Bukowsky’s rain was about money
All soggy but no bread at rain’s end
In van Gogh’s painted yellow light
And rainbow that held God’s smile
At which end , girls were not sure.
For seven days and seven nights
Our rain would go on a roof thatch
That held our young crows captive
Their black almost washed to gray
And the thatch looked a rice field
Sprouting last year’s left over rice.
Why this hail , a silk curtain between
A cloud and sun, winter and summer
When it might spring yellow flowers
In backyard, brittle wings sprouting
Asks a bell in its whistles,its murmur
A side protest at the lack of formality .
Side protests are glossed over by form
And at its lack and spirit,a text rhyme
With no worldly rhythm, a blank verse
Of potential springs with real breeze,
A wind that does not rattle but brings
On a few fine flowers, color of fine silk.
There are no fireworks hid in mango
Throats swollen with rain ,just a few
Green mangos strewn over the yard
Hopelessly nipped in bud by cruel fog.
Mango crop holds no money promise
This year for a cheated mango farmer
With a coil of turban on head to carry
A springload of mangos to the market.