Photo Credit –

In Buffalo, we’ve been inundated with heavy downpours, so this prompt is simple. Write a rain poem. They say April showers bring May flowers. My daughter is getting married at the end of May and will be needing the blooms. Combine any of the above to write your piece. Rain, April/May, Flowers, Beautiful Brides (Yes, I am biased! – Walt)


Tap spring patter step
Raindrops on a tin roof stage
Gratis performance

© Copyright Marie Elena Good – 2013


(Thanks to Keith Good for the audio/video clip.)



Bleacher seats along the third base line,
which are fine when the sun shines.
But an April start has us darting for cover.
Baseball lovers with slickers and gloves
watching the grounds crew wrap the infield;
tarps unrolled and the old game takes another hit.
We didn’t sit for very long before the strong
downpour had begun. The only run was for the exit.
Rain check in tow; we’ll give it a go tomorrow.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

In keeping with the “Rain” theme, I’ve always thought this was pretty amazing:

A Chorus that recreates “Rain”RainChorus

349 thoughts on “APRIL SHOWERS! – PROMPT #103

  1. Good ones from both of you. Good prompt to appropriate time of year, especially with so many storms marching across the land.

    Today, it started as rain; thundered as it ought before becoming snow, rush on high winds from both south and north, ‘il finally it pushed away for a spate of dry skies. Now closing on that midnight hour, snow falls again to silence a world unsure of spring.’

    • Clauds, your response is so poetic, I think it should count as poetry itself. Nothing unusual for you … not only is your heart poetic, but your brain speaks the language.

      ❤ Marie Elena

      • Oh, thank you, Jane. I have moments when that’s simply the writing that comes out, in comments, suggestions, and all sorts of places. I sometimes think that Muse shoves me aside, takes over, and then leaves me to ponder the ease with which she’s done her work.

        I’m glad you liked it so much.

    • Clauds,
      I thought the exact same thing…your paragraph swept up my mind as I read through it and I found myself feeling that ‘poetic quenching’ that I sense when refreshing words become a satisfying drink of joy.

      • Oh, my. Thank you so much, Seven. Such words of praise leave me breathless, without knowing how to respond, except with a “thank you.”

  2. Maybe April is more crazy than cruel. Great poems from both of you guys.


    A streak of yellow sky laid under
    blue-black clouds, distant thunder,
    and high wind bodes a reckoning.

    Whatever tender plant or flower
    newly born but for an hour
    faces a beating April sting.

    Old women learn to read such skies
    like three-day bruises, alibis
    for mischief loosed across the earth.

    They think to harbor things they love
    from hail and downpours from above,
    knowing the scars from one outburst

    can wreck a garden’s trust in good.
    Old women know it’s understood
    that heaven will have its way below.

    Whatever power we think we own
    is blasted by skies hard as stone.
    We’re humbled by what we can’t know.

    Bullying clouds with angry fists
    prove some old women optimists
    searching for rainbows wrapped in blue.

    Old women know that broken plants
    survive the direst circumstance.
    Storms break, and sun shines through.

  3. Heaven Itself Weeps

    I stand here,
    In the midst of turmoil,
    Chaos, suffering,
    I stand here
    In this clearing;
    The sky is dark
    And forbidding;
    The very clouds are swollen
    With unshed tears,
    To match my own;
    I stand here, eyes shut,
    And lift my face to heaven,
    And feel the liquid crystal fall,
    And feel the cleansing diamonds
    Drenching my hair,
    Soaking into my pores,
    Refreshing my soul;
    I’m not afraid to let the tears fall now,
    Heaven itself weeps
    For the suffering in this world;
    Why shouldn’t I?

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

    • Yes… my congratulations on your daughter’s upcoming wedding, Walt… it must be very bittersweet…

  4. Good one Mama Good!
    Walt, you knew I’d like this one 🙂

    I going to be cheeky and steal an inch of space for promotion!! i am still taking poems for my guest podcast series this summer, until April 30. 3-5 poems any topic, any form, any length – anything you’d like me to read to iain.poet@gmail.com Broadcasts will start end of June.
    Don’t be shy!! Thanks 😀

  5. April, where are you?

    An April shower starts a spring day
    showers turn to sunshine
    laughter and smiles
    Friday’s joy in the blossom blessed avenues
    school passes as it should
    lightly, happily, welcoming the weekend
    no signs of angst
    neither pimples nor pouts
    the 14 year old heart is full of love
    the teenage mind is full of anticipation
    and saying see ya later to friends
    a whistling, carefree walk home begins…

    …no showers now
    dark clouds and thunder
    lightning strikes the family hearts
    terror and fear
    uncontrollable tears
    the walk was cut short
    the whistle has been stifled
    a van was sighted
    a man was seen
    confusion reigns
    police officer’s words echoing
    reverberating in non-comprehension
    and all that can be said
    all that can be thought
    is sobbed repeatedly
    April, where are you?

    I thought long and hard about whether it was appropriate to post this – and in the end I decided it was imperative. 14 year old April Bosdell was apparently abducted in Mesa, Az. on Friday (?). I know nothing of the details – my words are just that. If anyone lives in Mesa or Az. and sees her or hears/knows anything the Mesa P.D. number is 480-644-2211. Here is a link to her photo.

    I’m sorry if this not the right place for this or if perhaps I shouldn’t have poemed about it but I am in Spain & can do nothing else to help.

    Thank you ❤


  6. Marie – love the “tap dancing) poem and the audio/video. Who couldn’t love falling asleep to that tune?

    Walt, clever poem. I laughed at “The only run was for the exit.”

    • We love the Hocking Hills, Debi, and try to get down there for a few days away at least once (twice if we can) per year. This rain welcomed us in spring of 2010.

      Marie Elena

  7. This also goes with today’s Sonnet prompt at Poetic Asides PAD prompt.

    Spring Cleaning

    Soft clean rain freshens up the air
    birds are whistling without a care
    throw the dusty windows wide
    let the warm breeze inside
    the temperatures rise like the hem-lines
    grapes start growing on the vines
    neck-lines fall in spite of showers
    the clocks confuse, changing hours
    love takes a young man’s fancy
    a young girl’s heart gets romancey
    Mother Nature is cleaning house
    from the forest to the humble mouse
    breathe deep of her blessed aroma
    the winter, at last, is over



    First rains
    Had stopped,
    Somehow drifted
    Back up the black sky
    And hid their wet faces
    In that white fluffy blanket
    Stretched across the cloudy heavens,
    From whom would we have learned to cry?


  9. Quenched
    (in Tanka form)

    Hairline cracks widen
    Hot sun relentlessly beats
    Awaiting relief
    Relief delayed by the day
    Prolonging the pain of want

    Clouds form overhead
    Gathering close together
    Rises as the cracked earth smiles
    Brown grass rises from the dead

    The cool of the air
    A signal of what’s to come
    Thirst quenching rain
    Sent from a Heavenly God
    To revitalize His earth

  10. I wrote this several years ago, but it applies again this year, sadly–all the buds and baby leaves on our crab apples and forsythia and lilacs were frozen, dead and brown. Sigh…

    Rain… Rain

    Relentlessly the icy rain swoops down.
    The sodden earth, refusing, cries “No more!
    Have pity on your prey. I weep; I drown.
    Please show me now your mercy, I implore.”
    New blossoms break; brave daffodils are bent,
    Their sunny faces pressed into the mud.
    Sweet pansies shredded, cheerful petals rent;
    The apple trees now mourn each frozen bud.
    But rain beats wings against the wintry gale
    And stretches talons, needle-sharp and cruel.
    We find no refuge from her keening wail
    Nor have we any respite from her rule
    ‘Til sun, her master, calls and she obeys.
    Now hooded, tamed, she broods on stormy days.

    Caressing, soft, the gentle rain creeps down,
    Now purring figure eights around our feet
    And nuzzling cheeks. The shadblow dons her gown
    While patient tulips wait, their petals neat.
    Narcissi bow, so graceful, heads now weighed
    By raindrops beading there like short-lived pearls,
    And grasses wear a shine on ev’ry blade.
    The glad earth drinks; the peony unfurls,
    And rain comes dancing, watching flowers preen.
    A playful tickle from her whiskers, then
    She’s hiding and emerging, seen, unseen,
    And running catlike over field and fen,
    She’s gone. The sun emerges, but with cause
    To be suspicious: kittens have their claws!

  11. But here’s a little new one, for children:


    Rain slithers
    like a lizard
    down the windowpane.
    Shiny tracks
    slide forth and back—
    How I love the rain!

  12. Here you go, folks, a memory from the past.

    The Rain Dance

    Waves of heat rose from parched earth,
    Shimmering, undulating with each breath
    Of air’s movement, relentless throughout day’s
    Light and moon’s dark.

    In or out, children complained to mother, who
    Tired and became cranky from listening to laments,
    Until that day came at summer’s height to bring
    Relief for all who had need.

    Lightning flashed and thunder roared from skies
    Leaden and looming, proclaimed Thor’s presence
    And surcease for those who’d persevered through
    Scorching weeks and melting reserve.

    Storm hit with hammer blows of drops sized to
    Hurt those beneath the rain of ice balls before
    Its drenching reprieve pummeled grasses too
    Brittle to withstand nourishment.

    Ah, but children fear not droplets that wet
    The skin and cool the blood, that puddles for
    Splashing in grass and washes away discontent
    As easily as soap does stains.

    Joyous abandon, leaping to squeals, sound
    Within torrents of liquid sunshine—a rain dance.

  13. Spring rain
    Polka dots the
    Sidewalk in splotches of
    Dark grey. I get a piece of chalk
    To play connect the dots and see what the
    Rain has to say. But the sun came
    Out and dried up all the
    splotches of grey
    Spring rain.

  14. Rainsong

    The cats go running from the room
    when first they hear the plop of rain,
    accompanied with loud varoom
    of thunder echoing again.

    They like the sunroom filled with light,
    sun beams caressing belly fur,
    but tin roofs magnify their fright
    at sounds too big for meow or purr.

    I let them flee; I meditate
    on sheets of rain swept by the wind,
    on treetops nodding, skies of slate,
    on flowers only rain can send.

    I like the timpani, the clash
    of heaven’s cymbals, forks of fire;
    I like the subtle terror’s flash
    across the smallness of desire.

    Some storms are bluster, posturers—
    more sound than rain, more talk than do.
    I like the soakers, drenchers, pure
    sweet puddle-making storms, don’t you?

  15. Enjoying all the verses on rain, especially after a parched summer. I took a step toward the wedding/beautiful bride side of the prompt.

    Walt – Congratulations and best of all wishes on your daughter’s wedding.

    Canon D

    By David De Jong

    It was just the first rehearsal,
    A wedding, elegant, simple.
    My little girl that graced my knee,
    I had to practice setting free.

    She was the oldest of three girls,
    Sweet voices and silken, blond curls.
    I always knew this day would come,
    How she would find that special one.

    He spoke to me, asked my blessing,
    All the while, his love confessing.
    I gave my father’s wave of grace.
    To let this young man take my place.

    All these thoughts, scrambling my brain,
    Trying to focus, church glass pane.
    We take our places, wait our queues,
    Looking across, old wooden pews.

    Music started, she held my arm,
    We took our steps, a night so warm.
    The isle was short, the walk was long,
    My heart raced every note of song.

    I glanced, saw a tear pass her cheek,
    Each step taken my knees grew weak.
    I dropped a tear, she seen it fall,
    As our eyes spoke, they could not stall.

    The more we walked, the more we cried,
    And we couldn’t stop, though we tried.
    Reaching the pulpit and the groom,
    Our tears were heard, back of the room.

    When asked; “Who gives this bride away?”
    My salted tongue no words could say.
    After a bit, composure came,
    My lips quivered, giving her name.

    Many years, since that day was spent,
    Swiftly gone, but with merriment.
    We laugh, cherish, this memory,
    A tear still comes – with Canon D.

  16. The Wedding

    At morn, aglow with rosy blush-ablaze,
    appears the dainty bride; a powdered fey.
    She carries fairy dewdrop storms; a maze
    that soars o’er dancing flowers blissful play.

    Her sparkling gown sends light to kiss the face
    of groom who grows beneath the shadows low.
    He’ll bloom a brilliant hue; a purple grace;
    as lifted is the veil where he will glow.

    The moon has slipped away beyond the night
    as early beams entrance the wedding guests;
    they turn their heads to greet the waltzing light
    that warms the periwinkle’s silken vest.

    Triumphant march of morn has wedded day;
    A golden coronet adorns her way.

  17. Clear Spring Day, Tho’ Raining On Sunday

    have gone…their
    new home awaits

  18. Spring Dance

    A hidden wooded valley in the east,
    A child awaits the first sweet signs of spring.
    Some yellow buttercups and, not the least,
    Pale purple violets that raindrops bring.

    Ten thousand fairies tap dance on the roof.
    Sweet scented breeze breathes life and makes her sing.
    The rain pours down its unrelenting proof
    That spring is here with all life raindrops bring.

    The dancing rain becomes her childhood friend.
    It greets her while she sits on her porch swing.
    And when the lightning and thunder storm end,
    She skips about in puddles raindrops bring.

    But in the mountain desert brisk winds blow,
    Spring showers she now meets are likely snow.

  19. Muddy Water

    By David De Jong

    Rain drops, gum drops, pollywog pools,
    Children’s wishes walking to school.
    Puddles, splashes, new galoshes,
    Oh the fun, of muddy washes!

    Pick up a stick, pick up a ball,
    The swampy yard, beckons its call.
    Please, oh please! Oh dear mother please!
    I’m begging, down here on my knees!

    Don’t tell father, I wore his coat,
    Jumping over, my castle moat.
    I used a pole, to jump the creek
    But landed flat, upon my cheek

    I fear my pain and mud smeared stance,
    Will get a lick across my pants.
    I got the thought, list’ning to dad,
    How he poled canals, as a lad.

  20. Forecast

    “A poet is someone who stands outside in the rain hoping to be struck by lightning.” ~James Dickey

    Brilliant ideas, like flashes of light
    hide in recesses of the poet’s brain.
    With a pen in hand, we scribble, we write,
    as thoughts, words and phrases stream down like rain.
    I am a cistern. I collect droplets
    and translate them into a collection
    of prose and poetry which are portraits:
    they’re drawn as a watery reflection,
    but unlike Narcissus, I do not drown
    as I stare at the beauty before me.
    I wait for lightning, I wait for rain. Brown
    mud and blue lakes appear protectively.
    I am a poet, so I’ll stand outside
    and wait for the rain ‘til it has replied.


  21. Pingback: Death Then Life | echoes from the silence

  22. It Rained That Day

    It rained that day,
    I’m pretty sure;
    April was almost over,
    May was fast approaching,
    And it rained that day.

    I wanted to run away,
    To crawl into a hole
    And never come out;
    To wash away the grief
    With salt water: rain and tears.

    My heart was breaking;
    I couldn’t bear
    To see the tears in my dad’s eyes
    As he told me;
    Yes, it rained that day.

    But was it rain?
    Or was the whole earth gray and blurred
    From my countless tears?
    Or did it really rain?
    I’ll never know…

    I can’t recall,
    The memories blurred…

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  23. going through tunnel
    we cannot see Devil’s Slide-
    also no rain now

    / / /

    the sky is clear blue-
    off the ocean a strong wind-
    rain is on the way

    / / /

    mist blown from the sea
    by the constant onshore winds-
    rain on my windshield

  24. Meg, I Loved your clip! Walt, yours brought to mind, this morning, my SF Giants’ Win last night; tho’ I fell asleep at the tie, and awoke to the win… bummer….

      • … Hee, hee… yeah… there will be days (seasons) like that, my friend… but we fans have to go with the flow of both wins and losses… :D!!

  25. Pingback: spring awakening | Noirisms

  26. Winter’s Long Siege

    April rain
    gently brings forth
    blooming May flowers, green grass
    and puts a smile on my face to rival the bright light of the sunshine –
    but all I have is

  27. Again, great poems. What a treasure to have access to all of these minds and hearts.
    Here’s my effort. (We poured out about 3 1/2 inches (over 1 1/2 days) just last week. Yard is soppin’ wet. But I’ll not complain.)

    Rain Gauge

    We all measure
    our troubles
    by inch and
    by flood,
    by our tears,
    by our sweat,
    by each drop of blood.

    So let’s measure
    our joys by
    each color
    and hue,
    every bud
    and bright petal,
    green frond and leaf, too.

    Let’s count up all
    the flowers
    that dance with
    the breeze,
    and add notes
    from bird songs to
    the smiles of the bees.

    So the total
    and sum of
    our days will
    be fine,
    come gray day-long sad rains,
    or beam-bright days of shine.


    A drip and a drop

    the rain goes plop,

    splashing atop of

    green leaves.

    A drip and a drop

    the rain doesn’t stop,

    green leaves give

    thanks as it receives.

  29. I Would Truly Be Happy…

    When I think about it,
    I really am so blessed;
    Raindrops may depress,
    And even sicken me at times;
    But then I think
    Of all those people
    Who never, or hardly ever,
    Witness this miracle,
    The miracle of rain,
    Of tears from heaven,
    Who never feel the joy,
    And the sorrow,
    Of heaven’s tears falling
    On the green, green earth.
    Then I thank God for His blessings,
    And I pray, or rather wish,
    That I could send some rain
    Their way…

    …if only I could send the tears
    Of the skies to those people,
    I would truly be happy…

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

    • Erin, at first this seems like a simple wish… but the situation is indeed so complicated, fraught with human greed and our inability to share resources with those in true need… while we blithely fill our pools. Thanks for food for thought. Amy

    • This is so sweet. Love the progression in this. You started with raindrops may depress. Then you realized that others would enjoy the miracle of tears of heaven sending them to others for their enjoyment! Splendid and well done. Keeping enjoying those tears!

    • Erin, you do send joys–in the tears of heaven–to others with your words. Once written, they’re there forever…and you can’t imagine now where these poems you’ve penned will go.
      I am often moved, startled, awed by something someone wrote sometime somewhere, who never knew they’d be sharing and giving to me through their words.
      This is the wonder of our shared writing. It’s written, it’s shared, and by virtue of the winds and clouds of all our lives, given.

      • Thank you so much, Damon!! You do write so wonderfully, even in the comments you leave to people. I expected no less from you, you are such a kind person. Thanks again. 🙂

  30. Pingback: Half a Rainstorm is Better Than None (Bermuda) | Sharp Little Pencil - Amy Barlow Liberatore

  31. As it says in the preamble on my blog, this was written hours before we watched the tragedy in Boston unfold. For full comments, please visit my blog, http://sharplittlepencil.com/2013/04/15/half-a-rainstorm-is-better-than-none-bermuda/

    Here’s the poem part. A fond memory.

    Half a Rainstorm is Better Than None (Bermuda, 1987)

    Favorite haunt in Hamilton.
    A day-off treat, strong coffee
    dense shortbread, and
    small talk with a friend.

    Sky darkens, pavement is
    wet across the way.
    We emerge, fully
    expecting immersion.

    Yet we’re on the “sunny side of the street.”
    Rain spatters cobblestones in
    a literal line drawn down the lane.
    A meteorological DMZ.

    Island storms are that specific.
    I pass my hand into the storm and
    pull it out again; palm to fingers, drenched.
    It dries in the sun as we ponder miracles.

    © 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

    I still remember that day. I had never seen the “edge of the storm,” nor did I know the concept existed. I’m not even sure Riley believes me! (“Whacky mom stories,” like meeting Bob Dylan and realizing he has zero charisma… or that my right ankle is thick because of an unfortunate intersection of tequila, Quaaludes, and hopscotch.)

    • Rain spatters cobblestones, Yes! Love the imagery here.

      It first sounds objective then becomes subjective with ” I pass my hand into the storm and
      pull it out again; palm to fingers, drenched.
      It dries in the sun as we ponder miracles.”


      • Wow… I have never thought about “the edge of the storm”… I am going to Love thinking about that!! (And thank you, again, Amy, for the smile re: “Whacky mom stories”! 🙂 !!

  32. RAIN ON ME

    Dear Lord,

    Rain on me,

    and cause the growth

    that you seek.


    thorn, thistle

    the hidden rocks


    Soften me,

    make my heart

    the good earth

    of fertile ground.

    That others

    would enjoy the

    rich harvest of

    gold, silver, and precious stone.


    Dear heavens,

    We incite you to love

    and good works under oath.

    We covet your tears

    throughout the years

    Come now,

    embark on stunted growth.

    last one! have to go to sleep! Can’t stop! Help!

  34. Three Years Without Rain

    A dark cloud in the sky,
    A breathless crowd awaiting,
    Hushed; finally, after three years,
    The heavens were open,
    Rain poured down from above,
    Healing the parched earth
    With its gentle kiss.
    The prophet Elijah had foretold
    Three years without rain
    For the wickedness of Israel.
    And on that fateful day
    At Mt. Carmel, he showed the people
    Who is the real God,
    The living God;
    And Ahab’s priests,
    The priests of Baal,
    Their fanatical praying was put to nothing,
    Their idol broke, their own lives taken;
    Three years without rain,
    It came down to this:
    Elijah prayed, God opened heaven:
    A dark cloud over the sea,
    And gentle, healing rain.
    There is no god like our God,
    How wonderful are His works!

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  35. City Rain

    All day rain
    Beginning in darkness
    Without a sunrise only darkness turning
    Into a dull gray.

    By the dimmed streetlights
    Fine mist of drizzle
    People with heads bowed down
    Into umbrellas, hoodies,
    Hurrying through – don’t get wet-

    Puddles growing
    By street curbs, parking lots
    Wet car keys,. Wet cars
    Windshield wipers hurry, hurry
    Brush away the droplets
    We need to see

    Leaves uncurling
    Lawns refreshing
    Already green is creeping in
    Where before our world was brown
    Now everything is refreshed,
    Trash, garbage floating away
    Streets and sidewalks clean again
    By this day of rain.

  36. Cold Dust and Crystal

    Like cold dust, on flowers below them they’re falling,
    And sprink’ling the petals with droplets of crystal;
    Like teardrops from heaven, the blossoms they’re drenching,
    And faces upturned in glad praise to their Maker.

    In silver and mist, the green grass they’re bedecking;
    Drenching and drowning, then they’re washing anew,
    Torrents of tiny, clear droplets of purity,
    Falling from grey clouds held fast in storm sky,

    Splishing and splashing and quietly pattering,
    Delving a pattern in smooth, placid waters,
    Dancing and rippling, silvery shimmering,
    Lost in the storm of a fast-flowing river.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013


    Walking through walls of silver beads strung on Spring-time
    Leaving kitten footprints light as the ones left in angel-dust
    The scent in the air – what is that anyhow – freesia? lilac?
    Or is it just the fresh-washed earth smell that’s forgotten
    Over a long winter, every spring, it’s so new, a re-acquaintanceship
    Has to take place – Mother Nature wakes all her sleepy denizens
    Wafts heather, flowers from heaven, violets – forget-me-nots
    Underneath windows, noses if she can steal close enough …
    Plumps clouds like pillows, forcing new freshets of downpours
    To fall in sheets like filaments of finest thread-count bedding
    All the world’s washed clean and Mother, she’s blessed, she is.

  38. I’m hoping to get back here and comment but fear that won’t be happening …much as I’m loving this Pulitzer project, it’s kicking the sh** out of me…did I hear a rumour that Sir Walter is walking a bride down the aisle this weekend? Or has that already happened? I hope there will be photos…

  39. “no song of spring”

    I cannot find
    the rhythm of this rain,
    it is no song of spring

    it hisses off of
    these dried leaves
    collected by the house
    in a corner
    which refuses to give up on fall

    but these leaves
    have none of the suppleness
    of the newly fallen,
    they are frail and brittle
    and collapse under this expectation
    returning, finally
    to the soil
    beginning anew

    it is no song of spring
    which refuses to give up on fall
    beginning anew

  40. I will try again – I can not seem to cut and paste!


    slowly build
    sending rivulets
    down the window pane
    washing away the grim
    accumulated over time
    striping away uncertainties
    clearing the way for the rainbow’s dream
    vibrating, pulsating unseen
    below simmering thresholds
    seeking to capture anew
    sly, elusive muse
    needed to feed
    a poet’s

    🙂 Marie, please chuck the first two attempts. Thanks

Comments are closed.