Believe it or not, I set this week’s prompt a few weeks ago–not realizing that my baby brother would set himself on the Keys for Hurricane Irma or that Tropical Storm Irma would knock out our power here at Brewer Manor in the Atlanta area. But sometimes, that’s how it works out.
For today’s prompt, write a weather poem. Good weather, bad weather, talking about the weather–you decide how to take today’s prompt. Make the weather a secondary character in a poem about something else entirely; whatever gets you writing.
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Here’s my attempt at a Weather Poem:
“Whether We Weather the Weather”
Or not, I know this the moment
we move this way or that. The wind
attacks the trees outside, but we
can move this way or that, and you
crack a joke, letting me know where
to build the next bridge, so we can
cross it together when the rain
has left us only with rainbows.
*****
Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). He prefers building bridges to burning them.
Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.
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Find more poetic posts here:
- Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 404.
- Rannaigheact Mhor: Poetic Form.
- Ellen Birkett Morris: Poet Interview.
Hurricane Irma 2017
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Outside the wind has increased
and rain now comes with power lines attached.
Storm surge isn’t far behind, pushing saltwater
debris onto land and around cars, buildings
like a large storeroom push broom.
Inland, yachts forego nav plans/harbor master
and sail unmanned and unencumbered,
ready to join the new world order of glamping.
Between sandwich bites, we tune into NOAA Weather Radio
and listen carefully for any advisories
or specific instructions from local officials.
My shelves are stocked,
my hatches batten down, Baby.
I’m ready, Irma ~
so lift your skirts and show me what’cha got!
© 2017 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Weather Semantics
She always asks the same dumb thing
To see me wince and count to ten:
“Will we have weather, Weather Man?”
Do bears have fur? Do currents move?
She blinks and then she asks again,
“Will we have weather, Weather Man?”
Unbidden, Grandma comes to mind,
Her admonition all the time,
“Behave yourself” or just “be have,”
Sometimes as one word, sometimes two.
“I cannot NOT behave,” I say.
“Sometimes quite well, sometimes quite ill.”
“Don’t be a smarty pants,” she’d chide,
And off I’d go, screaming inside,
As I do now, wearing a smile.
“Yes, we’ll have weather. Yes, indeed.”
Colorful loneliness rustles in the trees, hushed sounds of lavished hues of fall gleams.
Day’s light grows shorter as the first walk of fall welcomes you with a golden kiss on your cheek.
Heated anticipation of scarf wrapped outings under a canopy of vibrant colors beam.
Your breathe taken away by the syncopated beat of your heart when you renew your vows of an autumn love affair is piqued.
By Pamelap
A SIERRA TALE
The phone rang, another missing creature.
Our target this time, an Afghan
tortoise. We loaded our search dog, drove across
the North Fork; found the address
under a canopy of oaks shedding their leaves.
A languid fall afternoon, breeze calm,
but the nights turned chilly. The tortoise’s
best friend, a schoolboy, was handling his loss
with a chocolate donut. We scented
our dog, who nosed around the back steps
then headed for a shed propped
against collapse. She began to grovel under
the far corner. She wouldn’t leave
the spot. Our best guess, the Afghan tortoise
had found its Sierra hibernation.
The Mosquitoes
in Houston have been having
a heyday since Harvey,
so military planes crop dust the city
pumping clouds of Dibrom
over neighborhoods at sunset–
self-imposed post-flood fallout.
Butterflies, bees, and babies be damned:
acceptable losses
because the evil we know
just might save lives.
Courtney O’Banion Smith
@cobanionsmith
410 Weather Poem
taking a different direction on weather here. Been on a quest to find “voice” so exploring some of my inner options.
The storm clouds rise
In her sea-green eyes.
And before her gaze,
The fury unfolding,
I ponder my plight.
– Was it me –
Who turned this
Angel of love
Into a storm-tossed soul?
The angry gray clouds
Purple and pregnant
With unspent rage.
Will the storm burst
Transferring rage
Into a flood-driven
River of tears?
I enfold her in my embrace
Whispering words of comfort
Like a soft breeze.
I hope for such gentleness.
When the storm breaks
I can feel my heart’s
Shatter-sound rumble
In response.
In turbulence’s wake,
Storm-lashed sentience dawns
And she whispers back,
“Thank you”
Bushill, your voice in this piece is clearly read, and I believe the metaphor to be appropriate. You’ve chosen some great words, and the form fits function.
Thank you.
I suppose our journeys in searching for who we are and how we represent our thoughts are life long quests. Still, I tend to aspire to a brevity of words so it is good to know that those chosen are doing the task to which i set them.
Grief-laden clouds cast an eerie gloom
seemingly stolen from my unfulfilled soul
the air is restless, harried chirping of birds
giving a frantic voice to my unsaid woes
A storm is about to tear the evening apart
the temporary stillness lies uneasy on my skin
The leaves rustle a warning, heat from the dirt
traps my feet in an inescapable lethargy
Heavens unleash their tears into my eyes
the rain trails a warning on my upturned face
The wrath of the skies demands its due
Willingly, I offer myself up
It won’t even be a sacrifice, for
my escape lies in being consumed
LOOKING TO THE FUTURE
Winter ice seemed to
coat the nooks and crannies of
my cold, broken heart.
Thawing out would take some time
until then, I’m gonna dance.
Lament of the Earth
There’s never a still weather moment
in the ecosystem.
A drought bakes the clay soil in the west
making water tables go down,
drying up vibrant lakes.
Several feet of snow dumped on the south,
annoy unprepared commuters
but alleviate earth’s thirst.
Blinding ice storms
that neither man nor animal can survive
knock down bare tree branches
in the frigid north.
Carefully manicured coastlines
all over the globe are
whittled away by
pounding surf, brutal sun
hurricanes and tsunamis.
The ozone layer no longer protects
the beasts of nature nor
sun worshipers slathered
in sun screen from
from head to toe.
If only we could control the weather
so that it wouldn’t control us.
the wind beneath her buzzings
after disaster bad blaster mad storm
mean buzzardy buzzers mosquitoes do swarm
sometimes in the night one buzzes won’t land
i slap my own face trying to guess at her plan
can’t bite while in flight fighting gravity’s pull
is she loving or frightened or maybe just full
gpr crane
Like this a lot.
Milky, heavy cloud
Rests grayly above the farm
Dwarfing trees and barn
Nice!
Connie, I love how foreboding this piece is. In just a few words, you’ve sent chills down my spine.
Like!
Autumn Cold
Jackets line up on the back of the couch.
Cover up the AC, turn up the heat.
Leaves are turning golden yellow.
Autumn weather can’t be beat.
But soon the snow will be falling
And the streets will be of ice.
Let’s stay in where it’s cozy.
Being with you will suffice.
Mother Nature
Every morning begins with question,
how the forecast will reveal direction,
right or wrong, it’s not the reflexion, I
want to bend with feelings which never
end; it could be the sunshine, snow or rain,
The weather affects our mood wherever
lands, we all suffer the climate change,
let’s work on it and pray that The Mother
Nature, still in play, won’t get out of our way.
Smoky Weather
A boy’s careless toss
of fireworks
and our plans go up
in smoke.
It’s raining salt and pepper
ash in Portland,
and no one’s on the river.
We’re passing
under bridges beautiful
and ugly
and if we didn’t smell it
we’d think the haze
was fog, some romantic
dream. I think
about the boy, the enormity
of carelessness,
some prank to impress a girl
gone terribly,
wrong too small a word,
how he must feel.
Beautifully done. Well crafted and clever to make the fure the weather.
*fire
I feel pain here. Well done (no pun intended).
I just love thees lines:
It’s raining salt and pepper
ash in Portland,
and no one’s on the river.
Forces beyond our control
creates chaos and courage
is the way humanity rolls
Forces beyond our control
Harvey and Irma blow
high winds and flood damage
forces beyond our control
creates chaos and courage
Agreed. Nicely penned.
Rainy Day
it’s raining toads and frogs
and pink spotted hogs
I’m jumping in puddles
of pudding with sprinkles
when clouds of horses gallop
overhead and I grab the reins
and ride to the kingdom of
Bumbershoot where the Queen
of Wellies and the King of
Macintosh reign and
old men snore
a cornucopia of images!
“Queen of Wellies and the King of Macintosh”! Wonderful!
Praying for Rain
I pray for rain – a fervent
supplication for
heavy, driving rain to wash
away my tears
I pray for clouds to reign
in the sky – blotting out
all traces of the sparkling sun
a grayness covering the memory
of your smile
I pray for thunder that rumbles
rattling windows and shaking
my soul until it becomes numb
and I can trudge onward
I pray for winds to whip and toss
my sorrow into tatters – small
pieces that can be endured
one at a time
I pray for the calm that follows
a storm where my grief can
learn to live
Climate Change of Fear
We slather our lovers with slobber.
Slosh all over others with tears.
And finding we ain’t in control of the weather,
we’d rather blame it. For our fears.
If I had my druthers dear mother,
I’d drive those poor guv’nors away.
Go chortling and hurtling from now to forever.
No more blither blather dismay.
gpr crane
Spot on.
Riding out the Storm
The waiting is the worst
Part – panicky anticipation:
The pre-storm surge the empties
Stores of water, gas, and sheets of plywood,
The daily play-by-play that sprays
The map with spaghetti strands — pressure
Rising as the pressure falls, the cartoon
Sawblade spinning in the Caribbean
A reminder that satellites and airplanes
Are fingers in the wind that
Tell us something is coming but can do
Nothing to stop it.
When it comes,
It begins with gentle breezes and
Puffy clouds that chase each other
Across a humid blue summer sky.
We use old words like “batten”
And “hunker” as the winds quicken
And the clouds mound darkly.
The first drops fall, their gentle descent
Slowly growing to a slashing rain
That whips the windows while the wind
Beats like a beast on the doors and
Howls through the seams of the house.
In the heart of the gyre, the machinery
Holds – the lights flicker but do not fail.
Others aren’t so lucky as the swirling
Chaos shifts its course,
Starving, burning out
Against the rough surface of suburbia
Until, eventually, exhaustion
Claims us both.
Nicely built up and a lovely ending.
Robert, I love your poem, and its charming ending.
Effects
Now more than
ever, no one can
predict with
certainty
the weather of a region
to follow old rules.
Warm weather
areas turn cool.
Cold climates
have now warmed.
Day will dawn, with it–weather.
Will you be surprised?
Seems like, with all the warning signs, we ought not to be. Well put.
A Bad Altitude
I’m currently storming out.
Had to dew it.
Was pressured into it.
#seventeensyllablesfortwentyseventeen
Smiles for miles
Me too.
Me three. I think this is well-nigh perfect.
Weather
The pitter patter of rain drops splatter
The puddles form what does it matter
A warm summer breeze
Moves the clouds with ease
A howling winter blow
That causes drifts of snow
Blessed by its grace
Of sunshine on your face
These things come and go
It does not think, it does not know
Weather just is
There is No Y in Nature
For there were some who said
it was the wrath of God,
others, climate change;
still others saw nature as
chaotic
as the world itself,
and to them,
a storm was just a storm.
Wry smile here
Why yes, I am just fine,
no I haven’t lost my mind,
and this morning’s time will bide,
dry and comfy here inside.
For months we’ve been imploring
for rain, please God, let it be pouring,
when in my living room’s safe mooring
I can be reading, writing, snoring.
We live in the nation’s Finest City,
so it’s really quite a pity,
that to our couch we tether
when we get a little weather.
Nonetheless, it would be nice
to have some droplets (never ice).
Understand, I’m not complaining,
I’d just prefer it to be raining.
“Understand, I’m not complaining,
I’d just prefer it to be raining.”
You make me smile. Always.
This is a fun trip through weather and rhyme.
Amen
Brutal Harvey
Brutal Harvey took away everything a family owns.
The car sits underwater; the house is reduced to rubble and
broken toys that can’t be played with, litter the ground.
Brutal Harvey took away everything a family owns.
They stand outside with the clothes on their backs,
thankful to be alive and relieved that the storm has passed.
Brutal Harvey took away everything a family owns.
They accept benevolence from strangers and charity.
For now, they resign themselves, to life in a shelter
Brutal Harvey took away everything a family owns.
Life as the family knew it will not be the same.
However, they are still a family and will remain so.
Brutal Harvey took almost everything away.
INDIANA COLD
This is unbelievable
I said to my friends
as we walked to
class at 7 AM
I’ve never been so cold!
But you’re from Canada
they offered, aren’t you
used to cold weather?
I’m not from THAT
part of Canada, I said.
It’s invigorating
they insisted.
I am not invigorated
I groused, and I
hope I’ll never be
this cold again.
Funny. I grew up in New England and lived in Virginia for a few years. The Virginians used to tell me that I was used to it. Brought back a memory.
SNOWBIRD IN FLIGHT
The svelte owl flew upwind, it didn’t want to squander
the chance to wander above the generator for warmth.
Trying to abscond with bits of straw buried,
a harried attempt to begin nesting. A miraculous
skill of survival readying for the arrival of winter’s
biting breath. Squinting one eye into the bluster,
a feathered Cyclops circling the willowy branches
left barren; exposed to the world. The wisest of birds
mercurial, a nonpareil in avian wonder. Under
the rodomontade that December’s artillery could be
buffeted with a curled wing. Elusive and unobtrusive,
twice observed and followed, never allowed to land
all the sand, snow covered hiding his blankness;
a ghost bird, wings stroking the wind and its
ego, usurping cheese for a salty seaweed
and a truffle with quahog salad.
A bunch of clove evergreens, the hide-away
for the bilious dunderhead hawks stalking and preying;
vespers for the vultures. Cowbird eggs left to fester,
trenched and guttered, fluttered and fine.
Winter approaches to encroach on her flight.
What images! Nicely done.
Wow. Love this take on the prompt, Walt! Well penned, as always, but also a bit of an unusual subject matter and mood. Your talent knows no bounds!
Fun wordplay
Wonderful, Walt. A lovely take on the owl’s perspective.
I love this, being fond of owls generally and the burrowing owl in particular (which has nothing to do with trees), and especially love ” dunderhead hawks.”
NO GUARANTEES
Weather! Yo! It’s time to chill,
Sometimes you soothe, sometimes you kill.
Texas sun, then Harvey swirled…
A metro sinks, a waterworld.
Oklahoma, calm and clear.
An F5 pops, homes disappear.
New York’s safe, so come, let’s hurry!
Ok, STOP! The snow did bury.
We pray for those who find your wrath,
‘Cause next time it might be OUR path.
Can’t escape the weather!
DO WE LISTEN ANYMORE?
Our shadows play upon the ground
and drop their darkling skin.
I marvel at their silly games, and.
Count the ways in which we spin.
They stretch and purr, ink’d mesomorphs,
chasing sunlight, chasing tin,
changing with the season’s chill.
Count the ways in which we spin.
They dance within the stormy centers,
hiding in our dreams and sin.
They never stop to ponder nor
count the ways in which we spin.
Faceless, nameless, but attached
to foot and knee and hips and chin,
their lies a smoky, mirrored truth:
Count the ways in which we spin.
Do we ever stop to wonder why
the “will be” certainly is “has been?”
Do we accept the shadow’s hand, or say
“Count the ways in which we spin.”
Ahead, we see the world unfold,
behind us lonely past within.
A turn, a turn, a turn and then,
count the ways in which we spin.
A shadow’s face will remain always
carved into the ground’s cold skin.
Never able to look in front, nor to
count the ways in which we spin.
Meet my eyes, my brethren, my kin.
Count the ways in which we spin.
-JR Simmang
There was something very gripping and haunting about this one! Great stuff
Thank you so very much, HeadintheClouds. Glad you enjoyed it!
Superb!
Thanks, Bill!
Weathering Made Easier
Heavy headed sedums sprawl
in a perfect circle, splayed on
thick green stems, butterflies
riding starry blossoms. Perfect
weather for broom, mound
after rolling mound daubed on
every pasture by some stippling
impressionist painter whose palette
holds only lemon yellow.
In the ditches darker goldenrod waves
beside the last of the white guara gone
pink in mid-day heat, the ivory of fading
boneset shrinking into thick haloes of
fuzzy leaves yielding to frenzied
cascades of wild asters.
Dry and warm after a historically
rainy August this is weather in
which to cadge memories
before the palette is erased
into the stark black lines of
bare trees, the sear brown of broken
stalk, the crystalline white that will
make us look inward to recall
the orange pumpkin on the stoop,
green tomatoes picked before frost,
the last of the shiny black eggplant
beneath their elfin caps. Weathering
those dull days to come all the
brighter for remembering these.
Weathering Made Easier
Heavy headed sedums sprawl
in a perfect circle, splayed on
thick green stems, butterflies
riding starry blossoms. Perfect
weather for broom, mound
after rolling mound daubed on
every pasture by some stippling
impressionist painter whose palette
holds only lemon yellow.
In the ditches darker goldenrod waves
beside the last of the white guara gone
pink in mid-day heat, the ivory of fading
boneset shrinking into thick haloes of
fuzzy leaves yielding to frenzied
cascades of wild asters.
Dry and warm after a historically
rainy August this is weather in
which to cadge memories
before the palette is erased
into the stark black lines of
bare trees, the sear brown of broken
stalk, the crystalline white that will
make us look inward to recall
the orange pumpkin on the stoop,
green tomatoes picked before frost,
the last of the shiny black eggplant
beneath their elfin caps. Weathering
those dull days to come all the
brighter for remembering these.
Wow. A montage of words that might as well be real images, it’s so vivid.
SO MUCH HIDDEN
It was a temptation to just start pulling t-shirts,
blankets, a pot-holder, broken doll
off the heap of stuff in the living-room.
The place was a mess. But that wasn’t my job.
Not my job to bring in my dog, unclip
the leash, tell her “search!” She could find one
small girl among all the human-scented
objects in that cabin; my dog and I earn kudos
and our midnight mission would be over –
assuming the child was hiding in the house.
But it was October, a chilly night, storm
on the way, and acres of woods on every side.
Our job was to search the woods –
my dog ranging thickets of manzanita,
buckbrush, chamise while I groped my way
on hands and knees, trying to keep
my bearings. Trying not to remember other
searches – crawling through manzanita
in a freezing rain, looking for a Christmas-tree
cutter who, it turned out, had caught
a ride back to town. Finally, they called us back,
search over. No debriefing. I never learned
what happened to that little girl.
taylor, I was with you through this search, and aghast at the end at the feeling of never knowing.
Agreed
Your way of seizing my heart without use of dramatic words and exclamations BELLOWS your talent. Wow. I assume this is fiction. I hope so.
storm fairy
so, listen:
you’re either well
-weathered wit(her),
or you’re not. if you’ve
caught her
(net, pocket, palm)
you know the moment
-airy calm she brings
be
fore. her satin ribbon
hair’s a syllabic squall
wibble-wobbly woven through
this sky. she’ll balmy
you a up a cloud-scrum
or two if you raindance chance
a certain flicker in her eye.
she surges, swells
and tells a fine strung tale,
red sky by morning,
slush-shush,
tut-tut, it looks like rain.
::
Found a typo, and the OCD in me won’t let me leave it. Excuse the repost:
storm fairy
so, listen:
you’re either well
-weathered wit(her),
or you’re not. if you’ve
caught her
(net, pocket, palm)
you know the moment
-airy calm she brings
be
fore. her satin ribbon
hair’s a syllabic squall
wibble-wobbly woven through
this sky. she’ll balmy
you up a cloud-scrum
or two if you raindance chance
a certain flicker in her eye.
she surges, swells
and tells a fine strung tale,
red sky by morning,
slush-shush,
tut-tut, it looks like rain.
::
Oh, De … you never cease to amaze …
InDEED
Lovely and intriguing!
The Harshness of Sunlight
They always say it’s the rain
That makes for lonely days
And long melancholy nights,
But the sun too can cause strain
On fragile and fretful brains.
Minds wrapped with guilt
As light enters the window
Bodies frozen under a quilt,
Dreading a need to move,
But aching to go outside
And embrace the summer warmth.
That is the wretched paradox
Which the weather can cause
In the heads and hearts of those
Now long weary and worn
From battling their own inner storm.
I love this. Such melancholy here. I live in Southern Nevada, where the sun (and heat) can be its own relentless trouble, so I feel this, deeply.
Thank you, glad it struck a chord 🙂
A veritable invitation to cancel summer, this.
Irony is the skin on a smallish dragon
Or slate. Or steely gray. Yes? Perhaps no.
Perhaps know
her name before you define
her, or the state of her skin.
Maybe get to know a girl
before you claim she breathes
fire.
Ay, me, but you’ve a way of
swaying the sky left of center.
Not quite right. Cloudy with
a chance of be
-wilderment. Don’t hold back
now, state your mind. Find
youself. Kind of strange, the way these
storms become a stranded place
with
too
thick
skin.
::
Yes. “know her name before you define her”
“Cloudy with / a chance of be / -wilderment.” Perfect.
Lovely last stanza. “With too thick skin.” its nuances are a little mesmerizing.
I thought likewise.
Wonderful metaphor, De. We’d be all in a better place if everyone found the dragon inside, and your advice is sagacious.
Not quite right.
Indeed.
The Breath of Life
Reveling in your brash
Rustling flora fills me
With the coolness present
In your rushing nature.
Sometimes you languish
Still and less loquacious
Leaving little more than a sigh
As you listlessly loll past.
Still others, frightful,
As your fury unfurls
Fiercely and in flagellant bursts
That forestall my best laid plans.
And yet, conspiring in your presence
I continually appreciate your calm
And curl composed
In the palm of your caress.
This is just lovely.
Amen
That repetitive use of alliteration (and consonation), different in each stanza, just makes each piece a poem unto itself. This is a moving cogwork of sound!
Thank you. My intent was to use that to help move the theme. The sound and similarities help authentic the mood of the wind in each stanza. … I hope.
Yes, deeply agree. Lovely!
September With a Winter Sky
The gray is almost uniform.
The lucence is near that of a pearl–
nearest the cup of a weathered shell.
To that, I am less than a dust of sand.
The sky seems too wrung out
for creation and I
am too small.
“sky seems to wrung out / for creation” is wonderful.
Yes, I loved that line. And the idea that the sky is dressed in some sort of gray uniform, like a mechanic. What an image this evoked for me.
I’m gonna tag along with the two masters above. I liked the first line in the last stanza. I love it’s motif of a tired overworked sky. Too much wind. Too much rain. Too much hassle to do any more. Very much like when emotions are too far spent to go further.
Love your style, Barbara. And LOVE The sky seems too wrung out for creation and I am too small. Wow.
“Wrung out.” Wow.
Killing two birds with one stone – this is also a Roundelay Challenge entry:
Category 5
The weather radar shows its core,
a cold, dead eye amidst a brew
of wind and storms and rains that pour,
a buzzsaw set to tear and chew.
Some day it will blow in your door.
The red wheel spins, it spins for you.
The wind, the storms, the rains thatl pour,
the buzzsaw set to tear and chew –
this maelstrom’s one you can’t ignore;
this time you may not ride it through.
Some day it will blow in our door.
The red wheel spins, it spins for you.
This maelstrom’s one you can’t ignore,
this time you may not ride it through.
You watch the boat torn off its moor,
your roof ripped out, you house askew.
Today it has blown in your door.
The red wheel spins, it spins for you.
You watch the boat torn off its moor,
your roof ripped out, your house askew.
But then the winds are calm once more;
the rains let up, the sky turns blue.
Today it has blown in your door,
but that red wheel’s not taken you.
Wow, Bruce. This is impressive.
Yes. Often these rhyming/repetitious forms are not well done (IMO) and I end up not reading through to the end. Not only did I read this to the end, but read it again. Excellent!
Excellently done, Bruce! Loce the subtle changes in the refrain!
Haiku
Under the weather –
Blankets tangled by fever
At foot of the bed
Awww. This is somehow sweet, in its fevered tossing.
Seconded. The brevity mirrors the will of the ill. Stupendous.
qbit, you sure do have a way with extremely few words. I admire your ability!!
Same here
It’s getting warm, now,
the way they told us —
ice floes shrinking, water rising,
and the odd funnel cloud
where it shouldn’t be,
never was.
A meteor killed the dinosaurs,
but not in a day. It took
thousands of years,
encroaching darkness,
scarce food,
fear,
maybe.
The steady thrum of progress around us,
machinery, smokestacks billowing,
all descended fro that first assembly line,
that first inkling that we can throw fuel into a machine
and make it churn out cars
or toys
or plastic doo-dads,
tell me —
is that our meteor?
I love this:
“A meteor killed the dinosaurs,
but not in a day.”
Thought-provoking. Well penned.
Get out of your deep sleep, you old bloated friend, and let’s get to work.
We have a world to conquer, civilizations to upend;
we have money to make and warnings to send.
You’re full of hot air, you old short-sighted goat,
the same old tune with no new wrinkles.
I can no more walk with you than you can have a tinkle.
Friends and foes, caught in their own magnetic swirls, but
when their independence mingles and the steam of battle blinds,
the roar enough to blow off shingles.
Man, this is good.
LOVE:
“the same old tune with no new wrinkles.”
Agreed
So much here! Well done!
I Blame the Poets’
neglect to find different words
to frame the dialogue. Instead,
trapped in the gravitational pull
of politicians, they fail to inspire
people towards climate
change.
Quite a gravitational pull it is, indeed.
Good one.
Hmmmmm…. politicians read poetry?
“… left us only with rainbows.” Wonderful, Robert
Hear, hear!
A MEMORY OF ROCHESTER WINTERS
I was able to tolerate levelling winds
or salty spray blocking my view;
but I gritted my teeth whenever I spied
the pothole patching crew
or did so, that is, if teeth I had left
after driving the obstacle course
of craters and ice-floes and syrupy slush:
the slop of winter’s force.
The lake-effect snow and the ice on the trees,
even frostbite that shredded my craw,
were more welcome by far than the roads victimized
by endless freeze and thaw.
I fear we are about to enter that milieu yet again. That dreary cold and nature’s coat that hides the true surface of the road from view.
nice rhyme and meter to your piece.
My husband worked on one of those road crews, a bit west of Rochester.
This line is such a fun spill of words:
“the slop of winter’s force.”
Oh what fun! This is soooooooo well written. Flows flawlessly, creatively, and so fun! Unfortunately, I can relate a little too well, living here in Northwest Ohio. 😀
Vividly penned! I left New England because of this, but you brought me right back home. Er, thanks!
Nice comparative image.
MAYBE MORE THIS TIME
Will you be my handstitched quilt,
or
are you just fair weather?
-JR Simmang
Layers.
Many layers left unsaid in such a short piece. Well composed.
Thanks, Bushkill!
Oh my goodness yes. GREAT write.
Thank you, Marie Elena.
Nice!
I appreciate that, qbit.
LOVE.
Humbled, De. Thanks.