My photo
ALBERT B. CASUGA, a Philippine-born writer, lives in Mississauga, Ontario, Canada, where he continues to write poetry, fiction, and criticism after his retirement from teaching and serving as an elected member of his region's school board. He was nominated to the Mississauga Arts Council Literary Awards in 2007. A graduate of the Royal and Pontifical University of St. Thomas (now University of Santo Tomas, Manila. Literature and English, magna cum laude), he taught English and Literature (Criticism, Theory, and Creative Writing) at the Philippines' De La Salle University and San Beda College. He has authored books of poetry, short stories, literary theory and criticism. He has won awards for his works in Canada, the U.S.A., and the Philippines. His latest work, A Theory of Echoes and Other Poems was published February 2009 by the University of Santo Tomas Publishing House. His fiction and poetry were published by online literary journals Asia Writes and Coastal Poems recently. He was a Fellow at the 1972 Silliman University Writers Workshop, Philippines. As a journalist, he worked with the United Press International and wrote an art column for the defunct Philippines Herald.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

LOOKING AT RAIN



LOOKING AT RAIN

Rain. I’m mesmerized by the driveway puddles, how rings of ripples form and overlap, each raindrop magnified at the point of termination.---Dave Bonta, The Morning Porch, 12-07-11 


Two ways of looking at rain
as an allegory or metaphor:
rain, rain, go away children
want to play! But we tore
through the walls of rainfall
naked, deliriously, gleefully
screaming for the sky to fall
on our tender loins, scarcely
touched by wind and fingers
carved coyly into cane leaves
that lash and tickle derrieres
poised skyward, athwart as if
to mock a voyeur leering in
some hidden crack of clouds,
to espy these glistening skin,
patches that pass for clothes
on the backs of  carousing
children lost in their singing. 

Before long, the rain stopped.
Into lives some rain must fall.
Songs ended. And we grew up.
Rain became our quiet call
to clear our driveways of debris
from torrents that shredded
twigs of their foliage, cut a tree
in a sudden storm we dreaded.


---Albert B. Casuga
12-07-11

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