Editors Blog

2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 18

One of the cool things I was asked to do already this year is to be a guest judge at the InterBoard Poetry Community for the first three months of the year. It was fun reading through the submissions each month, and my last round of judging recently went live on the site. Click here to read the winners–and to check out the various forums/communities.

For today’s prompt, write a weather poem. A weather poem can be a poem about a hurricane or tornado; it can be a poem about the weatherperson; it can be a poem about forgetting an umbrella on a rainy day; it can be big; it can be small; etc.


2014_poets_marketGet published!

Learn how to get your poetry published with the 2014 Poet’s Market. This essential guide to publishing poetry is filled with articles on the craft of poetry, business of poetry, and promotion of poetry. It includes poetic forms, poet interviews, and new poetry. But most importantly, it includes listings to poetry publishers, including book publishers, magazines, contests, and more!

Click to continue.


Here’s my attempt at a Weather Poem:

“my brother, the storm chaser”

my brother is a storm chaser
i am a storm racer my brother
chases after storms i race from them

my brother looks at online data
& knows where tornadoes will drop
i just see a big red & green blob

of potential destruction my
brother is the guy everyone
in my family wants to discuss

i am happy to fly under
the radar & stay out of harm’s way
& pray for my baby brother’s health


Today’s guest judge is…

Nin Andrews

Nin Andrews

Nin Andrews

Nin’s poems and stories have appeared in many literary journals and anthologies including Ploughshares, The Paris Review, Best American Poetry (1997, 2001, 2003, 2013), and Great American Prose Poems.

She won an individual artist grant from the Ohio Arts Council in 1997 and again in 2003 and is the author of several books including six chapbooks and five full-length collections.

Her next book, Why God Is a Woman, is due out from BOA Editions in 2015.

Learn more here: http://www.amazon.com/Nin-Andrews/e/B001JOVUG.


PYHO_Small_200x200Poem Your Heart Out

Poems, Prompts & Room to Add Your Own for the 2014 April PAD Challenge!

Words Dance Publishing is offering 20% off pre-orders for the Poem Your Heart Out anthology until May 1st! If you’d like to learn a bit more about our vision for the book, when it will be published, among other details.

Click to continue.


Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems. He really does have a storm chasing brother named Simon Brewer (click here to learn more about him). Learn more about Robert here: http://www.robertleebrewer.com/.


Weather the day with these poetic posts:

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670 thoughts on “2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 18

  1. eileenDmoeller

    How Green Is More Green

    In the rain. How water collecting on leaves
    turns them glamorous, more themselves somehow,
    all green essence brought forward to meet what’s falling,
    even as it makes what we see less clear, fuzzes the air,
    dulls the sharp angles of rooftops, cloaks everything
    in a ricocheting mist, atmosphere all thickened and silky,
    awakening every cell of the skin, every hair gone expressively curly.
    How it turns the sky white, and still makes everything darker,
    so we sit stupefied in untimely twilight. How the limbs of the trees
    sag downward under heavy showers, how afterwards they will push up
    new growth as they drink it in. How its soft staccato resonates to
    the multitudes of selves we’ve carried far and wide, most of them
    warm and dry and quieted into listening to a whole day of this liquid
    music. How the past collects on a day, shines it up, and greens it forward.

  2. Andrea Z

    Scenic Route on a Spring Day

    I divert my usual route home
    to take the back road
    that winds along the Erie Canal;
    it is a peaceful route,
    beautiful on a spring day;
    the sun shimmers on the canal’s surface,
    and I can feel the warmth
    through my car window.
    The scent of a charcoal grill
    fills my nose,
    and I am convinced
    that summer is almost here.

  3. stepstep


    When the sky is a bright blue
    My mood respectively coincides
    My limbs work like a rubberband
    No limbs, no pains, just a rigid glide and slide.

    Storms arise; they bring and deliver dark clouds
    Filled with lots and lots of rain
    Which entice a somber mood
    To navigate a main strain.

    Of day after day after day
    Warm, hot, chilly, cold
    Regardless of what one might say
    Both the weather and my attitude travel the same road.


  4. IndiFox

    Bad Weather

    I don’t know whether the weather will be fine today
    I don’t know if it will rain again
    Or if the sun is already shining
    It could snow for all I know
    Thunder or lightening
    But I’ll only know if it rains
    As the droplets hit my grave

  5. azkbc


    You stand at the living room window
    and look at the sidewalk
    where you’d like to play.

    Yesterday you rode your scooter
    in the park wearing
    your red Superman helmet.
    Faster and faster
    you rode up
    then down the gentle rise
    with Daddy watching.

    Today the wind is swirling dirt,
    dust and allergens
    all around and Mommy says
    you must stay inside.

    Daddy says you may go downstairs
    with him and ride your bike
    as soon as he’s finished working
    on the taxes.

    “I don’t like the wind,” you said,
    “Can we turn it off?”

  6. Earl Parsons

    It’s Weather

    Heat melts glaciers
    Cold refreezes them
    The sun warms the earth
    The dark cools it off
    Rain brings life
    Droughts reduces it
    Blizzards blow
    Typhoons destroy
    Tornadoes obliterate
    Hurricanes devastate
    Then God gives us a sunny day
    And we realize
    Weather happens
    Just as He meant it to
    Nothing we can do about it
    Nothing we can change about it
    It is as it is
    As God designed it to be
    It’s weather

    © Earl Parsons

  7. ianchandler


    rows of brick
    both warm, pale, and all wet,
    from rain that shakes itself downward
    like you fresh out of the shower
    dripping purposely on my skin
    because you like to make me uncomfortable

    garden beds I imagine as saturated coffee grounds
    with light olive plants sprung up, dotting the windows,
    the urban-romantic slides of glass that, with black
    borders, separate me from a field of pistachio hill.

    wet chainlink benchbacks
    those that are wooden and resolute
    and my soy latte
    a sketch of the counter with a found pen
    all of this while
    I pray to God that
    you’ll only go outside with me.

  8. larrywlawrence


    Welcome to Jersey
    if you don’t like the weather-
    don’t worry, it changes.
    Last year we were off
    a week for the hurricane
    this year it was snow.

    Winter is done now,
    ice dams haunted us
    no need for more salt.
    He never liked spring,
    because it doesn’t know
    what it wants to be.

    Four seasons this week
    eighty degrees, a snow storm
    cool, windy, and rainy.
    In spring and fall
    you save cash on utilities
    no AC or heat.

    Ready for summer?
    window units will run hard
    if it hits ninety.
    Hey, it’s better than
    dealing with single digits,
    please remember that.

  9. clcediting

    Sunny Days

    We’re not always grateful
    for the sunny days
    when even the clouds
    dare not mar the sky.

    Days with just enough wind
    to carry colorful kites
    high into the silky blueness
    of the sun-kissed sky.

    There’s not enough poems
    about sunny summer days,
    or even gentle Spring ones.
    Perfect days aren’t dramatic.

    But they are worth remembering,
    particularly because they’re so few
    It takes quite a balance between
    sun, sky, wind, and warmth
    to create a day so perfect
    that it’s worth writing about.

  10. Nanamaxtwo

    April Move

    The elderly man bowed himself
    out of his daughter’s car
    slow as an old tree branch
    strains into the wind.
    Bent on his son’s arm,
    nodding through the rain,
    his mild response to directions,
    “if you say so,” as if
    his trunk had been firmly planted
    centuries before this minor cloud spat
    could uproot his treacherous legs;
    as if his eyes had seen all of significance
    displayed in the crucible of life
    and this move didn’t matter.

  11. LaraEckener

    There are websites
    and small silver boxes
    that will play the sound of a drizzle
    if you press your finger
    against the right space.
    They were made for us
    —the insomniacs, the stressheads—
    those of us who shake in the night
    with terror or exhaustion or emptiness.
    Sometimes the drizzle
    is haunted by thunder.
    Because darkness lives in eaves and
    edges. It slides across our comfort
    and washes us out whole,
    leaving us exposed and alone
    until we realize how long it’s been
    since supper,
    until we realize we haven’t had anything
    nourishing in days
    and the rumbling of our stomachs vibrates us back
    to the notion that we are a we at all.
    There are little silver boxes of pills,
    that are made for us.
    That are supposed to even us to a drizzle
    on the inside.
    I press my fingers into your side,
    desperately trying to make them start working.
    Because what no one who hasn’t been us can know
    is that even though a sunny day
    can look at a drizzle and see
    the coolness in its grey,
    it takes a storm to realize
    that the tempo isn’t the problem,
    it’s that the water falls at all.’

  12. Nanamaxtwo

    April Move

    The elderly man bowed himself
    out of his daughter’s car
    slow as an old tree branch
    leans into the wind.
    Bent on his son’s arm,
    nodding through the rain,
    his response to directions,
    “if you say so,”
    as if his trunk had been planted
    and eyes had seen
    all of significance,
    and this move didn’t matter.

  13. PenConnor

    The Spring Wind (a rondeau)

    The spring wind can’t stop it’s blowing.
    It winds through trees like thread sewing.
    Watch it: stitching for hours and hours,
    piece a blanket of bright flowers,
    to be washed in gentle spring showers.

    This breeze blows softly, keeps going,
    and the green grass starts it’s growing.
    It has such magical powers,
    the spring wind.

    I’m sitting here fairly glowing,
    long past the toil of our sowing.
    Underneath a tree that towers,
    in this lovely garden, ours,
    such gratitude I’m now owing,
    the spring wind.

  14. Michelle Murrish

    Talk about the Weather
    By Michelle Murrish

    Can we just talk about the weather
    Shoot the breeze in our rocking chairs
    Forget the stresses poured upon us
    Pretend our lives are without a care

    Lets imagine we’re immortal
    As the sun shines on our face
    Let the wind take over fully
    Rearranging our life’s pace

    Wash away all of our sorrows
    With the wild, unyielding rain
    Can we just talk about the weather
    And forget all of our pain

  15. horselovernat

    A City Lost by Natalie Gasper

    There had been a red sky that morning
    but no one thought anything of it,
    for many had come before
    and many would come again.

    If only the sky watchers had looked closer
    they might have seen that this time, it was different,
    that the sky was a deeper red;
    the color of untainted blood.

    All happened as it should that morning
    With the fishermen heading out to the seas
    and the women off to the markets,
    their little ones close behind, playing.

    The sun rose high into the noon-day sky
    bringing with it fierce gray clouds.
    Slowly the light began to fade,
    the wind howling as it grew in strength.

    Water from the sea started violently battering the shores,
    waves relentlessly beating the rocks lining the city
    grower higher and stronger with each attack,
    churning as far as the eye could see.

    With a deadening rumble the skies burst open
    to unleash a torrential down pour upon the city,
    as lightning creaked and flashed,
    ravaging trees and homes.

    Fearing the full wrath of the gods was about to be unleashed
    many began scattered rituals and prayers,
    wanting desperately for the storm to abate
    and for their loved ones to return from the raging sea.

    Yet all of this was for naught; the waves continued growing
    and the rain fell in buckets, flooding all the streets.
    Then it happened: the anger of the waves broke through the wall,
    bringing with it damage unmatched by any prior tsunami or hurricane.

    By the time the sun had retired from the sky
    the city had been buried beneath the now calm water.
    Death was plentiful on that devastating day,
    A civilization lost at the hands of Mother Nature.

  16. Jay Sizemore

    Whether the weather weathers

    Whether the weather weathers your words
    or not, the whorls of worlds inside worms and wombs
    will wither to whittled wasps and wands.

    The weather will weather whatever it weathers,
    whether there’s worry or whirl, wherever
    wild winds twirl the weeds like whips unfurled.

    Watch as wisps of whispered wants wing
    their way into whimpering whales, wandering
    witchery of wander-lusted wives, woven

    into wails. The weather swelters and welters,
    swallows and wallows in waste or wear,
    I swear the sword will waken and wage the war.

  17. LeighSpencer

    Camping in the Rain

    Damn the forecast!

    We’re heading up the mountain

    Car packed
    and too much scheduling
    to be deterred by a little rain

    But what about by a whole fucking lot of rain?

    Rain that sees your waterproof tent
    as a personal challenge

    It’s ARIZONA

    You know
    the ARID ZONE

    So this really can’t

    Night one and we woke up
    to two inches of water
    on the floor of the tent

    I wanted to admit defeat
    but, as cummings noted,
    the world was mud-luscious
    and the swamp creatures replacing our children
    were so very happy

    We women

    Decided stronger tarps
    were the way to go

    If you can’t beat Mother Nature
    you can hide from her
    for about $30 worth of plastic and twine
    from the Target
    45 minutes down the mountain

    We drank hot Starbucks coffee
    laughed and listened to the radio
    my best friend and I
    in the front of her formerly white van

    The kids
    (so much smaller then)
    in their slowly drying row of carseats

    Back up the mountain
    to another half day
    trapped in our shelter
    soaked to the bone

    We finally admitted defeat
    broke camp early
    packed up every last soggy bundle
    every drowned lantern
    every sopping sleeping bag

    back down the mountain

    All the while
    enjoying the scenic views
    on the long
    drive home

  18. TuLife

    “Where the Wind Blows”
    By: Tuere Aisha

    I stopped waiting to land
    wherever the wind blows me.
    Found out the wind is always blowing,
    once I unveil my heart to see.

    Like at a picnic with family,
    where every soul is happy,
    that’s where the wind blows.

    A group of friends walking down the street,
    bobbing their heads to a funky beat,
    that’s where the wind blows.

    A school of birds
    singing with no words
    as the sun’s rays shine
    on the forest green pine.
    That’s where the wind blows.

    The soar of a coyote’s shriek
    across the highest mountain peak,
    that’s where the wind blows.

    When a mother bear willingly feeds
    because her cubs have needs,
    that’s where the wind blows.

    Where one’s world is shattered
    and their life has been tattered,
    that’s where a chilled wind blows.

    Where ignorant fools make jokes
    about you and your folks,
    that’s where a chilled wind blows.

    The wind may constantly change
    in direction and force,
    but we will generally sustain
    if we acknowledge its source.

  19. Monique

    Canticle of the Rain

    Rain falls onto my roof
    The lightning flashes
    The thunder roars in the distance
    But the rain itself is quiet.
    As if it wants me to listen
    At first I feared the storms
    The howling winds and booming thunder
    But this storm is softer
    I am aware of its presence
    But I feel no fear in my heart
    Instead I close my eyes
    And long to hear the rain
    Because I realized that rainstorms are a gift
    And that for every day of sunshine
    there is one for rain as well

  20. David Walker

    New England

    This is an official submission to
    propose that the geographic area
    known as “New England” be changed
    The Quandary States of Weather.

    In the past couple of years alone
    there has been a snowstorm in October,
    three tornadoes within a 24hr period,
    and a drought. Not to mention it has
    been cold enough to rival the fictional
    city of Fargo that the Coen Brothers
    ingeniously fabricated in homage
    to Massachusetts.

    You can be wearing shorts in the morning
    and snowshoes in the afternoon. It is never
    safe to leave your car windows down despite
    what the weatherperson “promises.”

    I hope you will not take this proposal
    lightly. People need to know exactly
    what they’re getting into here. And it’s
    not an updated version of teatimes
    and soldiers in fluffy hats as the current
    name suggests.

  21. lily black

    Unquenchable Thirst

    “Keep on the sunny side always on the sunny side”
    We sang through tears falling like the flood of misery
    Singing in the rain did not make us tap a boogie beat or fly through the air
    Our voices could not be heard over the rumbling roar of the storm
    “Let it rain” we sang “let it rain down on me,” but the sun overwhelmed us with radiance
    We did not want to feel warmth or tenderness of blisters anymore
    Chanting useless spells praying the line over and over and over
    Until it becomes one breath one moan one long thirsty exhale
    Begging and imploring for one silver lining to crack
    To fracture and fill the belly bled dry once again
    Quickly before they find her body
    Watch it no diving now
    And leave the boat at home

  22. cam45237

    Real Time Reporting of a Weather Event in the Age of Social Media

    Funnel clouds spotted
    sw of Home.
    I can hear the speeding winds swirling in the dark
    outside my window.
    The lady on the news implores me
    stay inside.
    stay inside
    March 29 at 8:52pm •

    Thunder shaking the house! Thunder shaking the house!
    March 29 at 8:54pm •

    News says storm will hit
    in 15 minutes.
    pillows, blankets staged
    in downstairs bathroom
    March 29 at 9:09pm •

    Cozy nest next to toilet
    flashlight app on phone
    call from worried husband
    visual check of weather
    – light rain.
    March 29 at 9:24pm •

    News says it’s time to seek shelter
    March 29 at 9:24pm •

    Report of touchdown
    March 29 at 9:25pm •

    Just scuttled
    into the john
    with very little
    grace or decorum
    March 29 at 9:26pm •

    The lemon caper chicken dinner is on hold
    March 29 at 9:27pm •

    No touchdown they’re saying now.
    Multiple funnel clouds extant
    Stay safe
    stay safe
    March 29 at 9:29pm •

    The heart of the storm has passed
    March 29 at 9:33pm •

  23. gloryia

    Autumn Wind

    The wind made music in the trees,
    dancing through old willows’ leaves,
    bending low its heavy boughs
    in sweet embrace, to carouse
    with grassy bank and waters deep,
    its silver fingers dipping,
    rippling, water clear and sweet.

  24. gloryia

    And, I’m Happy

    Sitting, maybe dozing
    in the sun,
    with the sea softly
    whispering its tune
    carried on the breeze
    that lifts my hair,
    that kisses my cheek.
    And should those
    lapping waves
    that crawl across
    golden sand brush
    against, then climb
    to tickle my toes.
    I’m happy.

  25. amaranthe

    Ice Age

    When we zipped up parkas for the first time.
    Left dead trees. No more lemon no more lime.
    Alligators dead in three feet of snow.
    blood too cold, became rocks in this clime.

    The miles that we traveled further south.
    No place warm. Everyone with scarf to mouth.
    Headless snowmen and mute snowman babies,
    effigies. Shamans praying for a drouth.

  26. Aberdeen Lane

    the wind whips the branches
    stirring up the energy
    changing the patterns
    rippling the water
    tousling his hair
    along with his heartstrings

    he opens the jar
    a perfect day to stand on the mesa
    rain in the distance
    first rain in months
    he taps the jar
    infusing his memories
    his insight
    his hopes

    the ashes pour
    scattering down the canyon
    catching the wind
    the jar drops
    it’s all in pieces

    he pulls out a flute
    broken notes
    tears mix with the rain
    the drought has passed.

  27. MMC


    My father lived his whole life
    attuned to the weather. No, he was not
    a farmer or a sailor, though he knew
    how to grow backyard tomatoes
    and he fished out of a wood rowboat.
    He simply knew the weather,
    thought it interesting, followed
    the winds and tides, sniffed the air,
    predicted rain by looking at rings
    around the moon. If he could have
    predicted his death just when
    he turned 50, would he have spent
    more time in the sun?

  28. Mustang Sal

    Ice Storm

    The weather warriors said,
    “It will be over soon,”
    but isn’t that what warriors
    say at the beginning of every war?

    And like every war it droned on and on.
    Ice bullets targeting our roof,
    capturing our wires,
    bearing down on our trees,
    limbs snapping like peas.

    We were all uprooted,
    branches flying like shrapnel,
    communication lost behind enemy lines.

    One, two, three, four, five days
    we waited for the cavalry,
    hiding in fox holes,
    eating canned rations.

    we huddled together for warmth
    and told stories in lieu of TV.
    Gas and water worth more than gold.

    Finally, they came –
    trucks with battalions of men
    to repair lines, clear roads.

    Battle over, we plugged back
    into former lives while
    one lone bird sat on a
    still icy branch,
    singing out salvation.

  29. Yolee

    One October Evening

    The persistent rain ruined
    the fresh blue paint
    on Abuelo’s barn,
    and saved her from
    meeting up with
    a green boy
    at a party
    on her last
    night in Ponce.

  30. Heidi


    Passin’ through you say? Don’t like the weather?
    Stick around a bit, it’s bound to change. Did I fail to

    mention we are Tornado Alley? A mile wide black
    vortex barrelin’ down I-44 suckin’ up and spittin’ out

    just about everything in its stretch is one sight not to
    stick around for. Our summers are scorchers crackin’

    lawns and foundations into Death Valley landscapes,
    where the forecast is stormy with isolated fires.

    Plan on seventy mile an hour winds that hop, skip
    and jump across highways and county lines blisterin’

    a wallop of fires that don’t take a likin’ to being fought.
    We plant tomatoes twice because they burn up by July

    and searin’ heat zaps bees into early hibernation. Ice
    and subzero temps plunge us into arctic blasts come

    February, we get confused, and don’t know how
    to dress at times. So you might see us at the local

    Five and Dime sportin’ shorts and flip-flops smack
    dab in winter. Then wrappin’ up in a wool blanket

    with a hot mug of cocoa snug between our shiverin’
    knees come June. But that’s Oklahoma for you.

    If you’re fixin’ to stay and ain’t too partial about our
    climate. Don’t worry, it’s bound to change.

    Heidi R. de Contreras

  31. Snow Write

    hard rain
    collecting below
    sodden earth, waterlogged outside
    Sun breaks through the clouds
    Rain drops stop

  32. Penny Henderson


    The tune circles my brain like a vulture,
    “stormy weather…” since I pulled it together.
    I seldom stick with the words others wrote.
    Words are, after all, my tools and my clay.
    I don’t want to browse a museum all day.
    I’ rather compose than quote

    1. Penny Henderson


      The tune circles my brain like a vulture,
      “stormy weather…” since I pulled it together.
      I seldom stick with the words others wrote.
      Words are, after all, my tools and my clay.
      I don’t want to browse a museum all day.
      I’ rather compose than quote

  33. Blaise


    Denial hits with the first raindrop,
    soon to dissolve when it pours,
    then washed away in a torrent.
    Thousands of music fans camping,
    too grooved to watch the sun fade.
    Out come raincoats and colorful boots,
    and pound the grass into mud slush.
    We’ll later attempt to sleep
    in soggy cold tents, finding
    comfort in our family of mud.
    It always rains at Shakori.
    If we could erase that phrase,
    would it have stayed sunny and dry?

    (In April and October, the Shakori Hills GrassRoots Festival of Music & Dance brings hope to the farmers of Chatham County, NC. Even during a drought, they expect the rains to come with the festival!)

  34. Angie5804

    A Rain Sestina

    Billowing clouds bring the dark
    Anticipation builds for the rain
    To mix in the tracks of tears
    Forming rivulets now
    Washing away expectation
    Taking away hope

    Wafting on the wind is hope
    Blowing away into the dark
    Trepidation mixes with expectation
    For the hail within the rain
    For the hell which is not now
    It is the time for salty tears

    The heaving chest and tears
    Moan for the loss of hope
    For this is needed now
    Searching through the dark
    Through the pelting rain
    A sob of expectation

    Lo, comes a new expectation
    Something to dry the tears
    Something to change the reign
    Of despair into hope
    To take away the dark
    And clear the skies now

    What was is not now
    No more sad expectations
    No more fear and darkness
    No more splashing tears
    For now comes hope
    A spring cleansing rain

    A soft, sweet-smelling rain
    Brings life and newness now
    Brings singing on wings of hope
    Oh, fulfilled expectation
    Oh, the joyful tears
    Oh, the light from dark

    After the rain comes sweet expectation
    The time is now to dry the tears
    Glorious hope has banished all dark

  35. C.

    Three foxes stood on a hill-
    One stood up tall and proud,
    One jumped up, laughing loud
    And the last laid silently
    Down as he chose contently
    To rest his eyes and think
    Of something much more
    Heavenly his knees laid
    Bent over against time today.

    She woke with sudden fright
    At the clock’s buzzing sound
    She looked over at a face
    7:15am. Damnit, time to wake.
    She had hoped she’d imagined
    Hoped it had not yet been time
    To face her fear of getting up
    Each and every day.
    Especially though that time
    Since the Night before she broke
    Something precious to her
    Spoken by her grandfather
    This tale of three foxes who would sit
    Upon a hillside, calm adrift.
    He came across the tale, the gift
    On his many adventures
    Of love, war, and Woodstock
    This time it was her turn, her gift.
    This little child of mine, he’d say
    It’s your turn to have adventures
    To get out and play in life
    Even on the stormy days.

    Three foxes they died on a hill-
    One standing less tall, but still
    He thought what a great thing
    My life’s been truly fulfilled.
    The second thought, less bouncy
    Now, thought, at least I was always
    Just a silly clown, always being myself.
    The third, though resting still his eyes
    Was content always with his life
    Because he chose to see the grace
    And not simply broken nature
    The angry ways and irritating things
    That come and go
    Just as a part of life.

  36. PSC in CT

    Weather or Not

    The weather does what the weather will do.
    It doesn’t care about me and you.

    And our outdoor plans for play & fun?
    Well, they can’t rely on a day of sun
    ‘cause you never know where the weather will go:
    rain, sleet, sun, snow.

    But, whether the weather is horrid or fine
    ev’ry day spent with you
    is a day that’s divine.


  37. Grey_Ay

    A Sunny Day

    A sunny day
    one finally warm
    we tumble out of doors
    to walk
    to read
    we stop to enjoy
    the sun
    the breeze

    Before the sun
    is too hot
    before the rain
    comes again
    before the colors
    and we barricade
    ourselves in.

    -A. Ault-

  38. Pengame30

    “Give and Take”

    Rain pours and the earth absorbs it like little lungs in a sponge,
    nurturing it’s children, and rejuvenating the weak.
    Fires spontaneously ignite, claiming homes and the souls that lay within.
    The yin and the yang co-exist.

    Written By: Sean Drew

  39. BezBawni

    Parting on a Rainy Day

    Go out and give yourself to the wind,
    let it touch you skin gently and kiss
    your every inch with untamed passion.

    You love the wind with all your might,
    you’ve forgotten how angry it was, how mad
    just yesterday.

    Let the rain tickle your palm with its loving
    drizzle, let it caress your smile when with closed eyes
    you put up your face, laced with joy.

    You love it. You don’t remember, do you?
    How that same rain sliced, lashed at us,
    slashed our legs, it’s a wonder we didn’t bleed
    just yesterday.

    Go out and drink the gold of the sun
    hovering over rainbows, wrapping you in its warmth,
    making you feel safe and letting you love it;

    and there! you do, because you’ve forgiven
    its scorching rage, its restless torture
    that made you feel stifled, remember?
    just days ago

    Do you blame the wind for being windy,
    or the rain because it’s rainy
    do you hate the sun for its sunniness?

    Do you hate the world for the way it is?
    Would you give it up for another?

    Then, why do we always give up
    on each other?
    by Lucretia Amstell

  40. smdnyc

    Don’t know if I’m way too late to try to throw my hat in for the April 18 day, but if not, here goes:

    Interior Summer

    Inside me

    all the windows are wide open,
    there’s a breeze coming in from
    the porch where a magazine
    sits unread on a whicker side table,

    and there’s a cob of yellow sweet
    corn in the kitchen, just picked and
    husked, and made sweet by heat,
    made sweet by this heavy wet

    Mm, this swimming pool with its
    floatie thing that you can doze upon
    has a cup holder for your beer and
    your beer has a cozy to stay cold

    and we sleep naked inside
    me, a fitful sleep conscious of
    the slightest breeze that comes
    to cool our netherparts as we

    pull our heavy bodies toward
    one other because inside me
    is that rush, that rush of summer
    alive inside, where even

    mosquitoes are allowed,
    because let’s face it—
    summer ain’t summer
    without buzz without bite

    without itch

  41. KiManou


    birds flying in the raining sky not seeking shelter what rain?
    being moving in tandem with the sky’s crying raindrops
    washing concrete gravel draining sorrow down the gutters
    into dirty puddles…

    I didn’t wanna wear melancholy today,
    But it looks great on a pair of dark jeans..
    …damn rain, it always drops sentiments
    in the cold spaces of me
    Filling my gaps
    I am never empty

    I woke up too sunny for today’s cloudy disposition


  42. JayGee2711

    April Weather Report

    Yesterday’s snow,
    today a
    glinting and
    in the afternoon sun,
    white cloud
    sails lonely
    across the sky
    as we
    travel on
    the winding
    to Spring.

    Julie Germain

  43. Julieann

    And the Rains Came Down

    For years we complained
    That we were drying up
    And blowing away calling up
    Visages of dust-bowl days

    Many a state from California
    To Texas face drought of
    Historic proportions with dried up rivers
    Dehydrated livestock and failed crops

    The south had its share of dry weather
    A drought covering many states
    That lasted a number of years
    Until the rains came down

    A couple of years ago the rains started
    They came down and down and down
    Some states getting in one month what
    They’d normally get in a year

    So now instead of our crops dying on the vine
    Our fruits and flowers shriveling on the stem
    Our cotton’s ruined, our root crops – rot
    And watermelons explode in the field

  44. Mariya Koleva

    I like weather, my favourite prompts are related to weather and climate. It doesn’t mean that this poem is a particular success, though … smiles…
    April Poem-A-Day 19 – Weather

    It’s raining over the marshes
    and the fog won’t leave.
    It has a point to make
    and it will stay to see what we do
    in return.

    It’s snowing in the forest
    and the temperatures dissocialize us from
    the fairy-tale Christmas mood,
    but are plain terrible biting frost.
    It wants to see if we know where
    to hide.

    The dessert is suffering the sand storm
    of a lifetime.
    Miles to the horizon are hidden
    behind the dusty curtain
    which grinds my brain
    and sprinkles its yellowness
    over the imaginary wound
    I am weeping over.

  45. bookworm0341

    “A Little Fall of Rain”

    When it rains, it pours-
    life is funny that way.
    Never ask what else can go wrong-
    as something else most definitely will.

    Cloudy skies may follow you-
    but keep looking up to find the silver lining.
    When you find the lining of silver, poke a hole
    To let the blessings flow down… like rain.

    As children, we would sing, “Rain, rain go away…”
    but we need life’s storms to come.
    If we only have sunshine and blue skies
    We would never take dance lessons in the rain.

    One must go through the rain-
    in order to see the rainbow.
    Rain is what brings forth growth-
    and growth, in turn, keeps hunger at bay.

    I hope that it rains on my wedding day-
    as wet knots tied are the strongest knots.
    So, on days it appears to be pouring in your life-
    Be thankful for that little fall of rain.

    Jennifer M. Terry
    April 18, 2014

  46. jacq

    The Last Leaf by Jacqualine A. Hart

    I am one lonely leaf
    upon this barren limb
    survived beyond its season
    captured by frost’s eagerness

    It’s cold here riding the winds
    of a winter lullaby
    confused in my purpose
    of remaining on this oak

    I’m tired of hanging around
    it may be time to ride
    the cool breeze and
    catch up with my fate

    I’ve let go, yet, I’m frozen here
    encapsulated in ice, waiting
    for a hearty thaw to carry me
    on my next adventure

  47. k_weber

    sometimes it rains

    in my brain: the wind
    pounds my medulla oblongata
    while a downpour shocks
    and soaks every synapse

    i’m dull but mixed up when
    the chemical tornado rips
    my cerebral cortex and i have
    no umbrella, no roof, no cover

    it’s as though my skull
    and head do not exist
    and all the wiring is exposed
    as the manic storm gathers

    open bottles of lithium
    rain down and i am still electric
    and sleepless until hell
    becomes the whole universe

    depression doesn’t stir
    the porch chimes and feels
    like hail damage
    until it’s possible

    to scream in a wide, open space

    – k weber

  48. gmagrady


    The pitter-patter of rain so sweet,
    its chitter-chatter upon concrete
    is joined by blithe breezes,
    and an elegant waltz, they dance,
    until they become long-winded.

    The drumming of hail cuts in,
    sarcastically, slowly beating.
    He sneers over his shoulder and motions.
    “Shall we?” he asks on the verge of fury.
    “As you,” starts the flurry,

    No longer graceful in its drizzle,
    without signal,
    the rain so sweet turns
    bitter as it batters
    unlucky passers by.
    Ice pelted, frost-bite belted,
    like wolves they howl a lonesome tune
    in search of their dwelling.

    And I sit in the window,
    hypnotized, mesmerized,
    by thundersnow,
    its frantic rhythm, frenzied steps,
    its swirls, and twirls, and bends,
    criss-crossing between trees in a
    perfect storm, it sends
    sky switches
    from off to aglow,
    illuminating twilight
    shadows, sideways
    sleet sheets
    fired up and across
    wildly whipping into
    a White
    outsmarting the moon
    raging on,
    in and under,
    branches flying


    and finally
    yes, finally

    just the pitter patter of rain so sweet

    a sigh—
    it strangely becomes unwelcomed relief
    this silence after commotion

    a smile—
    because beauty and danger
    hand in hand…  is truly poetry
    in motion.

  49. FaerieTalePoet


    My first winter in Oregon
    my girlfriend warned me
    that I was going to need pants.
    But this California girl
    waited until the first snow
    touched ground to concede.

    Dana A. Campbell

  50. Poetess

    I Could Silence The Wind

    If only the words would fall
    Dancing around night skies
    Leaving branches bare
    Greeting the morning ground
    Diving in I could arrange
    White noise inspiration sounds
    And symphony long songs
    With words fluttering around
    I could silence the wind

  51. sbpoet

    [see formatting at http://www.sbpoet.com/2014/04/poem-a-day-18-weather.html


    you wake to the slap
    of rain on glass
    some god throwing stones
    of water at your window
    wake up! wake up!

    a brilliant flash erases
    the sky for a moment
    nothing but light & you
    begin the count one-

    thousand-three and before
    four the WHACK! of thunder
    & another & another
    wake up! wake up!

    & as you drift back to dream
    you wonder briefly what god
    might be waiting down there
    in the garden, storm pebbles
    heavy in his hand

    ~ sharon brogan

  52. starrynight3


    All of nature’s wrath loosed
    On the rock face of my heart,
    Slammed against the overhang
    Of all I tried to be.
    There, too, were the refugees of
    My heart’s long travail, wailing
    From the rooftops “Lord, Lord.”
    All awash against the levee’s break,
    The detritus of a lifetime in swirling eddy.
    Even the swamps drained,
    Gave up their secrets.
    In the aftermath of the storm:
    A single dove, intent
    In its flight and that descent;
    How like the Holy Ghost
    Lit upon me.

  53. Michael Wells

    Beach Weather

    Forecast foretold sunshine.
    You were right to wear shorts.

    Orange ball overhead—
    shadows stubby and at our feet

    as we walked the beach, gulls
    chanting something like stalk.

    They circled the beach were waves
    were broken by the shoreline

    though slightly portable, it
    would move closer as the tide grew

    stronger. We stretched out
    on the beach, on a blanket

    as the afternoon progressed
    progressed the waterline grew

    closer and the gulls swooped
    above us chanting stalk, stalk.

  54. dextrousdigits

    Weather Report

    Yesterday, there were floods
    pouring from above, from right and left
    hammering me with new and unexpected demands
    hardly able to keep my head above the deluge

    Today my life has been a tornado
    hammering winds hurling around tasks
    computer, reports, meetings, dinner, laundry
    twisting furiously around me.

    I am praying for a warm sunny day tomorrow.

  55. Michele Brenton

    Sunshine and freedom.

    I remember when sunshine meant freedom.
    I remember when I thought I could go outside,
    not immediately –
    I knew I was too small
    and it wasn’t safe on my own.
    It was made very clear to me that I should
    hold somebody’s hand
    there were dangers, unnamed and lurking
    and I would be unprotected alone.
    So I waited and planned and looked ahead,
    gazed out of the window at the sun and the sky
    and the high swooping seagulls calling me
    making a promise of bright days to come.

    I remember when sunshine meant freedom.
    I remember when I thought I could go outside.
    Now I’m not waiting as I gaze out of the window
    and the seagulls laugh as they swoop and glide
    and the sky is too high, too blue, too wide.

    Michele Brenton 18th April 2014

  56. Mokosh28

    Hail Mary Rain

    Angels in the Statistics Department will tell you
    that more prayers are tallied for weather
    than for anything else but health. Weather beats out
    ‘make him/her love me,’ passing exams, and
    winning the lottery. Some have to do with crops
    and camp outs or relief from the killing
    cold. People pray that storms won’t raise
    the rivers and that hurricane Mavis’ fury will stay
    far out at sea. They shout mercies to turn back
    tornados and whisper into slackened sails.
    They light candles for sunny weddings. Hope for
    and against a white Christmas. While the Heavens
    log in wishes, winds roam over oceans
    forming clouds in the image of the first
    cloud, sweeping them landward
    in shapes of shrouds and bridal veils
    as though in answer to prayer.

    – Joanne M. Clarkson

  57. derrdevil

    The Leaf And The Hurricane
    By Derryn Warwick Raymond

    Of beauty so brilliant,
    no eyes could see
    Past the solemn ugliness,
    of which only evil can be
    Hurricane took Leaf
    where his dreams could not reach
    Guided him through torture
    his mind could not breach

    Of yesteryears’ leaves
    whom were once held so dear,
    Hurricane brought more,
    ‘One day I’ll lose, I fear.
    For all you have done
    I thank thee,’ said Leaf
    ‘But at what cost?
    Oh, the unbearable grief!’

    ‘One second a harbouring tree,
    next the storming rain
    Which ever way the wind goes,’
    said the Hurricane

  58. LizMac

    Sitting in the Rain

    There’s comfort to be had in that greyness
    That exists between darkness and light,
    That resting place poised between two states of intensity,
    Between cessation and activity.
    The sun’s affirmation often needs tempering,
    Not with utter obscurity where life and soul
    Becomes lost in darkness,
    But in that gentle greyness which is a suspension,
    A retreating into introspection and reflection,
    Forced to inactivity.
    The wet greyness washes away gilded glamor
    That reflects only the edges of life,
    But instead insists on a quiet that primes the senses
    To glimpse those faintly expressed rainbows that move
    At rare moments, through its center
    Too subtle for everyday light.

    Traveling far across oceans
    Is also a temporary reprieve from life,
    When traveling further from left sorrow,
    Yet still far from the challenge ahead.
    All that exists is the journey itself,
    Suspended outside obligation.
    So too, now, I find that place again,
    Sitting inside, trapped in the rain
    No need, just yet, to reach for before or after
    One part of life expired
    A new time yet to be born.
    But for now, waiting in an unknowing cloud
    Simply watching the raindrops fall.

  59. mfitts847@gmail.com

    The Darkest Day – Marie H. Fitts

    The darkest day in history
    When Jesus took my sin from me
    Hanging naked on a cross
    Dying so “we” would not be lost

    Did thunder roll? Did lightening strike?
    Did the earth quake at the sight
    Of Love nailed to a tree?
    You may not think…but I believe

    Mighty winds howled
    The sun hid its face
    For what “we” did
    Was such a disgrace!

    The earth shook with all its might
    Saying look what you’ve done…this was not right!
    To crucify the Savior of the world
    But this was ordained by God, as His plan unfurled

    For Jesus to take the punishment for all of “us”
    Three days later God would entrust
    Him to rise from the grave…where death could not keep
    Love imprisoned in a tomb..no more to weep

    Jesus now sits at the right hand
    Of God alone
    Our King, our Savior
    He is risen to the throne!

  60. taylor graham



    Another day of mowing, raking, turning grass
    in the front pasture. My partner and I trade
    places. He takes the weed-eater, I get the hay-
    rake. Both hot, tedious, back-aching work.
    Where’s the wind of inspiration? The air’s
    so still, I can hear the annual grasses brittling,
    sharpening to fox-tail, rip-gut brome. But
    look, now the tall wild oats begin to stir –
    a breath from the north, cool as Delta breeze
    but off the mountain. As I listen, it brings
    birdsong from that line of trees along the dry
    creekbed. Titmouse. In the unmown swale,
    there’s purple crown brodiaea in the green
    clutch of soft chess and pink-starred filaree.
    Shall I write a poem to my hay-rake?

  61. MDickson


    It was raining.
    For weeks it had been raining
    The dry creek beds filled again. The stone banks
    grew slick and treacherous as a banker’s
    dog. Because you were young,
    even now so much younger
    than we recall, you refused to clear the gully
    packed with leaf fall and filth, the gully
    at the threshold of your only door. And because you slept,
    as only young men sleep,
    you missed the light when it breached the cloudbank
    fixed in the sky as firmly as the stones along the creek bank.
    You slept while the water came again, down
    and under your only door, down
    and through your only door,
    your door
    locked tight
    as a bank vault, braced tight
    as the stones under water in the creek bed
    while you slept.

  62. mimzy13


    This tornado really does sound “like a train approaching” which is so disappointing. It’s more like a tornado trying to sound like a tornado, in which case, never mind. I’ve haven’t seen a tornado except on TV but I know one thing about them, which is: they are very tricky.
    But this, whatever this is, isn’t fooling anyone. I yawn in front of the window where purple bolts can be seen zinging sideways across the sky. Guess we should be going “To the basement”. You grab us some beers out of the fridge. We pause a second to listen to the growing schunk schunk schunk. “A very emphatic sound, isn’t it?” you murmur as we close the apartment door and lock it behind us. I was thinking the exact same thing and turn and whisper against your neck “Almost too emphatic.”
    Just then, all the hall lights go out. Exactly what they should do if a tornado posing as a tornado came roaring through. We make our way to the basement door, which is outside, near the rear of the house. Hail “the size of golf balls” crashes on the sidewalk as we stand on the covered porch. “More like ‘ping-pong balls’, don’t you think?” You ask. I agree. But now I’m secretly wondering what the size difference is between a golf ball and a ping-pong ball. “Like ice balls!” I blurt out, immediately remembering that that is, in fact, what hail is. You look confused, and we stand there for a while, not saying anything, wind tearing through our shirts.
    Then you open both beers with your teeth and hand one to me. I love it when you do that. It’s so hot and chilling at the same time. I guess that means it’s luke-warm, although I’d like to think it’s something more than that. Maybe it’s complicated. As in “I love it when you do that, it’s so complicated.” There’s a “dark funnel” over the houses, spinning in the perpetual flash of the lightening. For the first time, I notice how narrow the base is, how selective its course.
    We emerge from the porch overhang and make our way to the side of the house.
    Sofa upholstery rolls by like desert brush on the dark street. Suddenly, a piece of hail ricochets off a tree and breaks the bottle you’re carrying. Beer explodes everywhere. I slip on the muddy lawn and fall on a piece of the glass. I guess I’m bleeding. I look at you. Should I be bleeding? We search each other’s eyes. We embrace dramatically. We’re trying to get to safety but it takes forever to get there.

  63. Karen Pickell

    Perpetual Cold

    In every conversation, snow
    and a cat wandering outside the door
    men swinging
    bats on the 25 inch screen
    shuffling off to the bathroom
    the store at the corner
    too much of a hassle and Father said it’s okay to miss a Mass in
    this weather
    goes on and on, leaves
    no place for me to squeeze in.

  64. Lindy™

    Sunning the Muse

    Today is so sunny and bright
    and really, I don’t want to write.
    I want to go outside and play
    to chase the morning blahs away.

    Even though I’ve just eaten lunch
    and feelings of the noonday crunch
    are drawing me to crash and burn,
    it’s sun and fun I truly yearn.

    Someday I won’t collapse undone
    at the high point of daily sun,
    I’ll find a way to switch inside
    dreaming and realities tried.

    For now life’s just a pretty day,
    not hot or cold in nature’s way.
    A little walk around the yard
    might catch my muse a bit off guard.

  65. Andrea Heiberg

    “in light of the elements”

    when a plastic pot
    with a tiny flower
    in it
    flew right in front of my nose
    in the lounge
    we all looked for the safety belts
    only someone came
    a seaman
    who announced that
    this is not rough weather yet
    before he removed the flower.

  66. mshall

    Tokyo tanka

    Teardrops of the gods
    Carrying poison pesticides
    Gift of far off lands
    Fukushima’s souvenirs
    Rain storm, cleanse this tender earth!

  67. drwasy


    It snowed that day.
    Fat soft flakes
    that collected on the pine
    boughs but not the ground.
    You sat at the kitchen table,
    hands twitching,
    hummingbird’s wings.
    “I want to walk
    a tightrope,” you said,
    and went to the garage
    to get rope.
    I continued to wash dishes
    watching out the window.
    The pine bough
    sloughed its snow,
    the rope slung over,
    a snake.
    I put down the
    kitchen towel.

  68. Jezzie

    Write a Poem about the Weather.

    In England?
    You want me to
    write a poem
    about the weather?
    How long have you got?

    It’s the opener
    for any conversation
    with a complete stranger
    whether you want to
    converse or not.

    Wet today, isn’t it?”
    Expect it will rain before long!”
    Any more rain and we’ll all have webbed feet!”
    They say we might see the sun today!”
    Heavy showers forecast later!”
    Eeee by gum, it’s cold!”
    Really hot today, isn’t it?”

    Where would
    we be without it?
    How would we start
    a conversation?
    Or would we all sit
    in silence
    on a bus or train,
    wondering if
    it would ever
    rain again.

  69. matthew


    is the fear of freezing
    barn yard animals have no such fear
    that doesn’t have anything to do with
    over zealous meteorologists scaring
    the bee-jeazous out of us with all these
    blizzard warnings and predictions of doom
    I mean really the weather channel
    acts as though they are in contact with god
    and they have started naming winter storms
    like Gandolf and Vulcan
    that is just such pandering
    although the city was a frozen wasteland
    this winter we had at least two level three
    snow emergencies and the poor kids
    the helpless schools were closed so much this winter
    I think the kids have like an extra week of school
    the horror
    I tell you what though
    back in my day
    you didn’t need to close the school to keep
    us kids home and safe
    hell our parents put the fear of god in us
    we were happy to get out of the house
    walk up to school uphill both ways
    there wasn’t any time to fear the stairs
    Climacophobia just didn’t register

  70. aphotic soul

    Crystalline Sunset
    by Paul Andrew Ryan

    Here blows the blossoming breeze,
    Shaking and ruffling the withering trees,
    Roaring and howling like the ocean seas,
    Spreading softly with a gentle ease,
    It reaches out to all who say goodbye,
    And toasts to us with a shot of rye,
    While the sky beckons with a tenuous tease,
    Letting us know we may come when we please,
    To that the sun dives into the vast crystalline sky,
    Only to rise again slowly, seemingly shy,
    How it flirts with us, who are meant to die,
    And mourns for us with an aphotic cry,
    Forgotten memories, now shadows of our persons,
    As the listless life we leave, continually worsens,
    And all but for the glory go we,
    Until no light is left for others to see,
    Straightforward and direct, no tragedy,
    We simply cease, and no longer are meant to be.

  71. Margie Fuston

    Storm Chaser

    You came with the tornado, sitting
    in the eye, sipping an upside down
    caramel macchiato, ignoring the swirl
    around you, calling to me anyways,
    tempting me closer and closer
    until my blouse, my ruby earrings,
    my Victoria’s Secret underwear,
    my fingers, toes, internal organs,
    were all swept up, revolving around
    you like so many pieces of debris.

  72. SestinaNia


    Life me up, sweep me
    into the night air—
    swirl me in
    the vortex.
    I can handle
    the tempestuous torment
    because eventually
    I will reach the oasis
    in your eyes.

    — Sara Doyle

  73. De Jackson

    Scattered Skies and Lies
    (a Fib)


    my salt.
    Not my fault
    you found my cloudy
    core. Now that everything has fall
    -en from above, how can we love these silver linings?
    There’s a cold front moving in here
    and one thing is clear:
    the end of
    this storm


  74. Benjamin Thomas

    The Despicable Sea

    Hard to explain
    the mystery, the madness at sea
    all the insane earthquakes
    catastrophic tsunamis
    Hard to explain
    the inexplicable
    the unthinkable sadness at sea
    all the grown men swallowed whole
    submerged in abysmal blue
    Hard to explain
    the unpredictable
    the despicable stoic

  75. Zeenie

    ocean’s saxophone
    for my brother

    In the days when you
    were blue-eyed thunder
    with springs for legs
    and too many words
    for a three-year-old mouth,

    I believed I could catch
    all the rain that fell like magnets
    above your bedroom,

    turn off every smoke alarm,
    keep away the heat-stroke
    and bicycle burns –

    be the backside of a spoon.
    Mash pain into a paste,
    bury it under our trampoline –
    the safest place for secrets.

    I saw the way you looked
    at door hinges and closet
    locks like you wanted
    to reconstruct our house
    from the underground.

    Now, when I return
    to this always-shifting home
    with strong shoulders
    and heavy shoes,

    your eyes look more
    like carved turquoise and less
    like a flustered sea;

    your arms, once restless
    branches, are ropes,
    carrying light and dark
    with spirit and a smirk.

    When I am tired of hearing
    the pattern of my heartbeats,
    I remember the music of yours –
    murmuring waves,
    ocean’s saxophone.

  76. shellcook

    Prompt #18
    Weather poem

    Do you suppose that the weather has its own private agenda?
    Let’s make rain today, so we can increase human frustration levels.
    Let’s spin up a wicked tornado, and create some fear today.
    Because it just makes sense, that weather, changes human emotions
    on a mass scale.

    The weather, we check it everyday, and then it sets the tone worldwide.
    I find that fascinating, how we have come to pray to the weather god.
    Red skies at night, sailors delight.
    Which tells me this is an ancient practice.

    The weather gods have been smiling on us here.
    Blue skies at dawn and purple skies at dusk.
    With rain, blessed rain, soothing the furrows from our brows
    and saving our spring planting.
    Like other gods of life, death, and survival
    these nature kings show no emotion on the face of things.
    I, however, have a feeling that they are the very essence
    of intuitive matter, God particles.
    and that creates all that is.

    God, intelligent design, whatever works
    and whatever is,
    I thank you, for the weather that blesses us
    whatever the circumstance.

  77. seingraham


    It’s past the Ides of April, well past
    some would say
    And yet, today we got fifteen centimetres
    Not rain, no — that would be blessed,
    wouldn’t you think
    April showers and all that
    But no, we got almost a foot of the fluffy
    white stuff
    And it didn’t melt as soon as it hit the
    ground the way most of us expected
    But accumulated like icing sugar,
    ready for some French toast
    to be rolled in it
    Or a beignet or some such

    But nothing that delicious was about
    to take place, and we all knew it
    This was more of winter waltzing in to
    say, in your face, it’s not Spring here yet
    Don’t you remember where you live
    On the 53rd parallel, right near the lip
    of the Arctic Circle

    Spring does not really settle in to stay
    until the May long weekend
    You know it’s true…all the gardening
    places don’t even put their plants on
    sale until that chaotic weekend
    Is it coming clear to you now?
    There’s no point in playing the denials
    game…every year, it’s the same thing
    Snow from Halloween to sometime
    after Easter and Easter’s particularly
    late this year
    But even Easter’s too soon…it’s the
    Victoria Day long weekend at the end
    of May…that’s when Spring officially
    spreads her wings and alights here

  78. Benjamin Thomas


    She could overwhelm like rain
    in the midst of chronic storm;
    and when things were not the norm,
    He was gone with the wind,
    hustling… long transient

    Her vulturous mood swooped like hurricane,
    often untamed without a conscience.
    Although their love flowed in full tide,
    It ran ashamed lost in the drains.

  79. P.A. Beyer

    Harrisonfield Road, February 23rd

    Momma, I couldn’t afford to fix the Ford.
    Not since I got back from over there.
    Maeve was understand’n bout it.
    “We don’t need any heat in the car,
    when we got love.”

    It wasn’t supposed to freeze up again that night.
    That’s what Carl Williams said on the TV
    but weathermen ain’t always got the sight and
    weather, well weather don’t give no damn
    about what’s right and wrong.

    When the snow picked up and the windows fogged,
    I couldn’t brake in time to avoid that damn doe.
    We rolled, right into the ditch, not far from Mitch’s
    mailbox. The slide on the ice felt forev’r,
    like a stopped watch.

    The engine was smoking. All I could think to do
    was get Maeve out of there. We was both buckled up,
    that I did learn from the Judge. We had three, maybe
    four miles to get back to our home. But it was so cold, so cold
    Maeve was trembling.

    I grabbed the rope from the back. I tied the knots ‘round
    our hands, cuz Maeve’s hands was too shaky. I’d seen shakes
    like that over there. I knew we needed to get home fast.
    “We’ll be home real soon, honey, real soon.
    Quick as a wink.”

    But that damn snow kept falling. Piles on top of the piles.
    Each step, a battle, no a war. I told Maeve,
    “Hold on to the rope, don’t let go of the rope.”
    And I led the way across the field. The snow,
    like damn bees on my cheeks.

    I knew we were somewhere near the Harrison’s house.
    If I could just find the red barn,
    we’d be fine for the night but the rope went slack
    when I fell into the drift. Something raged in me and
    I clawed my way back up.

    I swear I heard the neighbor’s stallions. I just knew
    we had to be close, so close. But my calls to
    Maeve went unanswered. I searched, all panicked.
    I couldn’t find her, Momma. I howled, but my howls were
    a whisper to the wind’s screams.

    I circled ‘round and ‘round, no response in the lost night.
    Whatever tears I might of had were ice. My heart,
    pounding like my fist on that damn bar window. I would not give up
    until, I felt the pain in my chest. My limbs done gave out –
    a blackout in the whiteout.

    When I woke, I was in the red barn. Pushed up between two
    damn ewes. Thank goodness for the Harrison boy, he
    dragged me in. I screamed for Maeve but Mr. Harrison
    touched me on my shoulder and then he look’d away.
    It was all too late.

    They found Maeve, kneeling against a snow bank.
    Like an angel, her head looking upwards and her
    arms out up to the heavens. I wake up at night
    wondering, was she reaching for me or
    reaching for God, Momma?

    Can you do me a favor, Momma – when you see her,
    can you just tell her I love her?

  80. BDP

    Finally, a sestina! Days late.


    “Seattle Rain, Magazine Salesman”

    Re-hanging curtains, needing eyeglass help,
    I tease the drapery hook, mini-point
    per wee hole, gouge out more than just one chip
    of wall paint. Too damn young to not see well.
    Oh, bull crap: multi-focals any day
    will walk right up and rap my aging door.

    Knock, knock. I jump. That’s creepy. At the door,
    a teenager. My choices: May I help?
    Or best: I’m busy, try another day.
    Sigh, flick my gaze past him, fake smile, sky point,
    “Sure wet,” I state, as if he very well
    hadn’t noticed he’s sopped. “There are these chips”—

    No thanks, Ma’am. Not hungry. Might you please chip
    a twenty in? Just one? (He holds the door.)
    I been out all afternoon, and it’s, well,
    darn mizzer-ble. Just a tad bit of help.
    (I shift my feet, a lot, and hope his points
    are quick then done.) So if you buy today—

    “Rain won’t quit even if you talk all day”
    (fake smile two, bad joke). Ma’am, I’m Southern. Chip
    Travis and me drove up. Mind if I point?
    Momma says watch my manners. By the door,
    your pet there, does he scratch? She says to help
    out others. Tomcat got me good, dug well

    below skin. Man said, “Your fault! He’s not well
    and don’t sue either!” That was yesterday,
    his beast. See? Scratch looks like a cobra. Help
    would be appreciated. Get two, chip
    in for some women’s shelter. Door-to-door
    “People.” (I sign.) Wow, thanks—that’s nice! “The point”

    (I blurt out) “you have a dead-end job.” Point?
    (Something flashes. Till then, so nice!) My swell
    friends, me, I’m in the back, yank the van door,
    light’s red, poor beggar dude’s drenched, what a day!
    I drop two quarters in his cup. Then Chip
    shouts, opening a bag of Lays, “I’ll help!”

    flipping one chip out his door. Work for help, the guy’s
    sign says. He limps and picks it up, eats it. Would you
    laugh, Ma’am? (The teen points to my cat.) Have a nice day.

    –Barb Peters

  81. Snowqueen

    Old Man Winter

    You’re misunderstood I think
    Under-appreciated for what you bring
    You’re not here long, you’re gone in a blink
    Still, all they long for is spring
    Karen D.

  82. Clark Buffington


    lightning sears as thunder cracks
    a storm rages in my soul

    wind rips and roars
    a tornado blows my mind

    floods run unstoppable
    a hurricane washes my heart

    ruin of my own creation
    storms of my choices

  83. beachanny

    Pure Hot

    the air-conditioner rumbles contentment
    the sealed house shields me from mosquitoes
    the filtered air allows me to breathe
    outside the world seems to wither

    I know how it feels, how it burns, how it saps
    sun in Texas ain’t no joy, it’s misery
    blues, thy name is Sunshine with no clouds,
    soil with no water, trees with no leaves.

    Some in northern parts say “Rejoice,
    your bad weather only lasts the summer,
    then you have nine months of moderation.”
    but that ain’t so …neither.

    We have winter for six weeks and it’s cold.
    Summer usually starts in March..it’s a rare
    spring that we don’t need air-conditioning
    and it lasts until November — draggin’ on.
    sometimes we have a week or two of relief
    a thunderstorm with hail promising a tornado
    but…from Lubbock to Abilene, Dallas to Houston
    we work, we shop, we auto, we sleep in….
    air-conditioned air… how did people live here
    without it ….. I do not think they did!

    © Gay Reiser Cannon

  84. Clark Buffington

    The Rain Fell on Our New Home

    It started with a cold clammy drizzle the day we moved in
    Days of wet cold misery that all to soon turned to rain
    A week of wet soggy days that felt like a month
    It was not done with us as the rain quit falling and started pouring
    The downpour tried in vain to get into a soil that was full
    Then it let loose with a torrent of water that fell sideways as much as down
    Nothing to be heard over the pounding water hitting the sides of the house
    Adding to swollen flow picking up speed as it went around the house
    Our new home our dream to be washed away
    Ten days and twenty-three inches of rain
    Our house still stands

  85. MyPoeticHeart

    The Weather Forecaster

    There are heaps you can learn about weather
    just from owning pets and or livestock
    grandparents too without saying a word
    I am sure that sounds quite absurd.
    Take domestic pets for example like fish in a tank..
    dogs, cats and birds know long before the weather has changed
    they will pace, perhaps whine and look for shelter
    just watch the next time and observe your pets.
    The elderly don’t need to watch the news either
    joints creek and ache like nobodies business
    old injuries throb and beg for relief
    long before radio’s, televisions and weather dot com
    the animal world was our weather forecaster
    and if you care take out a chair and watch with your
    eyes and ears.

  86. Patricia A. Hawkenson

    Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Day 18 Weather poem

    Moss Grows on the North Side of the Tree

    Our battlestar
    is almost out of gas.
    Earthquake weather.
    There can only be one token
    on a square at a time.
    You’ll be sent back
    to the start
    or evicted
    from the game.
    Follow the rules
    or don’t bother
    to play.
    This isn’t your mother’s
    hopscotch game
    that can be erased
    by a heavy rain.


  87. Scott Jacobson


    Inside of me it never rains, so out crawls
    the lizard. My lawn dried up and blew away
    to be replaced by sand, cacti, and three rocks
    placed strategically in a failed attempt at a zen
    garden. Yet, the backyard still lacks life’s waves.
    I don’t remember the last time you watered
    me with kisses. At noon all I feel are photons.
    Cinderblocks and chain-link fences keep
    me from the freeway onramp going east
    toward your Atlantic ocean. The ants
    have come on up and made my house
    their home. The television warns us that
    the heat wave will continue into our future.
    Forgive me for buying an air conditioner
    that sounds like a train until it breaks.
    The wind makes dirt devils that look
    like you when you had a bad hair day
    before letting the sand fall like rain.
    The blue skies don’t know how to end.
    But I know when your clouds come back
    they will create a mudslide.

  88. peacegirlout

    Storms weathered

    The scent of a tear
    Is subtle like the
    Skin of a raindrop
    The aroma of a bruise
    Fresh picked lilacs
    On a mid-summer night
    After Running away from home

  89. MaryAnn1067

    Intemperate Weather

    intemperate weather, blowing your
    chill breath down the back of

    her neck, the cataracts and
    hurricanoes breaking above her

    head, waiting, perched, birdlike, on a
    sleety step for the postman, blue,

    to deliver slim envelopes, white, each
    one carrying sad, sodden words

    of unsuitability, unfitness,
    the dismal forecast spread out

    on slips of paper destined for
    the rubbish bin as

    the sun stutters, finally,
    to the sky, the bell tolls twelve,

    granting her the
    grace of sunshine

  90. carolecole66

    “You don’t need a weatherman . . .”

    “Unseasonably cool and rainy for this time of year
    though no need to cover plants, bring animals inside,” said
    the weatherman, ” but be prepared tomorrow for dreary
    skies.” I felt my heart lift. By April we’ve usually shed

    our sweaters, sweatshirts. long pants. The leaden sky
    today promised rain. I confess, too many sunny days tire
    my spirit. The harsh heat wears me down, and I
    long for unbroken days of thunder, of lightning like fire

    thrown by agile circus clowns. Here is where my energy lies,
    here in the gloom of half-light. My mind curls back into the dark,
    finds joy in wandering the psychic halls and so defies
    the wisdom that declares the healing power of lark

    songs. I tell you: days of rain and clouds and sudden storms can heal
    the heart. Too much of bright light blinds me, makes the world unreal.


  91. DamonZ

    “Sitting on the Porch”

    The warm evening breeze has suddenly stopped.
    The tranquil calm before the intense storm.
    The temperature has suddenly and sharply dropped.
    On the horizon a diabolical darkness takes form.


    The sky now a ghastly, greenish-black.
    The flashes coming quite constant now.
    The earth trembles from the intense staccato crack.
    Every creature jumps at the shuttering sound.
    The trees twist, bend and sway.
    Ducking from bombs disguised as hail and rain.
    They try to uproot and run but they can’t get away.
    The temper of the tenacious devil shows no constraint.
    The power and energy of storms in spring,
    An unparalleled, powerful thing.

    By: Damon Zallar

  92. GirlGriot

    I’m back to thinking about the genealogical discoveries that I’ve made in the last week.

    the past
    I’m coming.
    Turning on lights,
    opening windows.
    One day — soon? —
    the right record,
    the right file box,
    will unfold,
    take the spotlight,
    reveal me to me.

    (The form is an Arun, a 15-line poem with the syllable count 1/2/3/4/5 — 3x. It may be a new thing in the world, made up by me last year. “Arun” means “five” in Yoruba.)

  93. CathyBlogs

    Small Craft Warning

    Let’s take the boat out,
    he said. Storm’s over,
    we’ll be okay.

    The dock was still wet,
    though the rain had stopped.
    He opened the cover,
    peeled off the tarps and
    stashed them away.
    The whitecaps blinked
    beyond the marina.
    It’s calming down,
    he said — even though
    the breeze was stiff
    and the lake choppy —
    we’ll be fine.
    Out in the open water
    he cut the engine and
    floated, the waves
    hitting the hull
    with staccato splashes.
    Above the small craft
    the clouds moved on,
    the storm fading east,
    the thin glowing line of clearing
    defining a malleable boundary
    between the slate water
    and mirrored sky.
    When the sun slide
    between the lake and
    and the thinning clouds,
    he steered south, to home,
    and tied up.

    On the beach
    all that was left of the storm
    was a curving line of dead fish
    and detritus.

    She waited in the day’s
    last oblique and crimson light.
    I guess you were right,
    she said. You’re okay.
    You’re wrong,
    he said.
    Storm’s not over.

    by Cathy Dee writing at http://www.CathyBlogs.com

  94. Kevin D Young


    The inside of a raindrop, quiet as Notre Dame
    numbed before a Monday sunrise, whether it roils
    within the thunderhead, boiling upwards
    on sun-stoked drafts, or careens from that
    Olympus as Hermes flees the will of Zeus,
    conceals a whisper. Long before this flight
    a microscopic impishness congealed around
    a might, a maybe of bacterial proportions,
    a flick of breezy vesper. One quick jester
    was enough to wick this aerial minutia
    from its lumbered cradle, to hie this tumbled,
    growing tear from one clear continent
    to another’s growing uncertainty, until knit
    within a whole, the whole breaks. Holy
    men of old have scribed the sky’s demeanor
    but failed to grip its meaning. It is this:
    The inside of a raindrop is as quiet
    as Notre Dame, and thrice as light.

  95. Alphabet Architect

    Elemental Artistry

    Weather, paint upon your canvas
    what you’ve wrought or soon will wreak
    Punctuate your storms with rainbows;
    Form sundog parentheses.

    Ebon clear but for the astral
    Brush night skies before first frost;
    And with strokes of clearest azure
    Days when Bo-Peep clouds are lost.

    Coat with red a morning’s warning;
    Scarlet orange an eve’s delight.
    Blend the prism’s ordered palette
    As the day accedes to night.

    Gather dust from autumn’s corn fields;
    Fling into a sepia sky.
    Then when winter trees are barren
    Grayscale landscape clothe in white

    March must change her dirty dresses
    Underneath a silvery moon;
    April line her gowns with luster;
    Golden drench June’s afternoon

    None can rival you as an artist
    Varied in each hue and tone
    Ever changing, rearranging,
    Never lacking, never done.

  96. fahey

    A spring like

    A spring that tastes like blackberry seeds;
    a skin that cools then bursts at teeth.

    A spring that sounds like summer thunder;
    like headwinds tunneling, and rooms of sound.

    A spring that tips ever more backwards,
    that feels like shadows creeping down.

    1. Kevin D Young

      This is very nicely done. I especially like the vision of “tips ever more backwards,” though all the other phrases are also well conceived.

  97. Clae


    There is no green
    more vivid than leaves
    against a storm-dark sky

    There is no gray
    like the clouds that stray
    to banish heat and dry

    There is no black
    like soil loosely packed
    freshened by wet weather

    There is no tone
    earth can make alone
    rain cannot make better

    T.S. Gray

  98. RebekahJ

    Counting to 350

    The jellification of the oceans
    Does not mean billows of fruit roll-ups
    Gumdrop icebergs, pink gelatin horizon
    Or puffs of whipped cream clouds

    One day, the postmodernist wrote long ago,
    The weather will lead the news
    How I wish we could return that thought to fiction
    Roll back the mudslides fire drought
    Invert the hurricane
    Let boring chitchat reign

    Tell me how not to drown in stinging panic
    But also not distract
    How to marry facts to action
    Yet preserve a peaceful heart

    Plagues have come before, and meteors
    Famine, holocausts
    Bloody history offers some odd solace

    But every day I pray to know
    How we may spread love’s kindness
    Not only to all people
    But to minerals and clouds

    Kimberly Gladman Jackson

  99. Rosemary Nissen-Wade

    Weather Report, Outside and In

    It’s a warm autumn day outside
    but overcast in the house
    with the blinds all closed

    against the heat,
    which is not extreme.
    I forget that Summer has gone.

    I’m listening to Rufus Wainwright
    soaring on YouTube, singing
    Fare Thee Well … “oh, fare thee well.”

    I’ve shut my doors against
    one who wants to come and rest here
    after his latest hurt.

    He said, ”I’m not asking for a saviour
    but a friend. If it goes on past a month,
    I’ll just add my name to the lease.”

    “Oh no you fucking won’t!” I said.
    Now I feel as if I’d swallowed
    a mass of thick grey sludge.

    He says I’m harsh. I know I’m selfish.
    “Have you ever had nowhere to go?”
    he asks. “Have you ever just wanted

    a quiet place with a good friend?”
    No. Nevertheless.
    It’s a warm autumn day, outside.

  100. pcm

    And Man Said, Let There Be Weather

    Knobby kneed Cypress await like giddy brides
    for the waters of the delta to rise.
    Unprecedented flooding is causing havoc along
    the delta this year as the wine cellars of Biloxi
    Beauteous People Estates report heavy damage….

    Desert fox eyes close in sleepy slits as
    a rattlesnake shimmers in a sunbath.
    It’s another blistering heat wave here in Lake
    Havesu City as Joe Rodriguez simmers a filet
    mignon in cream sauce to medium rare on his
    sidewalk. All over town, people are abandoning
    their barbecues for their front sidewalks causing
    bicycle pile-ups that have police worried….

    Pine trees sigh and glow, the proud parents
    of their forthcoming progeny eagerly awaited
    by cannibal squirrel and Pine Siskin midwives.
    It’s the worst pollen ever. Virginia Sue, who lost
    her daughter on the playground today, had this to
    say, “If only I hadn’t dressed her in those lime
    green overalls!” Lawyers are preparing a class
    action suit against Oshkosh for using dangerous colors….

    Jersey tomato seeds, sprung from last year’s plants,
    plum grow themselves, stretching eager rootlets
    into welcoming soil, promising a bumper crop.
    In breaking news from Atlantic City today, Irma
    and Norman Cassidy were found passed out on
    the boardwalk due to the extreme humidity during
    their weekend of non-stop slot machine playing.
    Paramedics ruled out the octogenarian couple’s
    diet of Coumadin, chewy chocolate Ex-Lax,
    Bourbon and Coke, and casino buffets as the cause….

    Black bears fat with blueberries cuddle up in their
    caves to dream as geese fly south and natty white,
    black and grey winter juncos arrive at the feeder.
    According to our Doppler radar report, freezing
    conditions will continue throughout the Poconos
    over Presidents’ Day threatening retail sales with
    severe to heavy losses….

    Instead of
    fetching an umbrella,
    settling into a rocking chair,
    enjoying spring fecundity,
    mopping a damp brow with the back of one’s hand,
    or donning a coat,
    we roil the change of seasons into
    images and scripts that play
    over and over
    until what’s natural
    weather porn.

  101. SuziBwritin

    PAD APRIL 2014 #18 WEATHER


    Driving from southern Wisconsin
    down to southern Illinois
    it’s amazing the difference
    in landscape
    drivers’ courtesy

    Southern Wisconsin streets are
    hard to maneuver and
    if you don’t know where you’re going
    you’re sure to find yourself
    stuck up against dead-end streets
    and even the lakes!

    Rolling farms give way to an edgy feel
    approaching the “Welcome to Illinois” sign
    accompanied by drivers going faster
    seeming to need to be somewhere sooner
    and bumping up against your rear-view mirror
    zooming off in front of you when you pull over
    then slowing down in your lane very soon after
    What is up with that?

    But there is nothing
    like the wonderful feel
    of open space
    acres and acres of farmland
    a horizon as big as God
    with occasional houses, horses
    little manmade ponds strung with RVs
    and the “Guns for Life” signs
    that leave a message in rhyme
    penned by a patriotic
    taking poetic license

  102. muse60

    Like the breath of a sleepy god
    Lays hands across woods and fields
    Falling as tranquil manna,
    Softly, into the arms of the Earth
    As if an invasion of feathers
    Soothing the starving gray landscape

    Evening arrives in soft arrangements
    Powdered by the early gasps of winter
    Unnatural colors paint the horizon
    Deepen by the moment
    Then settle into rich natural hues of night
    Naked trees claw at a navy sky with skeletal fingers
    The ceiling to a white path of silence

  103. muse60

    I feel obtuse
    Of different sect
    From minds of those
    Wishing only to forget
    The kiss of weather
    Its seasoned fist
    Blowing harsh gales
    Sowing raging mists

    Those who crave
    Only sunny days
    Despise the grays
    Of a summer haze
    Fear the thunder
    That shakes their windows
    Curse the clouds
    Whenever it snows

    For frost on a flower
    I see as a poem
    The death of a season
    An omen of autumn
    Before a season of sleep
    And then a renewal
    When Spring bursts forth
    From its cocoon like a jewel

    I feel a stranger
    To the cowards of comfort
    Who fail to witness
    A rain storm as concert
    Are numb to the chimes
    Of a turbulent sea
    And never will hear
    A hurricane as symphony

  104. bethwk

    Wind in the sycamore.
    Robin in a vesper mood
    high in the waving branches.
    Clouds skuthering over the hillside.
    Spring dances through the hollow.

    by Elizabeth Weaver-Kreider

  105. acele

    Autumn Crunching crisp leaves
    releasing dusty fresh scent of
    spiced summer’s past remembered
    draw back to your roots.

    Winter wondering waiting out the
    quiet clean white slate
    Ready to make bright
    Shine your colors!

    Spring mornings with footsteps on
    birds singing as if all life

    on each whistle & warble
    venture out…

    Late afternoon golden summer
    turning fields yellow
    hanging as if clean on a line
    with heavy lazy satisfaction
    Let go of your burden.

    A. Cele

  106. Lewis Lunde

    Spring is full swing in the deep Northwest,
    and the weather is a temperamental diva in the midst of a tantrum.
    It is a chaotic and beautiful expression of earth’s emotions.

    The past two weeks I have seen the snow fall in the foothills,
    and watched diehard snowboarders race their Subarus to the summit
    to carve their season ending runs on the slopes of Snoqualmie
    before the trails are turned over to mountain bikers and hikers.

    I was treated to a slushy scene from my front window,
    where a small sad child head bowed down to the ground
    still dressed for winter’s worst dragging his plastic blue toboggan
    scraping loudly across the concrete in a desperate plea
    for one last hill to ride down and yell wheeee!

    I’ve been caught driving in a monstrous hailstorm
    where the pelting of pill sized ice pellets rapping on my car
    sounded like a thousand frantic crows pacing
    around on a corrugated metal roof
    as if they were waiting to hear bad news to be delivered by the sun.

    I got soaked standing in the rain when it fell an inch in a day,
    watched the stream bordering my yard nearly spill its banks
    only to have the sun come out and to evaporate it all away,
    and give me a glimpse of a double rainbow that evening
    refracted through the prismatic mist rising.

    I witnessed an atmospheric halo around the moon,
    but missed the rare eclipse masked by a dark cloudy gloom.

    I had my shirt off for this year’s first mowing of the lawn,
    and the next day layered multiple hoodies to keep my body warm.

    There have been cherry blossoms swirling in miniature cyclones,
    and cedar boughs catching flight in high velocity windstorms.

    I have identified shapes and faces in nearly every possible cloud formation.

    Spring in the deep Northwest is the greatest treasure of climate creation.
    It is alive with spontaneous change; it’s the dance of the unanticipated and strange.

    It is the spiritual rebirth that follows death’s winter contraction.
    Alive and new all over again, which direction the wind blows,
    so does the whims of my soul go.

    I breathe in the inspiration with the cleanest of air respiration.

    I have weathered the big internal winter squeeze,
    now the weather of spring brings the external curiosity.
    I harness the full abundance of love present,
    and feel connected in the glow of all life in full growth.

    It is spring in the deep Northwest,
    and there is no better place to experience
    the dynamics of weather and her ultimate diva performance.

  107. dandelionwine

    Weather Proverb

    Endure red
    sky’s delight, warning,
    sailors’ hues
    whose beauty’s
    bound to later elements
    by it’s own nature.

    Sara Ramsdell

    1. dandelionwine

      Slight rewrite:

      Weather Proverb

      Regard red
      sky’s delight, warning –
      sailors’ hues
      whose beauty’s
      bound to later elements
      by its own nature.

  108. acele

    Why do I
    Hang my hope on
    ten little icons
    of suns
    and raindrops
    on my little gadget

    instead of
    opening my window
    looking up
    and giving thanks
    for whatever
    the weather
    I am granted today?

    A. Cele

  109. briehuling

    April 18, 2014
    Day 18

    Notes on Breathing

    The assignment was to fall in love,
    but the particulars were left out completely.
    How limitlessly, for how long, at what cost?
    Was the intention to leave the heart so exposed
    it glittered like a constellation in the sky?

    After a night of sweet screwing,
    I longed to be near him, just to hear the breathing;
    the way breathing can sound like a prayer
    or a song or a duck’s smooth landing onto a lake.

    These things we invent, the stories for our hearts–
    little tiny umbrellas against the blistering sun.

    By Brie Huling

  110. LCaramanna

    The Weatherman

    The weatherman proclaims his views
    during a closely watched segment of evening news,
    storm advisories scientifically devised,
    morning temperatures mathematically revised,
    Doppler Radar shows up on the screen,
    Polar Vortex meets the Jet Stream,
    The weatherman predicts sun, wind, or rain,
    High pressure, low pressure – it’s all his domain,
    Sometimes right, more often wrong
    I wonder why the weatherman belongs
    in a coveted spot on the evening news.
    I for one absolutely refuse
    to plan according to the weatherman’s views.

  111. Cameron Steele

    Last write-through of the evening

    Thoughts on a Windy Day

    Wind on the bare fields gusting
    cut west across prairie and cricks

    Gonna be a dry one cuz
    when it rains, it rains and rains

    when it don’t, it’s like
    a bone. Hard on the cows, too.

    Maybe we pack up
    trade possum-belly for trailer

    get us some horses follow
    the wind or just head west until

    it’s wet again. Stay a while
    sell the horses, little trouble

    little luck. Maybe we wait
    plant early, calve late

    watch dust on the fields squatting
    feel it rattle west like

    a compromise
    against our bare bones.

  112. cindikenn

    Weather Report, Middle East Summer

    Today, it will be hot.

    The sea will steam, but not boil. Warm mist
    will surround you like a sauna blanket.
    Parents of babies and small children should
    add cold water to outdoor swimming pools.

    Moisture will course down buildings and collect
    like moats at thresholds. Oily balls of wet
    will skitter on skin and drop like soggy
    breadcrumbs from your nose, elbows and fingers.

    Clothing will discolor until you look
    like an overweight construction worker.
    Or potty training toddler. Folks should
    remember to carry spare underpants

    in the event of the need to exit
    your car. Jiggly body parts will chafe.
    Painfully. No need to wash hair today
    since it will never dry. Be careful when

    touching exposed metal with naked hands
    as sizzling may occur. Be alert
    to freezing indoor temperatures as
    ac’s conspire to numb you outdoors where

    Today, it will be hot.

  113. laurie kolp

    The Hole

    a picnic table
    centers the patio,
    weeds stick out here and there
    between algoid bricks

    wooden slats
    chewed on and laid upon
    are weather-worn,
    what once was brown
    now sun-bleached gray

    but it’s okay- –
    the hole on top
    where they picnicked
    summer nights

    is a heart

  114. Elizabeth Koch

    Rain On a Weekday

    rain makes me crave
    soft covers, words,
    hot tea, solitude

    so when I say the rain
    is making me grumpy
    I’m lying, its you

  115. Natasa Bozic Grojic

    An interesting coincidence, since the poem I wrote yesterday was inspired by the rain that has been falling for days: http://natasa-summerblues.blogspot.com/2014/04/the-flood.html Anyway, here’s today’s poem:

    Lunar Eclipse

    The blushing moon,
    a chance arrangement of gravity,
    the motions of objects in the solar system.
    Their phones, their iPads,
    his 12-inch Dobsonian reflector telescope,
    looking up,
    here to see something rare and live.
    As more of the moon emerges,
    like a stand of small trees.

  116. Cameron Steele

    Thoughts on a Windy Day

    Wind on the bare fields gusting
    cut west across prairie and cricks

    Gonna be a dry one cuz
    when it rains, it rains and rains

    when it don’t, it’s like
    a bone. Hard on the cows, too.

    Maybe we pack up
    trade possum-belly for trailer

    get us some horses follow
    the wind or just head west until

    it’s wet again. Stay a while
    sell the horses, little trouble

    little luck. Maybe we wait
    plant early, calve late

    keep the dust off the fields
    rattling in our bones.

  117. iajefh

    Spring Snow Snake

    I can’t take anymore cold!
    My bones are brittle and I think a snow
    snake just bit my finger. It’s spring dang it!

    Mother nature; get your seasons in order,
    especially here on the east coast. Maryland
    is a southern state. The northern-most.

    Robins are chirping. Cardinals are prancing.
    Cherry trees blossomed. Grass is getting high
    enough to mow, but it’s cold.

    Send us some sunshine, girlfriend
    and turn up the heat. Can’t you hear
    the state banging on the radiator?
    Can’t you smell the oak burning?

  118. cobanionsmith

    Grandmother Tells Me How to Read the Signs

    See a turtle crossing the road,
    let it pass; he’s hunting higher ground.
    And a snake dead on the road
    means rain’s coming too,
    but only when he’s belly-up.
    Count on a cold snap
    near the vernal equinox
    but warmer weather
    ain’t truly arrived
    until after Easter.
    Mind how your joints ache:
    knees know about northers,
    ankles too, sometimes.
    Hips, floods. Heat?
    Dwells in the feet.
    But listen close and heed
    your heart most, Sweetie.
    It’ll tell you all about
    floods and droughts.

    (c) Courtney O’Banion Smith

  119. rachelgrace

    in the storm

    Silver drops of rain splashing in pools
    The sound of faraway rumbles across the landscape
    Threads of energy making hair stand on end
    Quiet overtakes in anticipation as the world prepares
    Silence in the middle of a storm

  120. Sharon Ann

    Is it time for al fresco dining?

    I’ve got the bread
    and the wine
    and the cheese.
    The sun is so bright.
    The sky is so clear.
    It seems warm enough,
    don’t you think?
    Well, maybe, not quite.
    A sweater perhaps?
    Maybe a light jacket too.
    I really can’t wait to enjoy
    the fresh air and fresh food
    with a warm wind in my face,
    sipping my wine in the sun.

  121. Lori DeSanti

    Life After Life

    I want to wrap November in
    a cocoon, preserve fall inside
    its warm walls like a living fossil.

    I’ve never felt peace in watching
    things die, but I feel drawn to study
    the last of its leaves that drift like

    forgotten wishes to the ground.
    They light the forest floor on fire,
    burn to tell us winter is coming

    and crackle under foot like the tip
    of a flame licking coals. There is still
    solace in their smolder, in the weight

    of winter air wringing out their color;
    and if the caterpillar stretches its new-
    found wings, they will bleed like water

    colors on paper in the rains of spring.

  122. writinglife16

    The Huddle

    The sky turned puke green.
    The woman huddled against the house.
    Fierce winds blew.
    Torrential rains fell.
    She prayed continuously.
    When it stopped,
    she was not in Kansas.

  123. Alpha1


    Grandma was uncanny
    Eyes in the back of
    Her head
    Caught us red-handed
    Smoking in the barn loft
    Nose to the wind
    Could smell an egg-sucking
    Snake in the hen house
    Ten feet away
    Head to the cloudy sky
    Could spot a storm
    A mile off
    Knee pain mild with rain
    Elbow joint severe thunder
    With high winds
    And with a fog-horn voice
    Sounded the alarm
    To workers in the
    Cotton field to
    Bring it all in

  124. lsteadly

    Small Talk

    I call every week but not much
    more than the weather changes
    in their housebound retirement and
    after sharing our news and musings
    I feel my father’s itch to go
    outside for some fresh air alone
    so it’s goodbye sweetheart then I am
    handed over to my mother
    her muffled breaths of exertion
    as she climbs out of the fog
    to comprehend our connection
    She believes I am next door as she
    prattles on about the clouds
    filling the sky and how lovely
    the snow is the prettiest she has ever seen
    though she says that every time
    with such conviction I begin to think
    maybe she’s right despite the bitter cold
    but I am so tired of the snow
    and yearn for the lilacs and fresh cut grass
    to bombard me through open windows
    but mother disagrees and suddenly
    I picture the mist veil her eyes
    as her voice drifts away in the clouds
    of her mind and I have lost her again
    until the next snowflake falls

  125. beale.alexis

    “Rainy Afternoons”

    A grey canvas
    blurred with harsh blues and blacks.
    The fat lady shrieks
    and pops the child’s white balloon.
    They wither and droop down
    in heavy, clear droplets
    onto my head.

    I’ve always loved the rain,
    but you insisted
    on giving me your
    umbrella. It wasn’t very large,
    only enough room to protect one.
    Under soaked hair,
    your rainbow smile had the potential
    to cure the weather completely.
    I take hold of your umbrella
    and closed it.
    There, now we’ll both
    be soaked to our knees.

  126. gmagrady


    The pitter-patter of rain so sweet
    is simply chomping at the bit for what’s to come.

    The chitter-chatter of rain so sweet
    is called upon by blithe breezes.
    An elegant waltz they dance,
    until they become long-winded.

    The drumming of hail cuts in,
    sarcastically beating slow,
    and then looks over his shoulder
    and motions.
    “Shall we?” he asks on the verge of fury.
    “As you,” starts the flurry,

    No longer graceful in its drizzle,
    without signal,
    the rain so sweet turns bitter as it batters
    unlucky passers by.
    Ice pelted, frost-bite belted,
    like wolves howling a lonesome tune
    in search of their dwelling.

    And the child sits in the window,
    hypnotized, mesmerized,
    by thundersnow,
    its frantic rhythm, frenzied steps,
    its swirls, and twirls, and bends,
    criss-crossing between trees in a violent
    perfect storm, it sends
    sky switches from off to aglow
    illuminating eerie twilight
    shadows and then a whipping
    fired up, unending,
    branches flying
    between sleet sheets

    then finally
    yes, finally


    just the pitter patter of rain so sweet


    it comes as welcomed relief
    this silence after commotion


    to have witnessed
    beauty and danger walking hand in hand,
    it’s poetry in motion.

  127. Michelle Hed

    The Fickle Dance of the Seasons (A Ruba’i)

    The weather is mistress to no one,
    she flirts with the temperatures in great fun
    dancing up and down the thermometer,
    blowing kisses like a hussy on the run.

  128. PKpoet

    Day 18: Weather

    I still can’t believe
    you let me stand
    in the rain that night
    under the window

    I really hate the rain like that
    when it just sprays lightly and coats
    my skin and hair
    I don’t like the cold rain
    and I stood there
    Why didn’t you
    let me inside?
    I still can’t believe
    you left me in the rain.

  129. intheshadowofthesoul

    Chance of Rain
    Lydia Flores

    The sky furrowed its eyebrows
    clouds moved in and it’s face
    blushed grey and cold. Closing
    my eyes for a moment, the rain
    fell hard drenching the world with
    it’s water weight. I felt as if I were
    breaking open right in front of you.
    But you opened your umbrella and
    ducked under its shelter,heading for
    home you left me open and regretful.
    In the sun you smiled as if you loved
    me that much to open yourself through
    your teeth. But I rather cold gloom where
    your heart is tested and proves its hold.
    I guess kissing in the rain only happens
    in the movies. Because I opened up for
    you and you opened your umbrella instead.
    You couldn’t weather the storm with me,
    gave up rainy mornings for sunny afternoons
    with someone else. If you would have walked
    through the puddles and let the sky weep a while
    the sun would have returned and gave us a rainbow.

  130. DCR1986

    Good Friday: Calm, Cool, and Coziness

    At fifty-six degrees,
    for hours, Sun called out and slept in.
    Sheets of clouds melted the blue away
    while the wind sprinted by me.
    As it strongly strolled from East to West,
    it generously ignited flesh with goose-bumps,
    left a family of trees waving,
    and multiple lines of wisterias jiggling
    from their roots.
    By sixty degrees,
    the ripples of the lake
    held hands with April’s showers.

    —Danielle C. Robinson

  131. James Brush


    I live in a land of short trees,
    tinder and kindling growing

    wild on the blackland prairie.
    The open blasting sky awaits

    bottle rocket cigarette butt sparks.
    Folks with an uneasy eye on

    brown grass and the roadside
    fireworks stands say we just

    need one good hurricane.
    The rocky soil is a doormat for

    the chihuahua desert slinking
    eastward. Its dragon’s breath wind

    stokes the fires when they come.

  132. encrerouge

    The whispers of an absent and far drought

    The wind collides with the heat
    only to disperse the news around the block
    Amy got shot by the river, and her sapphire strolls
    onto the unfamiliar silence of a hum

    no white between the blue
    but a blazing question within the sunrays
    Burn to transcribe the skins of whom?
    To them, perhaps, the mystery of a Sunday

    lift me up monsoon, let me find the cloud
    on this howling day, where pinwheels accelerate
    the earth has to whistle the fierce howl
    of a weather that has witness a delegate!

    – Crowded inside the poppies, without comprehension,
    lies a dagger of rain, with kissed fingerprints of the victim
    may this song , touch the untouched by forest fires
    the self is a storm that can easily expire –

  133. priyajane

    Rainy tears

    Tears fall like rain
    I know not why
    Pitter patter
    I listen to their sobs
    It was not in the forecast
    A moist ache in the bones
    wants to be heard
    Black clouds in the heart
    with the voices of thunder
    demand attention
    as I listen to them roar
    twitching on unseen wounds
    and I listen to the crash
    of broken dreams
    in the splashing rain
    searching for the rainbow—-

  134. emmaisan0wl

    After The Rain

    your fingers are raindrops on my skin.
    I am soaked in you, drowning –
    your lips teach me how to breathe,
    and it fogs up the windows.
    we are a summer storm
    shifting harmonies of clear sky and cloud
    and I always loved the misty air but
    next to the monsoons in your eyes, my darling,
    it is nothing,


    I finally wipe the windows clean.
    I turn on every tap in the house
    open all the shutters
    and wonder how and why I am supposed to find radiance
    in this empty, cold sunlight.
    I crave an overcast sky.
    my darling, I was caught in your downpour
    and I no longer have the energy to figure out how
    to wring the water
    out of my

  135. DanielR

    A glowing half-moon smiles at me
    through the majestic painted darkness
    of a clear October midnight sky
    shivering the aspen leaves with radiance
    born of its own reflection off the pond
    and a single, lonely hovering cloud
    appears nothing more than an ink blot
    a freeform stain of dark on dark
    surrounded by the flamboyant shower
    of an infinite number of sparkling stars
    the serenity of the night’s silence is broken
    by a Spotted Owl calling out to me
    Who? Who? Who is responsible for such beauty?

    Daniel Roessler

  136. julie e.


    Two small dots
    punctuating a wheat
    field, writhing a love
    letter in the dirt
    till a shade of sky
    bunched above them, such
    as she had never seen.
    But he the Kansas boy had,
    so clutching her hand
    they dashed from the
    dust storm,
    earth etching
    her fragile

  137. Shell

    The Four Season’s Of Abberant
    By Shell Ochsner

    Quickly the season’s change bringing about

    the new,

    the beautiful,

    and often dangerous.

    Paradisiac conversations with no excuse

    for silence,

    besotted not,

    and drones on.

    Unpredictably wicked like a scorned woman

    robbed of love,

    with no remorse,

    and lack of empathy.

    At times beauty takes reign and our mother

    allocates radiant colors,

    warm nights,

    and best of memories.

  138. anneemcwilliams


    earth seems unsure of itself for
    it’s own reasons. winter
    feels sluggish and unsure.
    air cracks, our lungs ache.
    in spring everyone is trying
    to make themselves believe
    the cold has finally gone.
    air’s itchy, throats tickle. ears
    ache. there is so much else
    to be unsure of.
    in summer, we will surely smother,
    stifled, we swelter and sweat.
    in fall, in cold crisp air, we sneeze.
    we cough and wheeze.
    has an unmistakable fragrance.
    the wind, remembering nothing,
    returns to us the breath of seasons,
    still, we don’t acknowledge
    what is being lost.

    first draft 04/18/2014

  139. RuthieShev

    OK…so I don’t know if I am doing this right but here is my first try at PAD.

    Headed for Storms
    By Ruthie Shevock
    As a young girl the storms were in my heart
    Waiting for a new love or relationship to start.
    The twisters in my stomach were inviting
    Me to look forward to a life that would be exciting.

    After marriage the storms were still there
    But they calmed down since I had someone to share
    The struggle up the flooded mountainside
    Caused by the rain and life’s stormy ride.

    Now my weather takes on different forms.
    Lightning strikes and brings on thunderstorms.
    For I have approached the golden years
    Filled with a strong impact that comes with fear
    That I will forget that fiery blaze
    Of my stormy, exciting youthful days.

    1. PKP

      Welcome Ruthie – Yes, you did this just right – although you don’t need to write your name again. Most importantly this is a lovely poem I especially enjoyed the last two lines …. Look forward to seeing more of you :)

  140. susanjer

    The Weatherwoman Dresses For Work

    As usual hail is expected in Texas. So for my first on camera
    segment I’ll wear a helmet, striped jersey and fingerless biking
    gloves. Baseball gear would be more appropriate since hail is
    super-sized these days. No, that would be taunting. At
    commercial break I’ll change to a sheer blouse suggesting early
    morning fog floating over the foothills of Mount Shasta. I’ll keep
    the cycling shorts whose padded rear hints at nimbus clouds
    building over the North Dakota plains. I’ll aim my pointer that
    simulates lightning at the center of the US map. Zap. If I
    unbutton the top two buttons of my blouse it is in empathy for
    the farmers desperate for rain. I’ve asked the cameraman not to
    pop his gum on set, but foothills and clouds distract him.

  141. Roderick Bates

    A Rough Winter

    by Roderick Bates

    “It’s been the winter from Hell,” my neighbor says,
    as she shovels frozen leaf muck from her culvert,
    lets the Spring runoff flow away from the drive.

    We chat a bit, then I put the truck in first gear,
    head down the dirt road. She’s wrong, I think,
    as I turn onto the pavement and make for town.

    This winter was bitter cold, the coldest
    in a decade, and cold, so far as we know,
    is not one of wily Satan’s usual tricks.

    It was bone-deep cold, icy blue cold,
    and it was silent cold, as three feet
    of sullen snow muffled all sound.

    Hell, I think, is red and orange and yellow,
    with flames and smoke and constant stink
    and the screams of the forever damned.

    Instead we had eternal bleakness, absence
    of any living warmth, any soft touch.
    We had a time of endless waiting.

    If I needed some kind of theological description,
    if I couldn’t just understand it as a cold winter,
    I think I’d say it was the winter from Purgatory.

  142. smadison

    Watching Weather Wither
    Weak, whimpy, weatherly wanings
    Rain, rising to hail
    I take mine and dish back my counter
    Cloudy, gray, murky, mutterings of
    beating the touch down in a new earth’s dream.
    Pumping through big dark rain on a
    small acre of land.
    I drink in and welcome heartlands of
    wind, sun, more sun, some fog.
    Breathe in – weathering the weather
    a watch or a touch down.
    Hide in your tub, cover your head.
    Bed. Dorothy. Kansas a comin’.

  143. James Von Hendy


    A winter long without rain, your moods
    A gathering storm, darker each day of sun,
    The sheer relentlessness of work
    Accumulating, piling, cloud upon cumulus cloud,

    A drought of happiness, short nights of sleep,
    A hunger for something else you cannot name,
    And yet you called me down to see sunlight
    Scattered through the prism of late spring rain.

    An arc of colors blazed above the vale.
    It shimmered over the mountains as if
    It was a tangible thing, like joy itself.
    Yet there, too, its faint double hung doubtfully

    In the gray curtain of rain, as tremulous
    As desire, inexorable, yet ephemeral,
    A thing of dreams recognized and almost seen
    Again, its scattered light so like your own.

  144. DanielAri


    if I wake up just as you’re wrapping up your monologue
    with a moaning mutter, a growl from below my tongue
    that sets my toes and fingers trembling, my hand, leg,
    epileptic apoplectic slapping against the floor, flailing
    and beating like this skin itself is the leather, the rope
    that snaps, beating the floor, oscillating, striking hard
    enough to lift me into the air and slam me down again,
    dropping books and crushing crystal glasses, ignorant,
    tectonic, concussive, liver, intestine, spleen, gall—and
    my lungs’ volume now screeched up to a deep scream,
    Richter register violence knocking my self into a pulp—
    and gone—like hot wind stealing away a piece of paper
    on which is written the news, will you fetch it and read?


  145. Linda Goin

    The Way Winds Blow

    I’m a paramedic, but
    I can’t put people back
    together when they explode,

    the waitress said
    as she placed a plate
    of biscuits and gravy
    on the table. I had said
    implode, but she didn’t hear,
    much the way hurricanes
    don’t hear anything
    but their own intensity.

    Living without is a lot
    like a hurricane, a high whine
    that throws words far from where
    they once held meaning.
    I understand that pitch,
    even as it ages to a moan.

    Trying to make ends meet
    with two jobs and two kids
    isn’t anything like two cars
    in every garage. Misinterpreting
    the way winds blow
    between implode and explode
    is just one way
    to articulate survival.

  146. PKP

    Bright and Sunny September

    The weather report
    bore out the sky
    outside my window
    simply cerrulean
    clear – the crisp almost
    audible outside my
    window – a beautiful
    September morning
    clear, sunny and cool
    so that when towers
    inexplicably exploded
    and incomprehensibly
    fell- it was through the
    cerrulean clear crisp
    suddenly surreal sun
    on shoulders of those
    tumbling from windows
    papers whirling in the
    sooted wind, frantic
    faces upturned to the
    sun that kept on shining,
    in that incongruous blue sky

  147. break_of_day

    the trees bow low to the ground
    in supplication
    the wind howls a praise song that reminds me
    of David dancing violently
    as thunder calls men from their hiding places
    and lightning splits the sky
    for a psalm of rain

  148. Alaska Christina

    Blue Clouds

    When we stop to kiss
    my heart catches in my throat
    The sight of all those bright blue clouds
    reflected in the deep pools of your eyes
    I am at once lost and then found again
    asleep and then awake
    Kiss me once more
    and yet again
    beneath the calm blue clouds.

  149. ambermarie

    Dark Day

    I love the melancholy mist
    The crows from a distance
    And the breeze through the dim canopy
    It promises rain, it promises new life
    From the stillness before the creation
    I experience the essence of the cycle itself
    A calm and loving force eternally present
    It can be a time of doubt and fear
    That the sun won’t rise again
    But those are the most sacred times –
    When faith and trust are all we have
    Because it is only then that we can truly know
    That we lack nothing when we choose to believe

  150. taylor graham


    Last night our old dog Pattycake –
    search-partner dead
    these 18 years – made visitation.

    “You never found me,”
    she said, rolling onto her back,
    forepaws curled up dead-dog yoga pose

    as if in prayer or mime,
    smiling. “You have to turn things
    upside-down, inside-out, flipped and

    in reverse. Look for
    the seam, the rift, the weak spot.
    A fault-line where two questions rub

    against each other. Wind
    is the answer. A good brisk wind
    to sweep your brain

    and leave it quivering with cold
    wonder like a leafless oak
    in the woods where someone’s needing

    to be found. This world
    or the next. Wake up and walk outside.
    Breathe to fill your lungs.

    That deep wind’s everywhere
    you’ll find me.”

  151. Mark Danowsky

    What We Talk About When Fair Weather Is Not Enough

    As long as it’s talking with you
    talk of the weather will do.
    -Built to Spill

    Each time I stepped outside
    was stepping into the unknown
    until the smartphone came along
    and I found out I was willing
    to slide a finger, but would not
    muscle up to open a window.
    In any case, head space
    is the real deal breaker.

    There have been myriad days
    when it’s a breezy 71—perfect
    for a zip-up sweatshirt and pants
    none of this shorts and sandals crap
    and still I pound the pavement
    in a sulk, drag
    the dog along, ruining
    the best part of his day
    speeding toward nightfall.

  152. Sara McNulty

    The Only Prediction is: Weather

    Cigar ash skies. Early morning fog
    turns to drizzle. Wind whips up,
    steely skies burst, and rain pelts
    the ground for half an hour.
    One blue patch swings precariously
    overhead, muscled in on either side.
    Ten minutes pass. Hail pounds down,
    bouncing off cars and sidewalks
    like crazed ping-pong balls. Late
    afternoon arrives accompanied
    by sun. Showers sift through
    brightness–rain and sun battling
    for turf. By five o’clock, the sun
    wins. Land is calm. To the people
    of Portland, it is just another day.

  153. J.lynn Sheridan

    “Of emeralds and envy”

    She is hyacinth lovely shivering in April showers,
    the kind of beauty a dewy-eyed man would run to
    and wrap in layers of silky Jupiter halos then spin
    in verdant gems and silver love.

    I dream of touching the hem of her chiffon mamba
    and pretend that he sees her dressed in ogre green.

  154. jakkels

    Storm Chaser
    Storm Chaser chance taker
    Academic on adrenaline
    Radar trucks sitting duck probes
    Tornado alley addicts
    Build cars in your backyard boys
    But fabricate them well
    These things like juggling cars and cows
    Best hone your techno spells
    Nature’s pumped up elemental vacuum
    Sucking up and spitting it out
    Slingshot poles through concrete walls
    Or pluck feathers from a chicken’s bum
    The fickle wind has it’s own spin
    On destruction al a carte
    Tim and son sought data there
    Directing teams with care
    With science and daring they probed the heart
    Of these monsters of winds and clouds
    But with evil cunning and monstrous speed
    One dashed from a concealing cloud
    Their mangled car in a field later found
    They gave their lives for science and knowledge

  155. Janet Rice Carnahan


    Whose fascination was a lofty mist!
    He would sit and stare
    At the cloudy air
    Anything else there he clearly missed

    He focused out each plane window
    Hoping for any bit of snow
    Appearing in a daze,
    He’d study the haze
    Never noticing what was below

    Every storm caught his eye
    A thrill he would never deny
    He just had to see
    Anything wet or windy
    Never did a change in weather go by

    We became friends because he was funny
    Going to gamble when we had money
    Spending time outside
    In nature, I confide
    Finding places soft and sunny

    But the pressure mounted high
    Every time he looked at the sky
    As I’d play and tease
    He’d study the breeze
    Meaning it caught his attention, not I

    Our heat together clearly dropped
    As his fixation never stopped
    He cared more about the highs and lows
    Why, one never knows
    The passion over time was cropped

    Time together like an advancing storm
    Pulling us in different directions, the norm
    Running hot and cold
    Being soft or bold
    Even though he was sweet and warm

    We are still friends, even today
    We have nothing but kind things to say
    As lovers we breezed in and out
    Yet, lifelong friends we’ll be no doubt
    Weathering the changing relationship . . .

    Still shining day after day!

  156. Janet Rice Carnahan


    A set of royal twins
    Often a real pain
    Storming the castle in spins
    Shaking off from the rain

    They’d blow right past
    The stationary guard
    Flying too fast
    Straight into the yard

    Like two hurricanes
    Twirling with speed
    Water spouts off a broken main
    Before they’d dash and feed

    Hurling their food
    Way up in the sky
    Unless a good mood
    Fiercely scattering it really high

    They’d grab ice cubes in a pail
    Shred them, making snow
    Or toss them around like hail
    Assuming no one would know

    Then one day in their midst
    In walked the queen
    One snowball just missed
    Shocking, if you know what I mean

    She stood still in her crown
    Staring down at the young
    Her face knotted into a frown
    Pinched tight like a bee stung

    She was so quiet
    She made the children freeze
    Behind her, they spied it
    Making them drop to their knees

    Coming up behind her
    Were flashes of lightening!
    The twins knew for sure
    The queen was quite frightening

    They wanted to duck and go under
    Seeing each building cloud
    Preparing for wild thunder
    Guessing it’d be loud

    Bowing each head
    In what looked like respect
    They watched the vicious storm instead
    Grab the queen by the neck

    It whirled her around
    Blowing her off her feet
    Then she hit the ground
    Its devastation, complete

    Everything scattered even her shoes
    Tearing open her royal gown
    They covered her hoping to avoid the news
    Keeping her royal head down

    Twins scurried her to hide in sunny place
    A fort they created, including a lid
    Placing her in the very best space
    She composed herself as she hid

    Once the storm has passed by
    Redressed, the queen started to smile
    So moved by the twins, she began to cry
    She held them tight awhile

    Realizing she’d never really given them time
    She just sat on the grass, each in her lap
    Laughing to every story and rhyme
    Until her shoulder had a tap

    Time to prepare for dignitaries
    Her royal duties demanded their call
    She sent the twins off to pick berries
    Promising to introduce them to all

    The twins waved her goodbye
    Running to gather the fruit
    How to behave, they had to try
    But now they had to scoot

    With wind in her hair
    Wendy did a curtsy so sweet
    All they could do was stare
    At the high heels on her feet

    With just a sunny smile
    Rein took a royal bow
    No hint of previous guile
    He had transformed somehow

    Each dignitary most impressed
    The queen with twins in best behavior
    All perfectly dressed
    After weathering the storm . . .

    Now each a royal savior!
    (sorry it is so long . . . I had to finish the story!)

  157. Emily Cooper

    The Place to Go

    It doesn’t matter what
    the Weather Girls said.

    One can not simply
    invite all the world’s women

    to a centralized location
    in “the street”

    and have them wait for that
    downpour of men

    that they claim is imminent.

    First of all
    they wouldn’t fit

    (well they technically would

    but there would be minimal
    elbow or purse room)

    second of all
    some of them would be hoping

    for it to “rain women”

    and third of all
    even with such variety

    they might nonetheless agree
    on some common cause

    for which they feel
    a wee bit (or a lot)
    held back or treated unfairly

    and start marching in protest.

  158. elysebrownell

    When the Sun Comes Out for the First Time of the Season
    Elyse Brownell

    When the sun comes out
    for the first time this season
    we wear shorter skirts,

    walk, or, rather, strut the streets wearing
    our sun glasses, still holding the remains of dust
    from last summer, we notice our legs, glimmering white

    reflecting in the tinted windows, we order margaritas
    on a roof top as we feel the heat rising after each drink
    from the sun, from the tequila, from the sheer excitement

    of sitting on a roof top during business hours.
    When the sun comes out for the first time,
    we leave work early, take a drive, take a walk,

    hire an out-of-office assistant, try to find any reason to be outside.
    If grocery stores were all able to remove their roofs,
    If malls were able to become street malls,

    if we all owned convertibles
    if we all owned floppy hats and big sunglasses
    and sun-brellas, and fans, and window visors

    we’re parade them out at the first sign of sunlight
    marching into the streets, black concrete below our feet
    touching the cobble stone with our over-flowing toes

    from our open-toed shoes, peep toes, flip-flops,
    gladiator sandals, any other kind of shoe where
    you’d be better off barefoot comes into fashion

    we’d find reasons to be in the sun:
    oh, it’s 2:30 on a Tuesday and it’s 73 degrees,
    I need to be in the sun, on a roof top

    Drinking margaritas and listening to bad music.
    When the sun comes out for the first time
    We remember why winter is so long, so beautiful,

    And such a contrast to today.

  159. Walt Wojtanik


    The landscape has it’s allure,
    and I am sure the sunshine would be
    the cure for what ails me. And a pale me
    would no linger be. I dream of the waves
    as they slave in a cyclical crest
    as the rest of the waters follow in kind.
    My mind travels to places and I imagine
    the faces of the natives, tanned and sand-
    covered as gulls hover above. I would love
    to escape where the salty surf flavors
    the air. I dare say after years of snow in Buffalo,
    that’s the weather I’d love to get to know.
    To languish with the Laguna fish would be
    a wish that I wished would come true!

    1. Janet Rice Carnahan

      Yes, Walt, beautiful and I’ll take you to a favorite beach within reach! No more snow and where you’ll understand the sand . . . so let’s go!

  160. poetbeta154


    see it
    think it
    Therefore it is breakfast

    Everyday the humpty dance
    playing as if water wants
    for any shivering toe vibrato

    thought it
    bought it
    To possess it not to own

    As nature goes
    Assimilation is just a matter
    Of timely exposure

    You are
    You are being
    You are being advertised to

    You are
    The product of
    Many lines
    Many lines of products
    Many intersecting clouds
    Of code

    think it
    drink it

    Ozone ones and zeroes

    As far as
    Possibilities can go
    It may already be

    Where poems conjugate
    humanity. How we evolved
    to drive over painted turtles

    as they cross the street
    in what one can only assume
    resembled a threatening posture

    The etching
    The etched repainted
    College bible floorboards
    Stone journaling

    skinny disaster of man/ woman

    The poultice of pretence
    We wade in carbonated matter
    As a matter of not knowing Godot

    We are left
    We are left to observe
    We are left to consume the porridge
    We have chosen to pollute.

    Clouds remind me of waves
    Passing slow enough,
    To ask ourselves what we see.

  161. Janet Rice Carnahan


    A pure drop of rain
    Sitting still on a palm leaf
    Like a peaceful breath


    Golden rays of sun
    Bring passions to the surface
    I grave your warm touch


    A whispered wind blows
    Gentle reminders of love
    Loving love is real


    Any confusion
    Love clears our path so we see
    A bigger picture


    Some sorrow just comes
    Into our life to balance
    Until sun returns

  162. taylor graham


    Another day of mowing, raking, turning grass
    in the front pasture. My partner and I trade
    places. He takes the weed-eater, I get the hay-
    rake. Both hot, tedious, back-aching work.
    Where’s the wind of inspiration? The air’s
    so still, I can hear the annual grasses brittling,
    sharpening to fox-tail, rip-gut brome. But
    look, now the tall wild oats begin to stir –
    coming from the north, cool as Delta breeze
    but off the mountain. As I listen, it brings
    birdsong from that line of trees along the dry
    creekbed. Titmouse. In the unmown swale,
    there’s purple crown brodiaea in the green
    clutch of soft chess and pink-starred filaree.
    Shall I write a poem to my hay-rake?

  163. jean

    Weather on the Central Coast of California

    When it rolls in from over the ocean
    The local does not call it fog
    “It’s the marine layer, silly tourists,”
    He explains as a true pedagogue.

    It’s misty and moisty and dewy.
    It’s dribbles and dapples each plant.
    It creeps on and straight up the mountain,
    Obscuring one’s view till it can’t.

    This watering helps all the redwoods
    To grow much, much taller than oaks.
    Precluding the capillary action
    Required by roots in soil soaked.

    Encasing the birds of the forest
    In a literal, low-flying cloud,
    Hiding them safely before us,
    The dawn chorus is lovingly loud!

    The sun will eventually burn through
    The mystical, magical haze.
    It happens most mornings around here
    Thus start most Central Coast days.

  164. Walt Wojtanik


    The City of Buffalo.
    Cinched by the iron rails,
    tightly secured by the circuit,
    trains moving grains and cargo.
    Years of rail tracks covered in snow
    and rains drenching trains and passengers.
    Shiny and new when the rails were strewn
    across the landscape, Now, a belt of iron and steel
    rusted. Trusted to make the city thrive,
    to stay alive until better things reared their heads.
    The rail routes are nearly dead.
    The rust belt remains, an accessory of days
    gone the way of the rail, a fast track to nowhere.

  165. geetakshi


    Sometimes leaves fall
    Like translucent dreams
    That blend into each other
    Like a canvas of jarring oil-paints,
    Creating a single deep shade;
    A tapestry of colourful flowers
    Woven into a grassy plain,
    Awaits fresh rain
    That washes away the dust
    To reveal new life in
    Thinly veiled sunlight;
    Distilled pain eventually reaches
    The blue-green veins
    That spurt rubies
    Covering the flamboyant flowers
    In a mantle of failed life

    ©Geetakshi Arora
    April 18, 2014

  166. lethejerome

    “April beside the House”

    My eyes adjust with the hours, blurry over
    Wind and disappointment over the pristine snow,
    Blanket over the resistance of matter, no
    Matter what offers itself between the layers.

    Potential footsteps in layers are announcing
    The light layers waiting to decompose: later,
    Anchored in dirt, in grass, painted as on paper
    The bleeding swallowed, the paper liquefying,

    Later, paper returning to trees, to water,
    As if chemicals didn’t have life on their own
    As if boots never traced their own knots in paths sown,

    A time our own, in spite of new life, will hover
    Above the grass that demands to be cut, above
    Trees that have yet to grow, trees still, standing, above.

    Jérôme Melançon

  167. Pat Walsh

    PAD Day 18: whether or not this is a legit weather poem, I will leave up to you.

    Quiet in the suburbs
    by Patrick J. Walsh

    It is quiet in these suburbs.
    The storm has passed.
    Newscasters everywhere are left
    with nothing else to say.
    The storm has passed.

    There is a chill in the air.
    It is cold as I rake leaves.
    The town’s Spring leaf pickup day
    has already passed.
    It is cold as I rake leaves.

    The sky is bluer now.
    Tiny birds perch overhead.
    Utility companies have announced
    plans to prune the trees.
    Tiny birds perch overhead

    Tomorrow there should be sun.
    I think I will take a walk.
    Road crews will be busy clearing
    bits of bark and branches.
    I think I will take a walk.

  168. Ashley Marie Egan

    by Ashley Marie Egan

    When the storm ended
    I walked to the shore
    To watch the ships come in.

    The wind was wet with mist
    It howled in every direction,
    And its frosty slap
    Felt like needles pricking my skin.

    The ocean was swelling
    With waves that threatened
    To drag me out to sea
    I dug my feet into the sand
    And dared the water to take me.

    I did not waver from my stance
    Even when I was informed of your death,
    And when the storm returned with a vengeance
    I didn’t fight as the waves took me.

    Because if you were claimed by the sea,
    Then it’s a watery grave,
    That will give me peace.

  169. mzanemcclellan

    At the risk of sounding like a broken record, elishevasmom , the same as I said to dhaivid3. You have contributed some stunning poems to the event so far. I don’t always take the time to comment on them all, but I do make a point of reading certain poets each day. You are one of those.

    Thank you for your kind words. Peace ~ Michael

  170. uneven steven

    is our cocoon
    in this life
    even indoors
    we must change in its presence
    pressured to open windows and doors
    or close them
    the hard chrysalis
    of a coffin cracking open
    our only release
    from this burden

  171. mbramucci

    Reunited and it Feels so Good
    By: Michelle Bramucci

    The sun is shining baby
    Get out of your seat
    The shadows on those hills are calling us to
    Slink our feet through that silky green

    Don’t you see that
    Come hither stare
    In the eyes of that hollow tree?
    Saying, kick up your feet and
    Wake those toes on my rough, grey, skin
    I miss you

    Time to see if you like butter
    Lift up your chin and
    Smell that honeysuckle
    Like a rush, sweet mind
    Sugar doped high
    Oh, you forgot already? All those post-it notes
    Emails, did you call your mom? Works fast, that sultry dew-
    Never mind all that madness living outside these white-petal walls

    Close your eyes and let me kiss you
    With my softest, warmest, whisper
    Blowing your long hair
    Tickling your neck
    Wafting away the chill of winter
    And dousing the heat from sun’s sweltering glow
    Like lifting the cozy blanket when the hearth gets too warm
    Flipping over to the cool side of the pillow-
    I know you just right little Miss Goldilocks

    Lay with me on the dark side
    Like no one’s looking
    And they couldn’t find you anyway for the shadow I bear forebodes those
    Too busy to notice the embrace of this shade
    Let the sunshine wink at you through my supple, confetti limbs
    My leafy silhouettes want to dance for you-
    Dance with you
    Watching their dark slippers frolic across your pink flesh like a stop motion picture
    And you’ve been none the wiser

    We fit, you and me.
    I shimmer, you glisten
    You tromp, I lift
    You swirl, I bend
    I call, you listen…
    Don’t leave yet. We’re not finished here.

    Is that your mind drifting?
    Your head tilting?
    Your eyelids falling heavy against your lazy eyes?
    Let’s turn the lights out.
    Let’s get quiet now.
    Let the frogs and crickets and owls sing you a lullaby
    And I’ll hypnotize you with a million glimmering coins
    Spinning and catching the last bits of shine
    You can almost hear their chimes but that might just be
    A billion drops of crystal water playing a trickling chord
    Tuned to your soft breath
    Now you’re full of delicious dreams and I will wake you bright
    With rosy cheeks-you
    Make me blush with joy

  172. Bartholomew Barker

    Under Pressure

    When a dry dome
    Slams high pressure
    Squeezing my skull
    Bright and burning
    And the sun oppresses
    Exposed skin bubbling
    Curling like bacon
    Eyes aching from light
    Still air clinging
    Like an infection
    Give me a cloudy morning
    To sleep in and a rainy day
    To wash it all away

  173. uneven steven

    whether weather

    weather it will be
    changeable as a tired
    mind flat in a just you wait
    a midwestern minute
    depends on whether
    fogged over eyes
    a brow clouded with concern
    tears falling like rain
    mouth an open headlight “o”
    of an approaching train
    roar time to head for cover
    now siren
    or all clear

  174. pomodoro

    Weather, in a Cow’s Eye

    Clouds stall overhead.
    I stand in the field flanked by pasture and barn.
    Shorn cornstalks winnow back and forth, back and forth
    and gangs of crows gather to eat.
    On a scab of hill, wild turkeys perch
    and down below roosters scream at hens.
    On the porch of the crooked clapboard house
    the Spencer brothers sit and wait
    like men on the deck of a ship.
    The wooden railing runs to its imperfect corners,
    its knotty posts, split and twisted,
    like telephone poles on the dirt road.
    A lonely crowd poses ankle deep in the grass,
    tagged and tattooed.
    In a cow’s eye I see the sun ignite.
    By degrees
    the sky goes rainbow wild.

  175. candy

    Choke Cherry Season

    From my window I can see just
    the top of the grand Choke Cherry
    at the edge of our yard.
    Yellow sun shines brightly – gleaming
    on the copper breastplates of two
    robins, busy picking the last of the
    season’s bounty that clings
    stubbornly to bare branches.
    Suddenly that sun runs to hide
    behind gray clouds and raindrops roll
    down the window, turning my
    view into an impressionist painting.
    Patches of blue, so faint they
    seem to be an illusion, break through
    the blanket of clouds and naked branches
    sway to a dance choreographed
    by the wind.

  176. skanet

    When looking out the window
    Fog feeds me dreams
    Makes me want to travel
    First to Scotland or Ireland
    But then to the Chinese mountains
    Or Thai rice fields

    Fog makes me giddy and fidgety
    Because I am certain
    Of a great many things
    That I have not yet learned

    I’d like to swim in it
    Cool and warm
    Feel little droplets form on vestigial arm hairs

    Trees are greener when there’s fog
    And stone becomes welcoming
    The sky embraces the Earth
    And everything feels like home

  177. madeline40

    Weather Girl

    I watch the weather news
    from the elliptical at my gym.
    Every morning a young woman
    with long flowing hair
    and Paint the Town Red lips
    stands in front of a map pointing
    here and there to indicate
    cold fronts, heat waves,
    tornado or hurricane paths
    or whatever bizarre weather
    the teleprompter has to told her to report.
    Here on the West side of the states
    it’s always the same.
    No rain, boring sixty
    to seventy-five degree temperatures
    and maybe a few clouds or fog in the morning.
    She’s always the same too.
    She’s bosomy
    She’s got legs up to here
    and a waist I could wrap my hands around.
    She also has gorgeous buffed arms
    that fill me with jealousy.
    No matter how hard my daily workout
    mine just flap and bounce
    like a kimono in the wind.

  178. Anvanya

    Maybe I’m Right

    And maybe I’m wrong : what kind of snow is on the ground?
    The Weather Person’s Meteorological Notebook contains a list
    of twenty-three descriptors.
    Now, is this snow flurries? snow showers? just a snow advisory?
    How can I know?
    Look at the weather stone.

    Will it stick? be gone by noon when the sun arrives?
    Melt in the Pineapple Express rain-front on the radar?
    Is it a Chinook or a foehn…does it bring flakes, garlands, grains?
    Will the snowline be on the foothills or in your backyard?
    Just get ready now.
    Strap on your Sno-Trax.

    Let me call home and say we’ll have enough icy stuff
    To build snowmen before dinner. And the frosty temps will
    Remain overnight, so snow-angels and snow forts
    Are on tomorrow’s agenda.

    Here’s the necessary forecast equation :
    NWS plus the weather stone on the porch, plus Doppler radar,
    Plus Grandma’s recollections usually
    Adds up to a pretty good guess. Nevertheless,
    Bring your umbrella and an extra sweater –
    Remember to dress in layers.
    Finally, look out the front window before you leave.
    I love my job!

  179. Kendall A. Bell

    Storms on the beach

    Do you remember when it rained so damned
    much that summer in Ocean City? We ran
    in between the hard morning rain to
    Fenwick’s to buy muffins for breakfast,
    walked briskly between the afternoon mist
    to lazily browse through the Surf Mall,
    buying rock t-shirts and junk I can’t even
    remember. I ate so many soft pretzels that
    year. We stayed behind in the house
    when everyone else left to entertain their
    horrible kids and made good use of a less
    than firm mattress, pushing it to the brink
    day after day after day. I wonder if we’ll
    get that chance this year, or if our tired
    routines will ruin the one week this year
    that we can escape. I’m hoping for storms.

  180. lionetravail

    “That Baseball Game in St. Louis”
    by David M. Hoenig

    The weather is always the same:
    sunny, rare clouds, and the game
    is perfect. Under a sky high and bright,
    over brown earth and lines of white

    so clear they could be lasers,
    if lasers had fat beams like phasers.
    I can still hear bat meet ball with bite,
    over brown earth and lines of white.

    The day is perfect in memory,
    as that day was, in every
    way. That day, the Cards did it right,
    over brown earth and lines of white.

    And in my mind I see us there,
    kissing, making others stare.
    It was our first-ever date night;
    over brown earth and lines of white.

  181. nmbell


    Here’s to a winter that never ends
    Let’s drink a toast to the Winter
    It’s April 18th and the snow is falling
    Great fluffy flakes like carousel dancers

    The trees are still sleeping, no catkins yet
    The flowers lie snuggled under three feet of white
    Bits of green dare to show their face in the pasture
    Snow came in October and is still here today

    The Lady of Spring has not defeated
    The Caileach of Winter
    She still rules with her black staff
    Unwilling to be relegated to her cave

    Where is the Green Lady?
    She who brings the warmth and joy of Beltane
    Where is her consort the Green Man
    To banish the winter that never ends

    Let’s drink a toast to the winter
    In hopes her cold heart will melt
    And free the voice of the rivers

    Nancy Bell 2014

    Good day for a weather poem. it’s snowing to beat the band in southern Alberta.

  182. Debbie


    Imagine the sunrise
    An array of colors blooming with the morning dew
    Birds singing to each new glowing beam
    Lust for the new day awakens the flower, a lovely creature
    Precious blades of grass release its springtime aroma
    Clouds overhead whisk along
    forming various lifelike figures pushed by seabearing breezes
    Animals yawn and stretch before continuing nature’s many endeavors.
    Life has borne another beautiful day.
    Just imagine.

  183. ASperryConnors

    The Sod House Ghost

    The wind blew ceaseless
    Countless hours…days…weeks.
    She was the dust and felt
    Its gritty weight in every
    Cell of her body.

    In waking hours she dryly hummed,
    Drowning out the winds howl.
    Her ears held tight with a red rag
    Noosed about her head and jowl.

    The same noosed strand of desire
    To live, she armored her weakness,
    And drove away her clenching
    Madness by chopping wood.

    With rusted ax and pounding
    Arthritic nails into beaten shutters
    To no avail she lashed out.
    She fought the wind who,
    was stronger still.

    Fury blasting, it slapped her
    Knocking her to its haunches,
    Forcing her to drink the acrid
    Smoke of dead earth that formed

    A paste in her lungs.
    Forcing her frail fingers
    Into hooks for life.
    Battered bloodied hands were hers.

    Hands with memory of petal softness
    Of sweet sprouting hay.
    Fingers with memory of each downy hair
    Upon her soldier’s chest, now flesh rotted
    In the ground two weeks.

    Her babe…
    Wrapped in gray linen sleeps eternal
    In a hand hewn rocker by the fire.
    In the night, she rocks the little lamb,
    Her grief, licking the flames that
    Lie flat as a sunflower in the grate.

    Songs she learned as a child
    Goad tears that flow like channels
    In her earthen cheeks.
    Chiseled are her mourning eyes,
    As stone she stares.

    Salty droplets drip…
    Drip…on the dusty floor,
    And sound
    Like roaring thunder.

  184. PowerUnit

    This warm weather is attracting all of the birds,
    The robins, the starlings, the sparrows, and the finches
    As well as the sons and the daughters of these empty nests
    I love hearing them chirp and sing
    As they meet up after a long winter apart
    Over a drink and a fine meal
    Before they once again break their father’s heart

  185. ToniBee3


    damselfly you too
    love nature’s lavation
    as much as I do

    dew from the mists
    midst your wings
    forms effervescence

    effulgent in display
    are your flickers
    receiving a crepuscular ray

  186. rebrog

    Better Weather

    Back from the men’s room he reeled, half fell, onto the seat.
    While I was watching Pennsylvania approach, recede,
    he’d clearly hit the restaurant car, knocked back doubles.

    He was older, knew stuff, knew what he was doing
    getting loaded, breaking his promise, unloading me,
    halfway home under baby blue skies.

    We’d had five days, a tent, a saucepan, cups, the river.
    Whoever woke first unzipped the fly-sheet, let the dawn in.
    He showed competence I hadn’t seen on Avenue A.

    Tensioned the guy rope, built the fire,
    gave me instructions I didn’t say I didn’t need,
    loving him cool headed and in charge.

    He teased me, worked on my accent
    “You couldn’t have asked for better weather”
    repeated till it became a mantra.

    At the top of the Peak, in thin silver air,
    eagles circled beneath us, he encircled me.
    “You couldn’t have asked for better weather.”

    That night beneath a chaos of stars
    he slid a hand to the plane below my navel
    began to move it lower, a fraction at a time,

    slow, slow, sure, watched my face intently,
    willed me to sink, murmured, gravel and musk.
    “You couldn’t have asked for better weather.”

    Dirtiest words I ever heard.


  187. Anders Bylund

    Welcome to the Sunshine State
    Where it’s raining every day!
    Hurricanes and thunderstorms
    Every summer, that’s the norm

    So welcome to the Sunshine State!
    Untrue, but it’s great tourist bait.

  188. De Jackson

    Things We Ask of the Sky

    Stars, as legion
    as the wishes of the heart,
    unstable in their knowing.

    to wake our very souls,
    remind us there are bigger
    sounds than this skipped beat.

        and other fragile things
    that re-shape, stretch
              and disappear.

    that we may breathe

    Cold, bold enough to match
               our own bright salt.


  189. PatsC

    The Balding Breeze

    Whisperings into small ear,
    Told the true nature of wind
    ‘Twas meant to steal the curls
    From the heads of little girls.

    The innocence of belief,
    Hands to head,
    Grasping precious locks,
    Begging for the wind to stop.

    The panicked shouts,
    Bring adult inquisition,
    The rolling of eyes,
    The dismissive titter.

    The teasing murmur lingers,
    But childhood knows,
    The wind brings pixies,
    That tease and toss my hair.

  190. Gammelor

    And just for fun, a second weather one…

    Cloudy With a Chance of Oobleck

    I blame it all on Dr. Seuss,
    my being fond of the abstruse
    Green Eggs and Ham began it all–
    I ate none plain ’til I was tall.

    Next of course was Mulberry Street–
    it made me yawn at all I’d meet.

    And I agree with Bartholomew’s king:
    bring me weather with a zing.

    Gammelor Goodenow

  191. Daniel Paicopulos

    ornado Alley

    I look into the cat’s eyes
    and he tells me there’s a storm coming.
    Not the purple-black skies of
    Sedona monsoons,
    more the unleashed whirlwinds
    of Kansas and Oklahoma.

    Always the most charming of
    our lifetime’s 25 feline friends,
    Max has more gravity now,
    made wary by the iciness
    of his new sister.

    Reesie is her name,
    possession is her game.
    She was an only child for so long,
    lived in a microclimate of her own,
    never had to live with
    the updrafts and downdrafts of another pet.

    But she’s here now,
    cuddly with the humans,
    not so with the Max,
    where she’s usually just a cold front,
    but sometimes a cyclone.
    He’s been waiting her out,
    but his eyes tell me
    there’s a storm coming.
    Will it be a gale,
    or is an haboob on the horizon?
    Stay tuned.

  192. elishevasmom

    Weather Minded

    While growing up I loved
    all sorts of weather–the more
    extreme, the better.

    The heavy wind to
    swirl my hair into
    death defying feats.

    Sitting the window sill
    at 3 a.m., hypnotized
    by the strobes of lightening.

    Awed by the unleashable
    force of water
    on rampage.

    The blizzard that levels
    all biases, giving fresh
    beginnings to all.

    Ah, but as I have aged,
    my own physical
    capabilities to enjoy

    and appreciate even
    the broader strokes
    of environmental masterpieces

    have become impaired.
    Instead, my body
    is more a slave

    to the turns of
    barometric pressure–
    the ravages of a

    two-week hot spell.
    There is no
    doubt about it.

    Old Man Weather has,
    of a certainty, aged
    more gracefully than I.

    Ellen Evans

    1. PressOn

      This has subtle power to sadden and yet gladden me. It reminds me of a purple thunderstorm and the smell of the air on the Thruway as I drove through it. It thrilled me then; might scare me now. Thanks for this.

  193. Walt Wojtanik


    <emI’m Walking In The Rain for days,
    and 10,000 Nights of Thunder.
    A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall
    in spite of calls for A Year Without Rain
    Bad Rain, Bad Rain, Rain.

    Am I insane to Blame It On the Rain?
    I’ve been Blinded By Rainbows and snows
    like a Box Of Rain so sweet,
    yet Chocolate Rain is not a treat.
    I should Come in From Out of the Rain.

    You’ll not find me Crying in the Rain,
    though it sparkles; Diamonds Made From Rain
    Did You Hear The Rain?
    It’s been Falling Like Rain; cats and dogs, but
    Every Storm (Runs Out of Rain)
    It stings and burns me, Fire and Rain

    I Am the Rain, fallen down the drain,
    in Spain, mainly on the plain,
    I am Georgia Rain, I am Kentucky Rain.
    I fall like a cajun drawl, Louisiana Rain.
    Have you Ever Seen the Rain?
    Here Comes the Rain Again

    I Wish it Would Rain,
    I Wish It Would Rain Down.
    But no matter what, I Love A Rainy Night
    When I’m Kissin’ in the Rain
    Lightning Strikes.
    I Made it Through the Rain.

    There is a certain Laughter in the Rain
    Lay Down (Candles in the Rain)
    Pray they Let It Rain an listen to the
    Rhythm of the Rain. Mandolin Rain
    is pleasing. The reason I’m Only Happy When it Rains.
    It is only then that I soar Over the Rainbow.

    There’s a union that form in the rain,
    a Rainbow Connection between our souls,
    Black Rain,
    Red Rain,
    Purple Rain.
    Raindrops Keep Falling On My head

    And my love reigns o’er me,
    She’s My Kind of Rain.
    She’s Thunderstorms.
    She’s a Rainbow
    She’s Singin’ in the Rain.
    Still Raining; Still Dreaming.

    The Thunder Rolls
    Through the Rain.
    Who Let in the Rain?
    Who’ll Stop the Rain?
    When the Rain Begins to Fall,
    Why Does it Always Rain on Me?

    1. PressOn

      I loved reading this. It brought many allusions to mind, one being a bit of nonsense verse I read, years ago:

      The rain makes all things beautiful:
      the flowers and grasses too,
      If the rain makes all things beautiful,
      why don’t it rain on you?

  194. poetrycurator

    Here is my Weather Poem for day 18

    Disaster, 1992

    Hurricane Andrew
    Brought devastation to the
    Family Homestead

    By Denise Fletcher Copyright © 2014

  195. pamelaraw



    The freeze will come overnight,
    trap you below the thick,
    clear surface for the longest
    winter on record.


    Even if you seek
    shelter in warm bodies,
    there will not be enough
    heat to sustain you.


    Ice recede and leave the ground
    hard and cold, the grass brown
    and brittle. Neither will know how
    long you have waited for this.


    A feisty wind will
    kick up thawing dust.

  196. Taylor Emily Copeland


    This sunlight is deceiving.
    It doesn’t warn about the
    wind. It whips around the
    kitchen window, screeching
    like a wounded bird taking
    final breaths. I carry myself
    outside, shade disappointment
    and my pale skin under a hoodie
    and a plain, light blue baseball
    hat. The chill is strong for an
    April afternoon. I follow raised
    sidewalks to dirt and grass trails
    we walked together, turn my head
    to look for you, but you abandoned
    this expedition long ago for her
    familiar body. On a bench, I listen
    for new birds, ask for a cleansing rain.

  197. lionmother

    Hurricane Sandy

    We live on the shore
    and were forced from
    our home by the
    insistent announcement
    by a retired baseball manager
    who said our area was being

    The storm loomed on TV
    a whirling swirling mass of
    clouds twirling its way towards
    us in a line too definite to ignore
    and we fled like displaced persons
    from a war to a safer place
    We headed north to where
    we were told the storm
    would miss

    While we traveled she
    kissed the Jersey shore
    and like a two timed lover
    moved structures into
    pieces of wood and
    twisted steel was tossed
    into the ocean like a
    scorned piece of jewelry

    But she had followed us
    and we heard her terror
    in the wailing winds and
    her result in the loss of
    electricity so far from her

    And we saw on TV
    her mammoth footprint
    as images appeared
    over and over again
    of homes and businesses
    unlucky to be in her path

    We thought of how it
    would be if we were
    there and worried over
    our few possessions
    being overrun with flood
    waters though we were
    two stories up

    As finally we arrived
    home it was dark
    the halls lit by emergency
    lights and the only
    destruction for us
    was the spoiled food
    in our refrigerator

    When I saw the faces
    of the people whose
    homes had been taken
    down like matchsticks
    my thoughts were with
    them yet I felt the guilt
    of surviving unscathed

  198. Gammelor

    For today’s prompt, write a weather poem.

    Odd to find snow fallen overnight—
    yesterday was sweating under a fan.
    Sick of the white stuff just a month back,
    this morning I welcomed it. Cool and clean,
    crystalline feathers on greening grass.

    Gammelor Goodenow

  199. alan1704


    The buds are metal
    Amidst the bramble
    Beneath the Hawthorn trees
    Soft in the summer rain
    Love’s tangled web
    As black clouds gather
    Like thunder
    Its flash strikes me down.

    Warm crystal tears
    Brush stagnant glades
    Blesses the Chestnut tree
    As heavens furnace glows red
    Loves fashioned fingers
    Though clouds of swollen pollen
    Scented flowers
    Kiss the veil of opaque skin
    A silent message of love.

  200. Hannah

    Echo in a Geode

    Circle full
    mesh of humankind
    web of interconnectedness
    held in balance by earth wisdom.
    Revolves in a purple tinged twilight sky
    same shade as cloak of closed eyelids,
    fluttering dreams scroll beneath
    mountain stream pulses alive
    rivers surge and tides rise.
    Somewhere it’s storming
    but here and now
    it’s just right,
    full circle.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

    1. PressOn

      Wow. This is mystical and sensual, yet concrete, like the geode. The shape of the poem accentuates the convex thought that fits in the concave interior of the stone. Or so it seems to me. I think this is superb.

  201. Emma


    I am a messy person.
    You once asked how I could spend so much time
    Tidying, and still leave such a mess behind.
    I don’t know the answer to that.
    I do know that ‘Typhoon’ and ‘Hurricane’ are words
    That come from gods and monsters,
    That until 1978 they were only named after women,
    That naming them does not limit their strength.
    I’ve read a lot of poems about why storms are named after
    People; but no one wonders if people can be named after storms.
    In 1956 a typhoon with my name hit Okinawa and South Korea
    At 140 mph, and downed a plane.
    My name means whole: a big messy, circular, storm
    With a gaping space of nothing in my middle.
    It means universal: I won’t ever stop for anyone,
    Even Gods like Jupiter and Neptune, even you.
    There is no intention for hurt, for the kind of damage
    I once suffered myself. Sure, I can steer myself
    Away, but I cannot stop you from following.
    I cannot stop you from trying to fill the hole in my heart,
    Cannot make you understand that everything made in the eye
    Of the storm will be unmade just as soon as I dare to move.
    Eventually you will fall back, or I will leave you behind.
    I cannot stop you from being left in the mess I leave
    In my wake.

  202. Gabrielle Freeman

    by Gabrielle Freeman

    There is always one day
    that feels exactly like
    Southern California.

    The air is dry and smells
    like sun sitting light
    upon bare skin. It is clear.
    I can see every detail
    outlined by flawless blue,
    hear the quiet joy
    of the calico cat
    stretching out, eyes lidded
    in a feline smile.

    Though my feet are flush
    against weathered wood,
    it is hot asphalt I feel.
    The concrete sidewalk
    to the 7-11.
    The slick black lines
    marking lanes at the bottom
    of the municipal pool.

    Thanks for reading!

  203. Domino

    Monsoon Season

    Arizona’s blazing blue skies rarely
    change until July or August, when dust
    storms tear through, as if to taunt the afternoon
    thunderheads. The weatherman finally
    has something to talk about. Talk he does,
    eyes sparking, hands gesticulating, grin-
    ningly trying to predict the first monsoon.

    Lightning storms come too; no rain hits the
    arid earth. It falls, but evaporates
    before it lands. The animals know first,
    when rain will finally come. They batten down
    and wait, and know (better than the people
    sometimes) not to go into the washes.

    Soon the storm begins, pelting drops so large
    one is soaked in seconds. So rare is the
    rain, so welcome, the warm water feels like
    a benediction. It passes quickly.
    The scent, a delicate earthy perfume.
    The winds and water leave a changed desert,
    a waterscape with broken branches, leaves
    scattered, flattened flowers. Muddy water
    scrambles through the gullies and someone’s car
    is stuck again.

    Diana Terrill Clark

  204. gloryia


    an evening walk
    along winter’s misty lanes
    where weaving shadows
    drift to paint shifting shapes on
    old, worn, crumbling stone grey walls

    silver-green leaves sway
    spread hanging fingers to touch
    water’s cold, silent
    shadows, as floating leaves spin
    against water’s swirling tide

  205. DanielAri

    “Fructose Almanac”

    We brought our own crusts and Wildcat Canyon
    filled them—five free blackberry pies. Our third
    year of home ownership, pre-child. Seasons
    open bakeries, and we eat the years
    with ice cream or sharp cheddar cheese sliced thin.

    I keep that saw about April showers
    with what I’ve gleaned about frosts and heat waves.
    I watch like a gambler who’s won farmland
    in a card game and feels urged to improve
    his newfound fertility. But he finds

    there’s no tell, no bluff to read. Plum trees give
    no quarter this year. My daughter and I
    have already savored its few crisp cleaves.
    There’s just not enough rain, I tell the sky.
    This April heat won’t make powdered sugar

    into blackberry blood. If we get pie
    it will be a flavor we have to buy.


  206. elledoubleyoo


    Gray light turns rose as it’s filtered
    through the red paint of your skylight,
    pinking our bodies,
    yours gold, mine white,
    now something softer
    and warmer
    than cloud-bleak sky
    that throws down rain,
    marbles scattered
    across the tin roof overhead.

  207. barton smock


    on a clear day
    my father
    is the face
    of absence.

    how what I mean
    cuts the finger

    my mother

    how porch blood
    is not the same blood
    the body
    faints with.

    how copperhead, how rattlesnake, how lisp

    says I myth
    my sister
    who is still

    to shoplift

    from the thunderstorm
    we gave her.

  208. dhaivid3

    Poem title: It never rains as in Africa

    We dart this way and that
    Avoiding puddles as small as my fist
    Grateful we’d missed
    Stepping in large ones
    Formed in potholes.
    Cars honk their loud horns
    We reach the other side
    Joining the throng of other pedestrians rushing through the ‘pouring rain’
    “It’s pouring”, my colleague shouts, office papers hastily snatched on the way out now serve as a temporary umbrella above his head.
    We have to find shelter.
    We spot the bar sign.
    Unknowns meet in this unplanned Rendezvous and
    After a while nature takes charge.
    Cards are exchanged, and just as freely are smiles (there’s just not enough time to notice the price of a fellow conversationalist’s shoes. Bigotry takes a break).
    Nature has her way and human life is given one more chance to be kept alive.

    35 minutes pass
    I have two numbers.
    We leave the bar
    Laughing, chattering, happy to have met strangers.
    My friend says “it’s stopped raining!”
    I smile at him and look around, quizzically.
    Where is the evidence of this ‘pouring rain’?
    I pull up my collar and hunch my shoulders as is the norm here. Then I step out.
    A smile is plastered on my face but all the while I am thinking:
    It never rains as in Africa.

  209. dhaivid3

    Poem Title: When Christ spreads His arms

    When Christ spread His arms
    Evil was put to shame;
    When Christ spread His arms
    Righteousness won the day.

    As Christ spreads His arms
    On Today Good Friday
    Let us go be the arms –
    help others we meet on our way.

  210. Brian Slusher


    I click, the lecture notes appear,
    the students nod, pen hands move
    like seismographs, I apprehend these
    are the wrong remarks projected on
    the screen, I cough, no hands go up,
    one kid is doodling, looks like a pair
    of breasts, I should admit my fail,
    they keep dutifully inscribing Capote
    was a lonely child
    , I click, this should
    be an analysis of Gatsby but its
    background for “A Christmas Memory,”
    I should Ha! It’s just a joke, they seem
    so focused, are they learning something,
    one girl notes the clock, the thin red hand
    sweeps towards the bell, I click,
    the doodle looks to be the eyes of
    T. J. Eckleburg, while I’m a ragged child
    scuttling through the silent woods,
    pulling a wobbly wagon behind,
    the notebooks close, the screen looks
    like a window, frosted window, empty
    window, click

  211. flood

    No Recording Devices Permitted

    The daffodils,
    oh the daffodils,
    they have left the gods
    baffled and miserable
    this spring.
    They are reaching
    upward in a
    delicate yellow yawn.
    I could not bear, today,
    to take their picture.
    I dropped my head
    and vowed that I would
    race them to the heavens,
    despite their
    head start.

    1. Brian Slusher

      Though the title has me flummoxed, I like the poem, especially the “delicate yellow yawn” and the final vow to “race them to the heavens / despite their / head start.” I’m not sure why the gods are “baffled and miserable,” but I like the sound of it anyway. Good stuff!

  212. Karen H. Phillips

    Day 18

    Write a weather poem.


    Overcast today, perhaps not so dark as that
    day, when earth became shadowed by execution
    of the Most Innocent, the Holy One.

    Still, the grayness reminds me that my sin
    nailed Him there, my gray soul made Him bleed.
    Selfishness, me-ness, pleasure-centered self.

    The old preacher said it best. Today it’s gray.
    It’s Friday, but
    Sunday’s comin’.

  213. foodpoet

    Memories Fall

    In the year when winter never ends
    Snow falls
    Yet again
    I watch ice fall

    Ice freezes
    Frozen memories
    What is left of the heart
    Is unmendable
    All that is left bends
    Breaks snaps
    Shattered pieces
    Cover the ground
    In icy blends
    In the year when winter never ends

    In the year when winter never ends
    I pick up the pen
    In random moments
    For a lancing minute
    Of peace before
    I again heed the calls
    Of family care and work
    Demand. I hide behind lies.
    I smile even when it galls
    Snow falls

    In the year when winter never ends
    Again with
    Pen cannot thaw the family chain
    That binds me each day
    And I face the day without words
    I hold the family skein
    Yet again

    As memories unravel
    I knit my spare time
    With platitudes and words
    I deal with family issues
    And poetic escape keeps me on track
    If even a snail crawl
    Verse will come to soothe the day
    words will come to soothe the pain
    I wrap my mom in my woven shawl
    We watch the ice fall

    Megan McDonald

  214. CLRichardson

    White Flake

    Falling from the sky
    Twinkling in the light
    Lying to rest as a baby
    Covering everything in sight

    Clinging to branches
    Dusting the land
    Nothing is safe
    From its far reaching hand

    Its beauty abounds
    But its wrath can be strong
    Its life short lived
    But feeling so long

    Christy Lynn Richardson

  215. drnurit


    By: Dr. Nurit Israeli

    Standing at the edge of the world,
    Gazing at the open horizon,
    In front of me – Nothing except
    The vastness of the sea,
    Behind me – bare landscapes,
    Not a single tree,
    Reindeers roaming…
    The furthest. No remoter.
    If the world was square,
    I could touch Out of Space.
    (What is beyond the end?)

    Standing at the edge of the world,
    The sun shining close above me:
    Oh, the longest sunsets are here –
    Sunset greeting sunrise,
    Gracefully changing positions,
    Day and night merging,
    The sun, a sky queen,
    Creating ever-changing art
    In wildest shades of gold.

    Standing at the edge of the world,
    The Nordkapp globe beside me:
    A massive black sculpture
    Standing for our fragile planet,
    Carl Sagan’s pale blue dot
    Now circling around the sun –
    So minor in an endless sky –
    Yet all that I know is there,
    A pale blue dot filled
    With my everything…

    Standing on a steep cliff
    At the northernmost point
    Of the edge of the world –
    Shivering from high winds,
    Or perhaps from high spirits,
    I feel so small and yet so big
    Partaking in the glory.

  216. JadeWr1tes

    Pushing, Blowing (4/18)

    Dashing through white and blue
    wispy clouds, pushing, blowing
    them along quietly then loud
    against the leaves light as paper,
    snapping twigs, tree trunks shaven
    to shiver your little body so small
    compared to the cracks and moans
    I make of walls, oops, falls the
    green little things, bugs and rain,
    howling for you to gaze at me through
    your window pane, so plain I
    am in white, chill, freezing cold,
    lips flutter, rattling bones of the old,
    clutter the streets from my destructive
    force of power, shower upon my
    watery wrath, drying the dew of
    the now beaten path, as I kiss
    your skin in punishing heat,
    leaving you complete, dancing
    in the street, musical notes
    the birds send, writing my
    name into the cloudy skies…..

    © 2014 Jada Lopez Poetry

    Thank you for reading! :)

  217. Linda Lee Sand

    You Must Make Peace with the Prairie Wind

    It will spin you
    wind you
    Wind you
    Bind you against a wall,
    will throw you
    Head over heels
    Down the road
    and goad you
    into acquiescence
    No sense
    Fighting it, this
    Will win
    Every time
    Line after line has
    been written about
    This madcap hackle-armed
    Invisible genius of
    Air but don’t let me
    Scare you, only
    some have gone insane
    along this
    open-ended prairie
    Only some have lost
    their head, most
    just hold their
    hair, hats, beards, breath
    and curse to death or worse
    This incessant
    Always winning
    Low – lying
    High – flying
    Soul – defying


  218. Azma


    Such is the power of weather
    it reflects its mood on all.
    The world would be more wrathful than cheerful
    if the reflection was the other way round.

  219. utsabfly

    Ending Love’s Drought

    Several refrains of love’s drought,
    Only a small spark required.
    To ignite a once dormant heart,
    Causing an eruption of passion’s fire.

    A cyclone captures two wanting souls,
    Destroying anything in its path.
    Transporting the now one,
    Into unknown future forecasts.

    Drowning in a flood meant to douse,
    Clinging to fallen victims of the wind.
    Downed branches keeping your heads above water,
    Carrying you both to safety’s bridge.

    A clear sky now emerges, stable atmosphere.
    A gentle breeze replaces the fury.
    The drought is finished and all is refreshed,
    Hope tomorrow’s elements also translate to glory!

    ©E.D. Allee
    April, 2014

  220. tunesmiff

    G. Smith
    We snapped our raincoats together,
    And went splashing down the hill;
    That was how many years ago?
    It’s plain I remember it still.

    You smiled up bathed in yellow,
    From the light that filtered through,
    We danced and were wet above the knees;
    What happened to me and you?

    Wait – you don’t have to answer,
    I know – I caused all the pain;
    From yours so very long ago,
    To mine now with every rain.

  221. Evelyn Philipp

    One Saturday Afternoon

    The sky is gold-tone
    With brooding black clouds
    And the air, heavy metal
    You can taste it

    Momma, Momma
    Should we go to the storm cellar?
    No, it’s alright
    Wait and see if it blows over

    Granny says it’s a tornado sky
    But we play on in the dirt yard
    Until big drops come down
    Heavy, wetting the dirt

    Inside the house, warm
    We listen to the rain
    The lights flash off , back on
    Telling us, pay attention!

    A radio bulletin blares, and we run,
    run through the rain and the mud,
    Fling ourselves down the stairs
    A locomotive chasing us.

  222. Connie Inglis

    Who Has Seen the Wind?

    Who has seen the wind?
    Gusty and gargantuan
    swirling, spinning, shield
    of fire and darkness.
    Glorious intensity. Hovering uncertainty.
    Bringing hope?
    No. Fear.
    Who has seen the wind?

    Who has seen the wind?
    Wandering and wild
    awakening the quake and fire,
    then sudden stillness.
    Peaceful solitude—whispers.
    Bringing fear?
    No. Comfort.
    Who has seen the wind?

    Who has seen the wind?
    Breathing, ever breathing.
    Caressing the wasteland
    of death and bones.
    Rattling consciousness. Arming life.
    Bringing comfort?
    Yes, but also warning.
    Who has seen the wind?

    Who has seen the wind?
    Calm and unsuspecting,
    then roaring down from heaven
    flames of fire sighted.
    Settling in hearts, minds, souls, speech.
    Bringing warning?
    No. Power.
    Who has seen the wind?
    The Apostles.

    Who has seen the wind?
    Piercing and unrelenting,
    toppling towers and kingdoms
    of chaff and sawdust.
    By invitation only–a gentle breeze.
    Bringing power?
    Yes, and love and self-discipline.
    Who has seen the wind?
    I have seen the wind.

  223. EbenAt

    Whether the Weather

    Seasonal Affective Disorder;
    the year-round gift
    that keeps on giving…

    Too hot, cold, wet, or dry
    should send you back
    to your cave;
    that’s why we dig ‘em.

    Revel in rain,
    celebrate sunshine,
    commune with clouds,
    dig dry,
    get funky with fog.

    Don’t fight, absorb.
    Too much?
    run home.

    When worse comes
    to worse,
    pop a cork,
    crack a book,
    and be
    somewhere different.

  224. Gwyvian


    I was born as a spark in a cyclone, where heat
    and ice collided in a sublime implosion—
    they lead each other on a merry chase, but the dance
    was done and I have come, a comet to race the moon
    as it rises and sets, filling my eyes, and
    twilight graced my lips as I whispered
    the message cast in a bottle by the solar wind,
    of celestial tempests and scintillating spheres: all
    eerily silent…

    April 18, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  225. Emma Hine

    Show Your Rainbow
    (a weather haiku)

    Golden sunshine rays
    Casting warmth upon the Earth,
    Lighting up your days.

    Stormy, cloudy skies
    Thunderbolts and lightning sparks
    Drowning out your cries.

    Somewhere in between
    Seven colours – fiery arc
    Lets itself be seen.

  226. laurie kolp

    To Tan in April

    polish off yellow pollen
    from favorite lawn chair,
    flip over
    the over-
    stuffed floral cushion
    strewn with brown catkin
    before it. pricks. pale. skin.
    Sit down, unwind
    with Sól, but beware- –
    Skaði is a ruthless bitch,
    tomorrow it might snow.

  227. jojo1127

    PAD challenge #18 Weather poem


    Sometimes I feel I can’t go on
    where is the calm before the storm?
    I know I must be strong

    Life is such a struggle-my energy is drawn
    Living has left me feeling scorn
    Sometimes I feel I can’t go on

    I wish I could live and not feel withdrawn
    but my view of life has been misinformed
    yet somehow I know I must be strong

    I try to reflect on the beauty of the dawn
    and the gracious flowers, playful birds, magnificent trees and all it’s charm
    yet, still I feel I can’t go on

    When the sun rays are gone
    dark clouds has taken form
    I know I must stay strong

    I weather this life alone-I wish I had someone to call upon
    Trying to endure but I feel strong armed
    Sometimes I feel I can’t go on
    But I know I must stay strong.

  228. arlingtonscribe

    Kissed by the Polar Vortex

    the furnace clicks to life, which
    marks the prelude of your coming,
    and the house groans with an arthritic

    you’re not destructive like a tornado,
    an earthquake, or a tsunami, but you
    destroy things in tiny moments stretched
    out and culminating – in some extreme cases
    you have even stopped hearts
    (cold heartbreaker)

    you get inside things and make them
    hurt a little; you snarl traffic and
    French kiss the roads, engaging
    in an erotic dance that leaves
    slippery slopes
    frozen for a time

    objects get jackknifed especially for you,
    a highway sacrifice, the altar crackles
    below degrees
    always the charmer, within minutes
    you make people blush without really trying,
    leaving hands deathly cold, and the cars in
    driveways immobile from your touch

    everything tastes different when you touch it,
    even the air (sadly, Arctic blast tastes nothing
    like freeze pops or ice cream)
    you’re just too damn cold for words,
    so you kiss everything

    you’re unexpected, uninvited,
    but you might win the prize for
    being the ultimate one-night stand
    because you like to linger awhile

    you might even call the next day

  229. novacatmando


    We question the silver
    instead of gray, or malaise,
    or char. Maybe even noir.
    So who do we call? To tell
    every cloud to grab a day
    and a lining, and be off.

  230. Amy

    This won’t have the spacing I intended, because I have no idea how to do that on this site, but I hope it still comes across.

    Tempestuous Eyes

    I wonder
    when you look into my


    can you see the hurricane beneath?

    A raging melee,
    gray on gray.
    These winds are turbulent,
    but hardly


    a simple sandbox-
    I dig and dig but never find
    the root.

    You say it gets easier
    but I’m still

    my implicating

    inner tempest.

  231. Gwyvian

    Unfinished eclipse

    I was pondering sacrifice over a cup of tea,
    a storm breaking outside, filling the air with electric
    compulsion ready to strike – yet, holding back
    just at the last instant, as I, leaving darkness
    to consume the pattering night void of speech,
    strangely peaceful amidst all that violence…

    …but the thunder—
    the thunder rolled over me, lodging itself
    in my marrow; teeth chattering, I said what must
    be said, and the heavens themselves punctuated
    my words – though my heart clenched with misery.

    A cloud passed across your face as I spoke,
    but you held in the rain as you listened: the path
    might lead to a hesitant sun drenched in the blood of
    daylight fading, spilling the secrets of the clouds,
    and we might meet again, though we knew
    what the end of this particular storm meant…

    …but the quiet, the quiet of the air the next day
    as you passed through the atmosphere—
    sound tuned out and you… were simply gone, and like
    at an eclipse: I kept waiting for you to show your
    face to me once again, come to me in my garden.

    I was ever rooted in the biosphere of our connection,
    teaming with minnows of nostalgic regret
    spreading vines of memories, lush and misted
    with the dew of the tears we’ve shared – but you
    are the sojourner of the skies, drawn
    to touch the cosmos and be bathed in fresh light…

    …that sunrise above the roiling clouds, silent lightning
    striking beyond visibility – journey forever forming:
    your feet dancing you away so quickly, I think your
    toes barely touched the ground near me.

    I pondered sacrifice alone, and wish I hadn’t
    told you to go – though I knew you would never say
    what staying would erode within you:
    you are an icon of freedom that cannot be leashed
    and the continuing storm of our affection
    would only drown our garden in grief…

    April 18, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  232. JanetRuth

    Weathered by Weather

    Love me with your lips of gold
    Darling, I am not a king
    But a beggar shivering
    Where your eye is gray and cold

    I would lie prostrate and still
    In the middle-afternoon
    Just to feel your whisper spill
    Over me in violet swoon

    Did I mention, I am cold?
    My defense of you is weak
    Where you kiss my weathered cheek
    Philanderer; bullish and bold

    You embellish your advance
    With bird-song and nature-lilt
    Scorned, I huddled ‘neath a quilt
    Subjected to raw romance

    …of sub-zero April gray
    Love should not keep score, but oh
    I miss your golden laughter so
    Darling, have you lost you way?

    Janet Martin

          1. JanetRuth

            Tom, I think I could learn a lot from you. I appreciate your thoughtful comments. Maybe I’m too ‘by-the-book’. I like the idea you suggest :)

          2. tunesmiff

            Have to concur… didn’t see anything “wrong” with the break in scheme… thought/counter-thought… internal conversation – It didn’t seem at all “contrived” to me…

            and “Subjected to raw romance…” – great line…


          3. TomNeal

            Janet, You are not ‘too “by the book”‘, but there are a few pages near its end that allow for the occasional broken rule and/or experiment.

        1. Gwyvian

          I absolutely love the use of colors – and the juxtapositions could have been plucked from my favorite themes!

          And no worries about your post, I got it :) I know what you mean, though, I wish I could at least edit my posts to fix a typo for example, it would make life so much easier.

    1. PressOn

      There probably are lots of interpretations, thanks to the words you used and the way you changed rhyme schemes. I saw Earth in the spring. Whatever you intended, I was totally absorbed in teh reading. Wonderful.

      1. TomNeal

        Some years ago I heard George Steiner say, ‘With legal writing we want a line to carry one meaning, and one meaning only, but with poetry we want fibre optic lines carrying an infinite number of readings.’ Those may not be his exact words, but they are close. Steiner was praising Milton when he offered this up.

  233. elledoubleyoo

    The Devil (Wind) I Know

    Despite its name, there’s nothing saintly in
    the Santa Ana. In the still-cool still-
    ness of dawn before mercury begins
    to climb, you feel the threat of heat when
    you step outside, a match tucked in fist,
    ready to be struck, thrown into the wind.

    On days like this, I think of Didion’s
    machete, shrieking peacocks, the Pacific
    Ocean glossy, drowning Indians–
    it’s almost a relief when it, at last, begins.
    That itch of threatening heat, somehow relieved
    by fiery gusts that scratch against your skin

    and throat and eyes.
    When Ana begins to blow,
    I believe in sin,

    for she’s only devil that I know.

    1. elledoubleyoo

      Oops, lost my line breaks, let’s see if I can fix that:

      The Devil (Wind) I Know

      Despite its name, there’s nothing saintly in
      the Santa Ana. In the still-cool still-
      ness of dawn before mercury begins
      to climb, you feel the threat of heat when
      you step outside, a match tucked in fist,
      ready to be struck, thrown into the wind.

      On days like this, I think of Didion’s
      machete, shrieking peacocks, the Pacific
      Ocean glossy, drowning Indians–
      it’s almost a relief when it, at last, begins.
      That itch of threatening heat, somehow relieved
      by fiery gusts that scratch against your skin

      and throat and eyes.
      When Ana begins to blow,
      I believe in sin,
      for she is the only devil that I know.

      1. PressOn

        I lived in southern California for a few years, so I know the Santa Anas well. You captured their flavor, though in winter they brought the most beautiful skies.

  234. Mr. Take The Lead

    It’s Getting Cloudy
    Daniel R. Simmons
    There may be famine and drought in your life.
    It may seems though your big “breakthrough” will never come, you feel stagnant at your job when you need a promotion, it may seem like your life is going nowhere and all you have is a pipe dream, your spiritual deliverance seems to be oh so far away as you continue to struggle with that same negative things and habits, that job you need hasn’t called back, you still have the same sickness, or maybe that relationship still remains unmended- whatever your case may be you have been praying for God to rain His blessings in your life but your life has been pretty dry. But my friend be encouraged and keep praying, because you KNOW God is going to send the breakthrough you need because He told you. Each day brings you closer and closer to your blessing, I don’t care how clear the sky looks right now, the rain of blessing is coming.
    So keep checking the mailbox, keep clocking into work, keep telling the doctors to run the tests, keep checking your emails, keep checking your voice mails, keep going to church and praising God, keep going to the car dealerships, keep pitching your business ideas and keep worshipping until you get a spiritual breakthrough and deliverance, no matter who says what they don’t and can’t see happening in your life tell them to look again because you can hear the rain of blessings in the air.
    Never lose your faith when you’re waiting and anticipating for a major breakthrough in your life to occur. If God promised you He will turn things around in your life, stand on that promise sole heartedly regardless of what’s happening or not happening in your life.
    Prepare for the shower of blessings in your life-
    Because it’s getting cloudy.

  235. barbara_y

    Sweetwater Ballad

    Can you make sweet music
    when your throat is cracked and dry?
    I allow as how I can, some,
    but prefer some other way

    Was a drought-year summer
    (short line, but the verse was long)
    The well showed bottom
    Wet the ironing down with tears,
    did the women.
    Can you make sweet music
    with your throat all dry?

    Men paced the worried darkness,
    cursed the dusted moon.
    I allow as how I can, some,
    but prefer some other way.

    Can’t plow a drought year under;
    death’s incapable of dying
    It soaks up hope and harmony,
    mocks at you with thunder.
    And if you try to leave all,
    tis a ragged walking path.

    Can you write sweet letters
    with your own heart damaged, pray?
    With your sacred spring gone dry?
    I allow as how I can, some,
    but prefer some other way.

    If God lets drought take my tongue
    and wring it silent
    I’ll mouth the devil’s lies
    before I pray another day
    I allow as how I can, some,
    but prefer the other way.

  236. alana sherman

    Just want to say how really good all the poems are this April. Poems full of really good images and interesting takes on the prompts. Excellent poetry/poets. Thanks for the inspiration.

    Day 18 Weather poem

    Snowy Friday

    A heavy wet snow burdens
    the trees and the fields
    are hushed. Clumps slide off
    the roof and branches to quiet
    the world. As snow piles up
    it intensifies the stillness
    in the rooms. It is Friday
    and I am at my desk reading
    Chaucer while the news is on.
    A heavy wet snow burdens the trees
    and the fields are hushed.

    and yes, another

    Nature’s Show

    Some people like the movies
    I go for nature’s show
    I sit and watch the meadow
    In thunderstorms or snow

    If the north wind’s blowing
    or the grass is tall and still
    I like to study lightning
    maples glistening on the hill

    When the world is summer green
    and big white clouds roll by
    I listen to the crickets sing
    watch swallows roll and dive

    and now the rain is coming
    there’s thunder in the west
    the wind sets things a-tumbling
    and robins seek their nests

    There’s nothing I like better
    the porch is my front row—
    with two dogs sitting at my feet—
    observing nature’s show

  237. Mr. Take The Lead

    Stormy Rain
    Daniel R. Simmons
    Sometimes life comes down on you so hard that the weight of it feels like a thousand pounds of stormy rain
    that drifts you to an island of isolation and the shore line of your success

  238. CristinaMRNorcross

    It’s Raining Color Today

    Yellow buttercups wink at me,
    gathering strength from the sun.

    Your sea blue words carry with them
    clarity and calm.
    Bathed in your need for direction,
    I follow the itinerary
    and hold your hand –
    my clouds of rose quartz comfort
    trailing behind
    in secret.

    Our children run and splash about
    with the red fire of purpose and play.

    The other travelers obey the black lines
    and close cabin compartments
    with rhythmic clicks.

    I admire their efficiency,
    as I linger over a book
    before take off –
    remaining deliciously, knowingly
    in the fog of a British morning.

    Cristina M. R. Norcross
    Copyright 2014

  239. Deri

    Fair-Weather Lover

    Every year it is the same
    a cycle of the birth
    and death of us
    the lightness of Summer
    giving way in the Fall
    crumbling under the weight
    of false promises
    until at some point, inevitably
    in the darkest cold of winter
    you vanish, like a melted snowflake
    the barest trace left behind
    to remind me you once had substance
    I don’t know why you cycle with the seasons
    I don’t know why you always leave
    as if I had something to do with the weather
    the reason your unconfined sadness
    takes over until you become as numb and dead
    as our flowers in the frozen ground
    all I can do is look up at the leaden sky
    and know somewhere beyond the clouds
    the sun is also waiting
    and it will be Spring again soon

  240. Joseph Harker

    Butterfly Effect

    Some careless monarch
    pairs its wings against another’s
    pressed against the pine bark
    in Monterey

    and three weeks later
    off-season tornadoes
    chew through an Alabama trailer park
    tattering the plastic and tin.

    The monarch tattoo on your shoulder
    makes me think of all this
    and that scientist who believed
    orgasm could make rain

    and I’m out for revenge
    hoping your shoulder pressed to mine
    sets in motion some hurricane
    called down on our goddamn heads.

  241. grcran

    (my son and I wrote this one together, obviously it refers mostly to health and not weather, but I thought it might work, today)

    by gpr crane and Caleb Flanagan

    cigarette unlit
    in his lips in open field
    waiting for lightning

    1. tunesmiff

      Lightning’s part of the weather, so why not? I like the picture it presents though… sort of an “I dare you” mentality – face to the sky…


  242. Kit Cooley

    Two Steps Back

    Watching bare brown mud,
    filled in again with white,
    brings grey thoughts to mind.

    As spring snow falls on garden
    and pasture, the hills are obscured.
    All the birds of spring, the little lambs,
    and the green shoots of hope,
    shiver in the chill wind.

    We look anxiously to the sky,
    wishing for the spot of blue
    that will renew the spirit.

    ~ Kit Cooley

  243. spinzo

    On the 6:44 to Boston

    It is 6:44

    The train to Boston jerks forward and shakes me
    As I settle into my seat
    Facing rearward

    The sky is cloudless, blue
    Far too cold for April 18

    The sun has broken free of the horizon and
    Splashes itself against a scratched, dull Plexiglas window
    And I squint through the glare at the rubbish
    That gathers everywhere there are train tracks

    Rusted cars and rimless tires
    Appliances and shopping carts
    Plastic shopping bags that
    Caught in a locomotive’s draft
    Are curled upward into the trees
    Left to wave like weathered flags
    Seen for a moment then
    Into the grime and glare of a dull Plexiglas window
    Lost to the speed and course of a train
    And the lack of concern of a passenger who cannot see
    Where he is headed
    Only the fading memory of where he has been

  244. SeekingSoltitude

    The sea without water

    Beads of sweat settle on my brow
    As I run through the fields of yellow fatigue
    The sun is high as the stars I see
    And no sight of a roof or a tree
    I stop and slide down
    wishing for a gift or a place to drown
    Delirious and incoherent
    With illusions of an oasis
    Clouding my vision,
    Ignoring the sirens, i make a decision
    Leaning my back against a sweltering rock
    The cactus ahead at me mocked
    I knew not God, But maybe he knew me
    When at that moment he blessed this poor slave
    with drops of water on my Mortal bed
    it sizzled and gave me sudden strength
    Of Hercules or Thor, it remains unknown
    The never ending blessing poured down
    And soon I was up and about
    Drinking and rejoicing
    I felt a new life of me
    I know god now
    and he knew me.


  245. Jane Shlensky

    Slow Melt
    Ice rides the necks of daffodils
    jealous of green and gold, pushes purple
    down the throats of crocus caught by cold.

    Trees and shrubs unshackling glaze
    throw crystal tubes of ice to earth,
    each oompah crash lightens their load.

    A slip of sun and rivaling rain
    run rivulets through glassy ice,
    as stubborn winter melts at last.

    Flocks of robins bob and slide,
    their migratory signals crossed,
    confused by skies that should be blue.

    Who knows why winter bullies spring,
    its frozen bluster stealing time
    until it’s led away in chains?

    Forsythia’s ceramic blooms
    slough off this wintry tantrum’s bling;
    they won’t be victimized. It’s spring!

  246. Jane Shlensky

    Weather Predictions

    His knees act up in cold and snow,
    and any injury he has
    jabs pains to help him cipher skies.
    He knows what’s in a cloud’s pocket.

    He likes to entertain the kids
    with weather stories he can spin
    all day. He hopes to take their fear
    away with whimsy, even joy.

    The small ones’ eyes grow wide and scared
    of thunder, lightning, raging winds.
    What must be happening on high
    today to cause such noise below?

    He lets them ruminate on that
    then offers them a starter few
    imaginative answers, like
    the gods are bowling on our lanes,

    Old Father’s dropping knives of light,
    He broke his broomstick–hear the crack,
    He has to have a dark background
    before he paints a rainbow there.

    He lets each image settle in
    their minds, take root, and bear them fruit.
    He cracks his knuckles, they might say,
    He’s blowing smoke, He’s breaking wind.

    He’s throwing knives, He’s slapping mad,
    Old Father’s snoring really bad.
    He never knew just where they’d go
    but anything that quelled their fear

    was good enough to ease them now.
    Later he’d teach them all the clouds
    to watch, teach them to hunker down,
    show them to board up windows, doors,

    watch out for ice and whirling winds.
    He won’t tell them the stakes are high
    as winds that come with hurricanes,
    that weather patterns move and shake

    us into broken heaps sometimes.
    He’ll help them read the trees and birds
    for signs of weather that’s to come,
    until they earn their weather bones.

  247. Erynn

    There’s been no rain in weeks
    The earth is parched and dry
    Even all the streams and leaks
    Have vanished as the time went by
    We have all prayed for rain
    As the plants began to wilt
    Animals thirst in pain
    As the water turns to silt
    Why did the rain cease to be
    What did we do so wrong
    Does God not hear our plea
    Why did this drought last so long
    After months of waiting
    Some hope at last we view
    The sunny skies are abating
    Darkened clouds are pushing through
    Rain began to fall once more
    Upon our dusty town
    We all danced in the downpour
    As the rain of life came down
    Our land was finally healed
    As was every broken heart
    The healing that the rain revealed
    Made us hope it would never depart

  248. Amaria

    Weather haikus

    snowflakes dust the trees
    it covers the icy grass
    but i must go out

    a sweltering sun
    the ground scorches our bare feet
    we all pray for rain

    dark clouds form above
    heavy rain pounds the roadway
    all is washed away

    cool air rushes in
    colorful leaves tumbling down
    Autumn has arrived

  249. Emma Hine

    Calm Before The Storm

    Calmness radiates from me like the sun,
    Subconscious sleeps, her thoughts not yet begun.
    The sun dips behind a cloud.
    Emotions enshroud.

    Tiredness washes over me like a wave,
    Subconscious now forgets how to behave.
    The waves crash onto the shore.
    Patience is no more.

    Fear sweeps over me like a wind,
    Subconscious irrationale won’t rescind.
    The wind dies to the ground.
    Courage is found.

    Anger engulfs me like a mist,
    Subconscious by red Rage is slowly kissed.
    The mist condenses in drops.
    Serenity stops.

    Guilt pours down on me like rain.
    Subconscious is drowned in pools of pain.
    The rain is dried by the sun…
    Calmness has won.

  250. Lady S Poetic Thickness


    She lays her body
    Against the cold white snow
    Attempting to feel something
    Anything other than bitterness

    She seeks to numb herself
    Stop the pain
    Halt the hurt
    Erase the fact that she was his fool…again

    The wind beats upon her delicate flesh
    Lashing her like the whip of a slave master
    Brutally, without hesitation
    As the snow continues to fall upon her

    Her body begins to shake
    Reacting to the elements
    While she stares blankly

    No longer can she form the tears to release
    Her anger
    The revenge she seeks
    Burying herself in the coldness that mirrors his soul

    They will find her
    Form opinions as to why she was here
    Why she did this
    What could ever push her this far

    She closes her eyes
    Her breathing staggered
    Covered in a deep blanket of snowflakes
    Her heart beats its final sound

    (C) Sheila Moseley
    Lady S-Poetic Thickness

  251. Margot Suydam

    Rubaiyat to Sky

    What rumbles outside my window
    is nothing less than a bulbous glow
    of troubling clouds that hold things
    I have yet to mention before you go.

    There is no shame in me keeping
    the gold you left me while sleeping
    out on the curb. I’d hold up the sky
    as if that could refrain rain seeping

    into the buckets placed at the door.
    If you could still weather the store
    keeo staliions you hold in teather
    I’d make peace for you on my floor.

  252. Shennon

    I want to be kissed in the pines.
    I want to hear the wind singing
    through the delicate, scented needles.
    I want to feel the rough bark
    of the trunk against my back.
    I want to create enough friction
    to forget the winter cold.


  253. Laurie G

    Football Weather, Chance of Rain

    My brother cherishes those cloudy fall days
    tinged with cold, days
    crisp with brown leaves and rot,
    college football Saturdays.

    My brother cherishes
    days that reflect
    his rumbling mind, days
    that brood as much he does,
    afternoons bleached and sucked of all sure color,
    the sun tucked beneath the bed,
    the sun gone away this gray Saturday.

    Leave mercy and color till after the game,
    leave mercy till after the whistle, the roar of crowds
    waving as one organ in their war paint,
    collecting in the stadium at the first frost,
    gathered like clouds with a chance of rain.

  254. CLShaffer

    Snow in Late April by C. Lynn Shaffer

    In that inkling
    before plants wither from cold
    snow makes royal
    the daffodil’s mane,
    lays a pale velvet carpet from which
    the crocus trills.
    Death will be this kind of beautiful,
    to suddenly hear the planets’ singing,
    the astonishment that only comes
    when two worlds meet.

  255. AleathiaD

    Spinning the Wheel

    When I was a child
    my mother knew a medium
    and as hokey as this sounds,
    I really believe she was one.

    I’d spend my afternoons
    at her house and there was always
    a blue aura around me.

    I was five then,
    what did I know about
    those things other than blue
    was a really great color.

    At that age, I suffered
    violent dreams where planes
    plummeted and trains collided—
    People dead on the tracks,
    fire and brimstone on the tarmac.

    I’d wake up screaming.
    My mother would say
    “go back to sleep,
    it was only a dream”
    and later that morning
    I would get up with my Meem
    and watch the news on mute
    while she listened to Paul Harvey
    frying eggs and making instant coffee.

    On the screen were these horrible dreams,
    these figments of terror hours before
    now a bitter truth. What was I to do
    with such a heavy knowledge?

    I remember sitting in the dark
    on a carpet the color of a deep ocean
    screaming in pain, crying knowing
    at five that I had seen a thousand deaths.

    As an adult, I moved away
    the woman with the aura
    long forgotten. I didn’t dream
    of things that moved against
    the speed of light or sound.

    Now my brain was full of weather
    great, fantastical feats of weather—
    tornados, cyclones, tsunami
    floods and earthquakes.

    I’d wake up with the same feeling
    only this time no mother to say
    it’s ok, go back to sleep. I still
    turn on the news in disbelief
    to floods in Vallejo and tsunamis
    in Thailand, tornados in the Midwest.

    All this lives lost,
    the burden of the idea
    so compelling that I could have saved
    all their lives if my dreams had a time stamp.

    Aleathia Drehmer 2014
    April 18 Weather

  256. diedre Knight

    Waiting for rain

    The blue sky is bruised with ash-colored clouds
    that teasingly hint of rain.
    Majestic saguaros, arms reaching out,
    stand patiently, pleading in vain.

    Fountain grass sways in long-fingered dance
    to a chimney-hot breath of wind.
    Seems nature has issued an order of wrath
    One she’ll not soon rescind.

    Sunbathing lizards languish on rocks,
    Prairie dogs shelter below.
    Desert Dove mingle with Cactus Wren,
    while Quail keep their families in tow.

    Cicadas issue their strident calls
    To beckon forth prospective mates,
    increasing the sense of urgency
    for Summer’s hot wrath to abate.

    At last comes a distant rumble
    That bellows across the sky
    Thrusting electrical thunderbolts,
    Coaxing ground birds to fly.

    Creosote bushes confirm the news,
    an olfactory nod to rain.
    Familiar and pungent, the desert scent,
    of Nature’s own sweet refrain.

    diedre Knight

  257. Walt Wojtanik


    The hour had arrived in a rumble of earth
    and a roll of thunder under outstretched arms.
    They tremble and hope He will shield them,
    protect them from this torrent.
    Hellacious winds tossing and pelting
    needles of rain piercing.
    Clouds, black and ominous,
    and promises of salvation forgotten.
    It is a rotten end for One so gifted.
    Curtains torn, lots cast for cloaks
    and spears poking beaten flesh fresh
    from bloody testaments for all.
    His head lifted and words uttered in His
    desperate plea, “You have forsaken me, Father.
    Why, Father ?’ A last breath comes
    as a knowing sigh. It is finished!

  258. Nancy Posey


    Winter gets in her last joke
    too late for April’s Fool day,
    showing back up again
    on Easter morning
    and mother’s up late
    sewing on tiny buttons
    and finishing hems
    on gauzy Easter frocks
    send their children
    back to their closets
    for heavy winter coats.

  259. dsborden

    Rain of What Next
    by D. S. Borden

    Rain burst
    by the river
    Quick dash
    to shelter
    like a wet cat
    Slick pavement
    reflecting our steps
    Breath of story
    fog the window
    of longing
    under wet tree drip
    and what next

  260. Walt Wojtanik


    <emClouds, dark and ominous,
    a predominance of wind and chill,
    not enough to kill the plants
    but enough to make them dance
    in the whip up of weather.
    A silence falls; precursor
    to a storm approaching,
    encroaching on a good day
    with the threat so offered.
    A mist begins, begetting a shower;
    a sudden downpour ensues
    while you rush to the car
    with keys in hand and a hope to reach
    the power windows before
    giving the seats a good soaking.
    Tough luck. It’s a shame
    you don’t move as quickly
    as you used to. Rain – 1, seats – zip.

    1. Brian Slusher

      I think this poem is about aging, an epiphany you have in mid-task, but try to ignore. I like that you don’t come out and say it, but it’s said. Well done.

    2. Walt Wojtanik

      Found the flaw, April Showers Redux…


      Clouds, dark and ominous,
      a predominance of wind and chill,
      not enough to kill the plants
      but enough to make them dance
      in the whip up of weather.
      A silence falls; precursor
      to a storm approaching,
      encroaching on a good day
      with the threat so offered.
      A mist begins, begetting a shower;
      a sudden downpour ensues
      while you rush to the car
      with keys in hand and a hope to reach
      the power windows before
      giving the seats a good soaking.
      Tough luck. It’s a shame
      you don’t move as quickly
      as you used to. Rain – 1, seats – zip.

  261. Connie Peters


    I had the creeps, the jitters, too.
    Ill-omened gray replaced the blue.
    Wild wind breathed hard my terror grew.
    I must escape! I must escape!

    The house was empty, but for me,
    The windows scraped by claws of tree.
    The monster’s growl dared me to flee.
    I must escape! I must escape!

    With pounding heart and knees too weak
    And goose bumped skin, and feeling bleak,
    I called my cousin ‘cross the creek.
    “I must escape! I must escape!”

    What else was I supposed to do?
    She braved the rain, the lightning, too.
    In her small car she made it through.
    I did escape, I did escape.

  262. Walt Wojtanik


    Signs of the season
    an early arrival
    girding your loins
    for the winter survival
    calls for a dip
    a thermal inversion
    wrapped up for comfort
    from this autumnal perversion
    gray murky skies
    winds whip and whir
    rainy disruptions
    the foliage stirs
    pull in your pumpkin
    keep it warm at all cost
    the weather guy calls
    for a thick killing frost

  263. hojawile

    What Weatherful Wonder We’re Having!
    Whether I weather the weather or not,
    it always is cold, unless it is hot…
    Or balmy and blooming…
    Or blustery and booming…
    Spirals of fury flinging debris!
    Waves washing villages way out to sea!
    Earth ripping open and swallowing whole
    cars and their passengers, even the road!
    At times we feel buried deep in the snow!
    It fills awkward spaces when there’s nothing to say.
    It stirs up more drama than folks can convey.
    The terrors and comforts and fussing it brings!
    Weather is quite the talked about thing.
    Today’s forecast: There will be weather!

  264. Jezzie

    A Snowy Weekend


    Snow is falling all around –
    there’s no birds, no cars, no sound.
    No dogs are barking, no caterwauling,
    Just lots of snow falling, falling.

    Dogs are sleeping on the couch –
    had their walk, their bone, their pouch.
    They’ve been out sniffing, been a-peeping,
    Now they’re softly sleeping, sleeping.

    Trees are glistening with the snow –
    Plants are gone, deep down, won’t grow.
    The ground is freezing, birds are listening,
    All is white and glistening, glistening.


    Snow is carpeting all around –
    there’s hungry birds, few cars, soft sound.
    Dogs are playing, cats we’re petting ,
    And lots of snow carpeting, carpeting.

    Dogs are looking from the couch –
    had their walk, too soon for their pouch.
    They’ve been out romping, now I’m cooking,
    and they’re standing looking, looking.

    Trees are bending with the snow –
    Plants emerging, struggling to grow.
    The ground is softening, birds descending.
    Roof is heavy and bending, bending.


    Snow is thawing all around –
    there’s lot’s of birds, and cars, and sound.
    Dogs are watching, cats are clawing,
    and lots of snow thawing, thawing.

    Dogs are barking on the couch –
    had their walk, but want their pouch.
    They’ve been out sniffing, been a-larking,
    Now they’re restless, barking, barking.

    Trees are dripping with melted snow –
    Plants are green and trying to grow.
    The ground is soggy, birds are skipping,
    All is slush and dripping, dripping.

  265. Mama Zen

    Two Seasons

    In Oklahoma, there are two seasons:
    football season and tornado season.
    Spring is tornado season.

    Have you ever seen a tornado?
    Imagine a big, beautiful beast
    with two hundred mile per hour teeth
    chewing up ground, houses, towns
    and tossing ten ton trucks like toys.
    Is that pride you hear in my voice when I tell you
    that a twister can drive a piece of straw through a telephone pole?
    Maybe a little.

    See, I love these toil and trouble skies.
    I love the green saturated stillness before a storm.
    I love the warm/cold/warm crashing devil spin of air.
    I love peering hard into a rain wrapped night
    and knowing God is out there
    walking and leaving prints on the prairie.
    It doesn’t scare me

    When I travel out of state,
    people invariably ask me,
    “How can you live there?
    Why do you stay?”

    “Well,” I always say
    (to the hurricane survivor,
    the smog soaked Angeleno,
    the sardine stacked New Yorker)
    “it’s amazing what you can get used to
    and come to see as just routine.”

    Know what I mean?

    Kelli Simpson

    1. hojawile

      Excellent…sardine-stacked New Yorker alone is a great visual.
      Two hundred mile per hour teeth! No wonder a tornado gets indigestion!
      God out there walking…not alarmed nor overcome, rather leaving prints on the prairie…
      Order not chaos…Tornadoes spin when weather conditions are right.
      It isn’t a tornado’s fault we decided to populate its playground!
      Sad for the devastation of lost lives, but agree that tornadoes are fascinating and appreciate your perspective.

  266. Bruce Niedt

    Today at NaPoWriMo they suggested we write a “ruba’i”, a four-line stanza of Persian origin with an AABA rhyme scheme. A series of ruba’i is a “rubaiyat” as in “The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam”. Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” is a sort of rubaiyat too. So here is my short “weather rubaiyat”:

    Changeable Sky

    “You’re like the weather”, I agree,
    is such a shopworn simile.
    Yet like this snow in early spring,
    I can’t predict you easily.

    I wish I knew what I should bring –
    umbrella, shades, or anything.
    The possibilities are vast –
    from sunburn to a good soaking.

    Oh, for reports that could forecast
    when you’re in thunder; when it’s past.
    or some old saw: “Red sky at morning…”
    so I could be prepared at last.

    Now I see a cloud-deck forming –
    it looks like you will soon be storming.
    one thing I know with certainty:
    it isn’t caused by global warming.

    1. Brian Slusher

      You got the wit, Niedt, and you use the form in such a breezy way–you make it look easy, and it’s hard to look easy, I know. Thanks for the smile on my face!

    2. grcran

      I saw in the news that these heavier-than-usual winter storms are caused by increasing industrialization in Asia… and btw, I do like your rubaiyat, and thanks for the intro explaining the form!

  267. Mark Conroy

    “California Bound”

    After the first fifty miles I was still frozen
    The sun was just breaking over the hills behind me
    I was in the flats of Ohio

    Maybe it was because the car was stuffed
    And the air couldn’t circulate
    Or maybe it was because the wind was out front
    And the engine was behind me

    I couldn’t get warm
    I had to keep wiping the inside of the windshield
    To keep my breath from fogging up and freezing
    This was going to be one long trip

    The forecast was for cold and blowing snow
    With new storms coming out of Canada
    The floorboards were a thin plate of steel
    Just below my frozen feet

    Above the slushy snow melted by the road salt
    That mix splashed up and coated the car
    It was like driving from the inside of an ice box

    The rattling little heater had no effect either
    Except to add a distracting noise when it was on
    I hoped she would be more than that to me.

    Mark Conroy

  268. lshannon

    Weather Report for a Writer

    Tonight brings authors’ weather
    conflicted cold clouds driving
    indoors to face the empty page

    In the summer sun my mind wanders
    sunblock and sticky sand
    baked in wordless writers block

    Give me a cold drizzle
    not fit for man nor beast
    wisdom watering my soul
    sheets of paper rain and words

    Daffodils bend in the lashing
    water soaked roots and spirits.
    I look out the window and then
    leaning forward, begin to write.

  269. creilley


    In the glistening of Spring
    young winds are born,
    hatchling mouth gaping
    for frozen bits of thermal carrion,
    gleaning what nourishment they can
    from the keening of last winter’s gales.

    Summertime zephyrs are on their own,
    casting themselves in currents of warmth,
    deciding from moment to moment
    whether they will caress or sting.
    They move as they must
    for only those most fit
    may sail forward into Fall.

    Late autumn gales dance in glee,
    plucking the trees for adornments
    to dress themselves, pushing
    the dead scales of summer
    through wild ranges
    to line west facing cliffs
    in hopes of spawning anew.

    And in the depths of winter’s bite
    they prance in waxing and waning strength,
    mating with abandon,
    showcasing the power of vernal rage,
    cradling each other’s breezes
    in the glacial nooks of high rocks,
    Scattering truth in their wake,
    waiting for Spring.

  270. Jacqueline Casey

    “Stormy Weather”

    The sun, it burned my salty skin,
    And turning, looking back, I see
    A black cloud , churning from within,
    She, fast approaching, threatens me!

    I ran like startled crab might go;
    Legs scurry as a spinning wheel.
    Sought shelter from her lightning show.
    Storm coming; warning me until…

    The cloud now makes her great debut:
    Such actress I have never seen;
    She opens wide her arms to you;
    And smothers all with wondrous scream!

    Still running, breathless, straightaway;
    I slowed a moment for a rest,
    And spied a safer place to stay
    Among some leafy palms I’ll nest!

    Shiv’ring ‘neath the cloud’s low rumble;
    Clapping now, I watch her dance.
    Cower I , both damp and humble;
    Though I’m frightened, still entranced.

    1. Debbie

      This I really love. Not only do I relate more to rhyme, but the details are simple enough to envision, yet deep enough to be intense. Really good!

  271. Walt Wojtanik


    Wind whipped, winter arrives
    upon the heavy feet of a woolly mammoth,
    as it lumbers across the Southern Tier
    with the vindictive bitterness you reserve
    for an embattled foe. A blizzard, angry,
    thrown upon the shore of this frigid lady.
    Cold and unfeeling, she serves up
    what moisture she can in sacrifice,
    fueling this random machine to wreak havoc
    on the unsuspecting throng. It won’t be long
    before the accumulation reaches a level
    quite unsavory. Doing you no favors,
    you’d rather love shoveling something
    brown from the ground than this!
    And the driving breath which gathers
    its strength from her, reflects her ire
    and determination. The relentless volley
    of a lake scorned, Hell’s fury unleashed,
    with a sadistic passion.

  272. Sasha A. Palmer

    Hi, another haiku added. Eighteen prompts, eighteen haiku.

    beyond the welkin
    a sleepy angel awakes
    off to work wings brushed

    the commute is quick
    one giant leap for mankind
    for angel one step

    the task is simple
    persuade men to be happy
    that’s what angels do

    since the creation
    happiness has been men’s foe
    men prefer ruin

    men long for passion
    harmony unsettles them
    men would rather burn

    men inhale cities
    drink beneath the rural moon
    on the airplane wings

    ever amateur
    created in God’s image
    hopelessly human

    torment their lovers
    dance themselves to destruction
    ever lonely men

    finding no refuge
    men cry when they see the Pope
    vagabond pilgrims

    empires rise and fall
    look back foresee the future
    humans do not change

    men bend their beliefs
    divide sex and sentiment
    still believe in love

    strolls through central park
    wild quarrels starting over
    beautiful and damned

    men battle their beasts
    walk along the precipice
    all the sad young men

    if i were God i
    dancers and storytellers
    always reasoning

    love is all there is
    still men crave bitter in sweet
    never satisfied

    men beat on borne back
    ceaselessly into the past
    silent tombstones speak

    lost generation
    paradigmatic writings
    jazz age any age

    winter dreams wear off
    the prickly dust of late spring
    freshness of lilacs

  273. PressOn


    the gentle stream, never running fast,
    lies stilled within the choking grasp of snow
    that cloaks the ground, while slicing winds bestow
    a patterned shroud upon its banks. A cast
    of grey, bequeathed by northern tempests, preys
    upon the weary land. It galls my gaze
    to grasp for green and see this cold malaise;
    to search at length for a breath of sun and know
    it will not show its face nor loose a glow
    of hope. I rue these times, these glacial days
    when the reach of winter’s verities is vast
    and the verge of possibilities has passed.

    I walk along the buried berm and bank,
    tracing its course by following the mound
    that winds, serpentine, above the ground
    and enters a wood. Here, a sheltering rank
    of evergreens disrupts the moulded snow,
    and here and there I see a verdant glow
    upon the white, and even, as I go,
    upon the pools that here survive. No sound
    is present here to alter or confound
    the sight, save for the soft adagio
    of green bequeathed from trees. I gaze in frank
    amazement here, not knowing whom to thank.

    William Preston

    1. grcran

      omg, I really like the double sonnet… your rhyming flows wonderfully… and I have also experienced the utter devastation and hopelessness of winter’s deathbreath, then been greatly eased in my suffering by evergreens… nice moods you’ve generated/captured… solid poem, thanks!!

  274. grcran

    Chance of Rain
    By gpr crane

    Waiting for the weather I sit sorting out a dream
    Years ago I found you working slowly in a bank
    Coming outside you were always burned up by the dank
    Heat we had to deal with and the sweaty summer steam
    Finding dreaming working slowly thunderheads arise
    Storming calming still I see you coming through the door
    Wishing we were touching cannot happen any more
    Dreaming for the waiting under mostly cloudy skies

  275. DanielR

    While other men sleep and snore
    I am floating the river before
    night delivers dawn to my door

    Through my layered clothes I feel
    the briskness of early morning’s chill
    that does its best to break my will

    And as darkness ceases to be
    and a new day becomes reality
    a blanket of fine mist covers me

    Birch branches rustle in the breeze
    rocking my boat ever so gently
    as I bait and cast my line with ease

    Daniel Roessler

  276. TomNeal

    (an experiment with the canon)

    When I heard the weather reporter say,
    ‘So foul and fair a day I have not seen,’
    My chest heaved, and my legs began to shake,
    I could not breathe. This infernal omen,
    This meteorological witchery
    Which would have foul be fair and fair be foul,
    Discovered me ambitious for advance,
    Would flirt, seduce, and betray me
    For its own dark ends. I know this story.
    I know its end. I have cancelled dinner,
    A salvific discourtesy of grace
    Bestowed upon the senior clerk* tonight.
    *[to be pronounced “clark”]

  277. carolemt87

    Storm Cloud

    Ozone runs through veins
    beneath strip mined skin.
    Brown hair greasy and
    matted clings against
    a shrunken skull.

    Grey eyes hollowed from
    the pursuit of dragon’s breath.
    Across the field
    roars the storm,
    purple and low,
    dragging its belly
    across the ripening corn.

    She turns her nose into
    the rain-soaked wind,
    grinding her teeth against
    the need for thunder
    and the taste of death
    in the back of her throat.

    Carol J Carpenter

  278. Tracy Davidson

    The Rhythm of the Rain

    how it calls to me…
    the rhythm of a rain storm
    tapping out its beat
    against my open window
    that fine spray across my face

    how it refreshes
    the parts morphine cannot reach…
    my still able mind
    recalling all the puddles
    of my childhood long ago

    my brother and I
    trying to splash each other
    jumping in and out…
    mother moaning at the mess
    with a smile upon her face

    now they call to me…
    through the rivulets of rain
    I see their faces
    their voices match the rhythms
    on my window, in my heart

  279. Ravyne

    Stormy Weather

    It wasn’t always sunshine with you
    sometimes the rain fell
    like tears flooding my whole being
    I learned to strengthen my levies
    gather sunshine in my own greenhouse
    and wait out the storms
    I emerged from my safe room
    not always feeling safe —
    Was this just the eye of the tornado
    or was I secure for another day?

    Dear God, Mother! I inherited your storms
    months crawl by on all fours
    ducking the sun — my levies are cracked
    my safe room demolished
    One day the rains crept in
    and forgot to stop falling — I am drowning
    I am drowning downstream from your ruins
    What a legacy you gave me
    I am a tornado on a path of destruction
    like the path you wore through me

    Copyright 2014
    Lori Carlson

  280. Espen Stenersrod

    Outside the prompt once more

    Day 18


    Firm grip
    Hand held to pose a threat
    Subliminal chains around his neck
    Head bent
    Summary of his presence
    Also how they address him
    Introduce him
    Speak of him

    Born this way
    Brought up in this mechanism
    Eyes empty
    Soul worn out,
    And worn on his sleeves

    No childhood dreams

    Other than the need to make the images go away

    Sex trade
    Money over values
    Pawn in the system
    already dead
    Watched by the king and the bishop
    No rook or knights that can save him

    Moves from place to place
    the end of the game

  281. PressOn


    In Wayne County, a bounty
    of snow starts to flow

    when the lake to the north
    makes mistakes, and so forth:

    that ice-free inland sea
    makes the cold super bold

    and loads up a bounty
    of snow for Wayne County.

  282. DanielR

    On sunny days when
    golden flames burn the sky
    my heart is warm and happy
    blissful in the moment
    naïve to what lies ahead
    but as with all things
    in time there is a turning
    storm clouds swarm in
    coloring the horizon gray
    like a million locusts
    and unprepared I stand
    in the middle of a storm
    knowing happiness is fleeting

    Daniel Roessler

  283. bxpoetlover

    Since my last umbrella

    was blown out by the wind
    I refuse to buy another. Now when it rains
    I don’t run or hunch down.
    I like the splashes of raindrops
    against my skin
    even when it’s cold
    because it gives me another reason
    to quickly strip down
    wrap myself around him
    and get to it.

  284. Phil Boiarski

    Winter Sycamores

    Sycamores, bone white, disappear
    against the gauze of snow, ivory chiffon
    of the feather-flakes collect
    on thin limbs into icy phalanges.

    Growth requires a time in the cold
    and dark, a period without light
    or warmth that goes long and deep
    in the stone before it can truly begin.

    Bare, bowed bough grows brittle,
    its weight of ice on top of snow
    leaves the limb wanting.
    Crack, the old white tree
    practices detachment.

    No sweet song ensues
    to break the silence,
    only the call of crows repeating
    with muted echoes
    across the empty woods.

  285. Andrew Kreider

    Jeannie the weather girl

    Jeannie the weather girl
    didn’t know much about
    but she had legs and a
    great personality.

    Jeannie the weather girl
    was probably smarter
    than she seemed on air, but
    local TV is cruel.
    We tuned in to see what

    Jeannie the weather girl
    would do next. She’d point
    at Mexico and say:
    “On the coast of Texas,
    it will be warm all day!”

    Jeannie the weather girl
    was replaced by radar
    and ratings years ago.
    I hope she got a beach
    house down in El Paso.

  286. Jerry Walraven


    We make our own Sun,
    in small batches
    in the basement,
    then bring it outside
    and release it to the gray skies.
    Basking in warmth
    and light, we dance
    until the gray drops
    from the sky in fat drops
    which wetten our skin
    and shatter our illusion
    until we remember
    that Sun likes to hide
    under puddles of rain.

  287. break_of_day

    This turned out to be season-oriented rather than weather-related. Oh, well.

    it was fall
    when you were too clean-cut for my taste
    and yet I liked you
    so much
    I still don’t know why.
    you were not there
    in the heat of summer
    among the waves rising off the pavement.
    and you were gone
    before winter
    when the snow muffled the sounds of the living.
    you were in between
    in my favorite season
    when the leaves changed colors
    and the air cooled
    but was not cold.
    you were as temporary
    as the leaf whose destiny
    was to fall from the limb
    soon, but first to pause
    by a breeze.

  288. Jacqueline Casey

    “Storm Warning”

    It’s steamy in south Florida tonight.
    Slick air is thick and tastes of salty fog.
    A quiet’s fallen with no birds in sight.
    Staunch, ocean wave rolls in with stiff resolve.

    Old palm trees twist and wave. Soft, hula skirts
    fall quickly to the flirting breeze beneath;
    await a windy swirl, begin to flirt
    with light`ning as it sparkles on the sea.

    Expectant morn, she creeps upon this beach
    as higher rising tide begins to warn
    of something coming just before the breach:
    a calmness wavering before the storm.

    Then, boom! This hurricane will boast awhile:
    this dame arrives with sudden, raucous style.

    (Day 18, April PAD, Writer’s Digest. Write about the weather.)

  289. Cin5456

    KOA Chaos

    Our tent was staked and anchored,
    supplies stowed away inside.
    Ominous dark clouds scudded nearer.
    The bed – inflated – graced the center,
    with backpacks and coolers stacked in corners,
    KOA felt safe. A week’s worth of laundry
    mocked my aching back. Duty must prevail.

    As washers swished and dryers whirled,
    and clacking clothes sent fragrance wafting,
    storm clouds howled in. One moment silence,
    the next – wind wailed in, raising clouds
    of stinging desert sand. Straight-line and downbursts
    terrify the bravest, most experienced outdoorsmen.

    Campers at their sites – unseen – shrieked,
    scrambling after tents and stakes
    wrenched from solid hardpan.
    I watched from the laundry window
    as yellow, blue, then green nylon sailed by.
    Then came rain, pounding like water cannons;
    campers caught unprotected.
    Some kept chasing tents while
    others dashed for surer shelter.
    Two lots away in the lane,
    a burly man stumbled and sat down hard,
    shredded plastic held to his chest.
    He tried to cover with what he held,
    but the wind ripped it free.
    He seemed to shrug,
    then shook his head,
    giving up where he sat.

    Seconds later white ice golf balls
    bounced from his head and shoulders.
    He rose and ran toward me with hands
    overhead. He entered – blood
    streaked his forehead and nose.
    My towels served for first aid
    as the storm passed on. Minutes later
    calm returned, the hail from hell gone.
    A misting drizzle headed east
    toward desert peaks.

    Devastation, desperation,
    helpless frustration –
    but laughter shared our experience.
    My fellow laundry refugee
    gestured toward the door.
    Outside, I turned full circle, gawking
    at weather’s chaos – the aftermath.
    Thunder boomed in the distance,
    a call to our attention. Bright, shimmering,
    colors embraced the sky’s eastern arc.
    The double rainbow lied to us.
    The peaceful day had shattered.

    I returned to my campsite to assess
    the summer storm’s damage.
    Our tent lay flat, with his curses, lumpy inside,
    but it had not sailed away. I use special stakes
    and sink them deep to anchor the tent.
    Experience taught me well.

    Remind me to tell you the story, someday,
    of the geology field trip from hell; that frigid night
    when wind tore occupied tents from the ground,
    and blew a tractor-trailer on its side.

  290. donaldillich


    The line of storms left red crosses,
    black circles across the weatherman’s
    screen. My stomach fluttered,
    a ghost wanting to escape, haunt
    the planet. J. told me to go down-
    stairs, though it was still sunny.
    I laughed at her precautions,
    but took a mini-DVD player with me,
    so we could have something to watch
    in case it somehow got really bad.
    As the film played, about a rich
    French banker who fell in love
    with a maid, the sky darkened
    through the basement windows,
    as if a giant bird surrounded us
    with its wings. “You don’t love me.
    You just want a conquest.” “You
    have to believe me, my sweet.”
    The trunks and sky we could see
    were lit in gold and silver. Over
    and over they flashed with lightning.
    God played his xylophone, sudden
    crashes and splintering echoing.
    By the time it ended, the movie was over.
    I wondered what was left of the world.
    I told J. I would’ve loved her
    as a maid, and she laughed.
    Ascending the stairs, I felt cool
    and impossible. I had survived,
    and my reward was a bed of ice
    that would soon boil underneath me,
    when the power was shut off,
    when everyone learned to burn.

  291. EeLas6678


    What it all comes down to,
    What it all sums up to be, is
    an ever-going tossup between wanting and waiting.

    I wait until I get what I want,
    Often never realizing when I received it.
    The want of perceived necessities overwhelms the wait.
    Want to be dry,
    Wait for the clouds to stop crying,
    How dare they grieve on my clock!

    Wait until only sniffles and gasping breaths remain,
    Venture out to retrieve my want,
    Only to wait again.

    It’s cold; my bare legs and arms want it to be warm.
    Pick up my pace, but fighting the wind’s invitation for a competition of resistance leaves me catatonic,
    a complement to today’s depression.

    Pick up the cement blocks that have become me,
    I press on, brows down, shields that deceivingly protect while blocking my perceptual experience.
    I don’t have time for experience.
    I want time for experience.

    Enter the car,
    Wet and cold bursts into a vacuum of humidity and gives birth to fog.
    Turn knobs toward red and blue while crumbs of yesterday’s snack cling to my thighs.
    Shuffling of things and body parts to get ready for the next destination.

    Start the engine,
    The rain comes back to visit,
    Manic must have been shorter than usual-although it can never be predicted by the forecast.

    It pours!
    Harder, harder,
    My head pounds,
    Harder, harder,
    C’mon! I beep the horn, as if nature will listen.
    Waves of water surround me,
    Waves of emotions rage within my mind, finding their way to my soul
    Can’t just swim away.

    I crave a cigarette,
    I’ve never smoked.
    My last burst of human rebellion,
    all too human.

    Streams of clear bead on my windshield,
    Streams of clear flow down my flesh,
    Brows cannot shield what flows downstream.

    With one last surge of determination I rev the engine,
    Wheels spin,
    127 pounds of total being on the gas pedal.
    Stones fly, my car the working surface for the mosaic artist to place her gems.

    The breaking of my windshield.
    In the midst of the rush I am aware
    of the cracks spreading slowly across the smooth glass that the sun kissed only yesterday.
    They dance and begin to create a web, not a safety net.
    The engine stops.

    So eager to chase after what I want,
    Not waiting for a moment,
    Spin out of control,
    Reality catches up when you drive in circles.

    There’s always going to be something I want,
    There’s always going to be time to wait.
    The weather will be, whether I want it or not,
    Always a topic for empty conversation.

    Finding purpose in this struggle,
    I want to wait.

    Emily Lasinsky

  292. jasonlmartin

    Weather Women

    In my day, the weather
    men on television were plump,
    jolly, and going bald, which made them
    trustworthy. In the early Spring, you knew when
    to pack an umbrella and plant your flower beds,
    and in the late Fall you knew when it was time
    to wear a thicker coat and when you could get by
    with a light sweater. And best of all, you could rely
    on your weatherman to stick around for more than
    a few years, or twenty.

    Nowadays, the weather
    women on TV are pretty – it’s a prerequisite, in fact.
    They come with modern names like Brooke, Kyla,
    and, ironically, Summer. Our thoughtful news stations
    have determined, through laborious market research,
    that they can soften the blow of a report of bad storm
    if the messenger is radiant, a beacon of light that casts
    a perfect smile and a carefully positioned neckline.
    Worst of all, you hardly realize you don’t pay attention
    to the weather report at all, falling victim to a form of

    hypnotism, in which you can’t remember the forecast
    today, but you surely realize when your favorite weather
    woman is out sick or has suddenly fled for a larger market.

  293. Kimmy Sophia

    On a warm morning last week
    a brave and tender crocus
    emerged purple and proud as
    a spring morning.
    Then it snowed.
    The next day
    her limp body
    lay still on the ground, like a fairy
    in the arctic
    she died
    of exposure.

  294. Nabeela


    It’s weird
    how animals always seem to know
    even though they cannot talk
    That something’s going to happen
    Sooner or later
    In the spot where a young flower stands

    My cat hid under the bed
    at 11 in the morning
    While I drowned in my cup of tea
    The monotone of the new caster
    depicting a lush night

    Well, they were wrong
    maybe they’re graphs got mixed up
    Or the guy writing the news somehow blurred it
    with his tears over a last night breakup

    What ever happened but they still got it wrong
    Thinking they’re god to decide the weather
    While my cat swims around inside the cupboard howling
    In an internal tsunami.

  295. Gwyvian

    Hot air

    Curled up on my bed at a wayside inn,
    I still felt under the weather – but that
    was not going to stop me from celebration I
    told myself, so I bolted from my confinement;
    my head was still in the clouds, basking
    in rays of euphoria, because I won the duel
    between me and that blustering fool who thought
    that he was all but invincible—
    however good he was, I stood before his sword,
    the draw was lightning quick, and I was struck
    by the shock of being hit—
    but his dexterity was a storm in a teacup,
    worth no more than a quick kill – perhaps
    he did indeed have skill, but I
    was blizzard of cold destruction quick as thought;
    the humidity of the day had my hair
    slick on my face, heart still jittery from the dancing
    at the festival of the equinox—
    and that cursed drizzle that put me abed, wounds
    still half healed from a cyclone of salves
    beating down infection—
    and as my heavy footsteps took me
    down to the common room where a pitcher of ale or
    two awaited me, what I found instead was a calm
    like the eye of the storm: a bard’s voice
    filling the place like startling thunder, his words
    a swelling tide that overwhelmed me;
    his face was magnetic to my eyes, and
    wherever he looked, eddies of people swirled aside,
    his tales conjuring mirages that had the folk
    gaping from its sublime visions, the air was crackling
    and deafening in the silence of his pauses—
    I had to meet this man, I knew, to thaw
    that thunderous expression, even as his sweet words
    fogged my mind beyond comprehension—
    so I stepped up to him as he bowed and fell silent,
    audience hailing him with applause, yet pleasure
    never even cracked his cool demeanor; and I
    broke the ice of our awkward pause…
    by talking about the weather.

    April 18, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  296. Quaker

    I do not need to listen to the weatherman
    to know the weather, whether
    or not it will be terrible. All I have to do
    is listen to the animals predict storms.

    Bullfrogs always intensify in volume
    and length when storms are moving in
    and not long after, torrential rain follows
    with hail hopping on my roof.

    When birds fly high, skies are clear,
    when birds fly near
    almost touching ground, bad weather
    will be found. The air pressure is too heavy.

    Cows will swat at flies faster,
    become antsy as a child wanting something,
    and cows will lay on the ground
    to save a dry spot for when weather gets bad.
    Sheep will huddle before a cold spell.
    Out in the field they have to weather it out.

    You know it will be warm
    when you see a swarm of ladybugs,
    but if they hide, miserable weather is near.
    The higher ants build a dirt mound,
    the higher the sudden rain will flood.

    Why do I need a weatherman
    who is wrong all the time?

  297. kelly letky

    red sky at morning

    my brother taught the old mariner’s warning
    to a chubby-cheeked freckled faced girl

    i’ve learned since then that storms come in waves
    and rose-colored daylight has no way of knowing
    how dark the season of night was

    fifty years went by before i gave up on midnight
    and sat watching the sun creep through the trees
    of my creak-boned obvious dreams

    but pink isn’t red and the sun never rises
    through a crimson ocean of clouds

    light and deliverance can always be obscured
    by a hand a blanket a curtain
    or the cold blue mask of sorrow’s lost moon

    the truth of each star is doused only by dawn
    and the slow erasure of a secret last dance
    from a card filled with yesterday’s dresses

    ~Kelly Letky

    1. mzanemcclellan

      Elegantly written and an image filled piece. Thank you for sharing it with us. ~ Michael