A dull sky. Rain falling down in perfect vertical lines
uninterrupted by celebratory gunfire shooting vertically into the air
Cold-blooded rain of bullets falling to earth short of kinetic energy
during the liturgy read from the prayer-book by a clergyman.
People killed in the Philippines by falling bullets in the rain.
The body and blood of Christ in the mouths
commemorating the Last Supper.

Dad pounds back a few beers after work. Home, he
pounds on the kitchen table cos dinner’s not served
before beckoning to his wife. Hey, you!
You’re begging to be pounded, aren’t you?
As she screams into a pillow.
The little girl’s heart pounds while she stares at warm summer rain
pounding on the window pane.

Envious rain watching us arch and writhe, eavesdropping
pelting rain glistening like lips when I spread for you.
Rain under the sheets grabbed with both hands, dripping.
Thoughts of a sudden burst of vivid sunshine.

Patchy drizzle pregnant with hope. 3,000 per day, they bray,
flee to conquer the sea
Callous rain falling mercilessly on conflicts, persecutions and poverty.
Fat raindrops stinging like mosquitoes. That’s sure bad news,
utters a spokesperson somberly
with the iPhone X in his hand.
Threatening rain whipping asylum seekers in wooden vessels
with pebbles in their pockets. 14 deaths per day
they (almost sadly) say.
Boats wrecked off the coast of Lampedusa, a slaughter of innocents
Europe’s welcoming scorn poured on Les Misérables, a slaughter of survivors.
Indifferent rain hammering relentlessly everywhere they go.

Dark-hued rain stalking
a child suicide bomber, waist encircled by an explosive belt,
and his big brother who never smelled
a pussy. Virgins in his head,

A single sunbeam breaking through a thick cloud.
A messenger. So-called.
Text me.
Oh shoot, I forgot my cell again. Age-old

Fidgety rain sitting impatiently on a cloud watching a funeral procession for
murder victims
of another school shooting.
Don’t sweat it, shouts Big Daddy. We won’t forget it.
I’m no vulture. But why don’t we celebrate our gun culture a wee bit more
for it’s like horticulture and agriculture.
Substituting, instituting, executing.

A man given a restraining order for punching his wife,
mother of his newborn, in rain-drenched Munich
Savage rain sadistically falling on a prostitute on Bourbon Street
beaten by a pimp with the resurrection cocktail in his hand.

A nonchalant rain of fluffy dandelion seeds along the Danube
blown away high. Make a wish.
I saw dead fish
floating with plastic bottles in a fountain by the Louvre.

Drops of wind-driven water falling from the sky
after a rear-end collision on Highway 17 near Lexington Parkway.
The driver of the fifth ejected from his car. Motionless.
Multiple insurance carriers determining fault.
A boy hit by the thunderbolt
in central Laos when he
saw her dancing barefoot in the torrential rain.
Thunderstorms strike southern England overnight
selfies under the sky dropping icy stones
the size of grapes interrupted by a bolt of lightning. A lucky escape.
Occasional gusts of wind expected in days to come.

Driving through the car wash
splashing and squelching our way through
a sudden downpour of kisses.

An autistic child kicked off a commercial flight
in Belgrade and Portland. A threat in sight followed by a frantic rain of insults.
Mary Poppins forgot her umbrella.

A war veteran soaked to the skin
in a country that doesn’t even begin
to deal with anything, let alone him, soaked to the skin.

The intoxicating earthly scent when rain falls on dry soil.
Stone and fluid flowing in the veins of Greek gods
rain-smelling air, much needed rain in
African and Australian droughts.

Praise rained down on recent grads in
a transition economy changing from central planning
to a free market. Promising rain.
The daunting future, fear moms and dads
waving proudly at their grads.
Rain’s thudding. Hopelessly.

Rain falling on her head like falling in love.
A tap left running.
Rain in my heart. Rain running down my cheeks
on a wet winter’s day when
I thought I lost us.

35 thoughts on “50 SHADES OF RAIN ~ BOJANA STOJCIC

  1. Bojana, your voice is unmistakable and comes with a strength and determination that I cannot look away from. This poem is something new, a new facet of that voice. This poem slices before it hammers itself into the mind and eyes and consciousness. Every word makes you pause and think and ache. It is loud when it needs to be, quiet at exactly the right moments. It is throughly and beautifully you. You were born to do this, my friend!!!!! I feel so lucky to be a part of this incredible emergence.

    Liked by 5 people

  2. Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing i know – Hemingway.
    This wuthering downpour of empirical truths leaves you drenched and pleading for ignorance. It is uncut and raging with indignance. Thank you for writing this!

    Liked by 3 people


  4. I read this over and over. This last time as I was at the lake and More Than This by Roxy Music was playing. Every line took me and would not let me go. I wanted to scream. Curse. Cry. Love. Always changing as you would not let up. Your ferocity is so pure. The depths you plumb are bottomless. You speak of love at the same level, and all of it so honest.

    You are truly a unique writer.

    Liked by 3 people

  5. I do not read a lot of poetry; none outside the tribe, as a matter of fact. It’s never gripped me like it does the lot of you (a fact I’m jealous of, but make my peace with). But the poetry y’all write, sometimes it grips me so infectiously I can’t almost stand it.

    This is one such poem.

    When I say wow to what I see you write, so many of you, I mean it. You blow me away. This one just absolutely blew me away and, by the end, I wiped my eyes.

    (probably allergies 😉 )

    Your gifts astound me. I could not do what you do. Simple. As. That.

    Liked by 2 people

  6. I can’t even begin to tell you how fucking awesome this is. I want you to write and write and write. Cover this putrid planet in your words. Write on the skies that blanket us, on the eyes of the ignorant in the soil beneath our feet. Cover buildings, carve trees, tattoo my skin. Write because you can see what others refuse to acknowledge and you have the voice and balls to shove it down their open throats. You write and the world takes shape, you write ears to heads my friend.

    Liked by 1 person

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