Has anyone noticed how it comes in droves,
borne on the fierce winds of night?
Beckoning, calling, entreating you, "Come..."
in a vague, whispy, rain sort of voice?
It bashes, it tears, with impotent rage,
when you say, "Not today, I'm afraid."
Then its ire turns to tears, and slowly it weeps
'til at last with withers and fades.
On the screen of your window, against the streetlight
shine an orange multitude of drops,
they sparkle and gleam, trickling slowly down,
and your window's a patchwork of stars.
You look out your window, and down on the lawn
stare back at you ten thousand eyes,
still watching and waiting for you to come out,
that perhaps you will play with them yet.
But when mornlight arrives and the sun's rising rays
bounce across rooftops onto the green,
they are puled like the dead on some sad angel's wings,
and the clouds bear them slowly away.
-D.B.
Author notes
Well, this poem, for once, doesn't rhyme, but it has this bizarre sense of meter, at least when I read it aloud to myself. Unfortunately, when I write my poems, I can hear the meter in my head, and it works, but the trouble is in writing it such that others can detect it too. I can't say with certainty that this isn't just stanza'ed streaming of thought. 
It really doesnt matter; just struck me as a serendipitously pleasant: a rhymeless poem maintaining, more or less, some sense of metric flow. Anyhow, yeah, just experimenting. Ta ta!
Daniel
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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It's always good to experiment! I think you have a grand talent for rhythm. I enjoyed it immensely!
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