashing, bouncing back, makes me think of music, drums, a piano. Rhythm. The challenge, wrap up that memory, soak it, turn it, tweak it—put it into words that move, that make you feel the music, the beat, the staccato, the mambo, the splash-dance of waterplay across a still surface, a surface that yields, in explosive sprays. How to trap this wonder, let loose my muse and paint with words, just the right words, that put you into this moment, this raincoat, with me while the rain falls, falls, falls while the clouds thunder and laugh at my feeble attempts to capture magic with words.
I was recently asked about writing prose--always been intrigued, but never tried--so here it is my first attempt. I think. Brooke Horvath's poem “Definition” says a prose poem should be...”not too short and not too long, somewhere between a snort and a song.” I think I snorted.
Written for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United poetryblogroll.blogspot.com