They say, “Everyone complains about the weather, but no one does anything about it!” So we’ll change that. We’ll write about it.

With the hot days and the cooler nights, fog has been a morning issue and the prime inspiration for this prompt. Think “The rain in Spain,” “A foggy night in London Town,” lightning strikes. Anywhere the weather takes you is prime for your piece! Whether good or bad, weather’s the word.


 “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’  But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you,  that you may be children of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good,  and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.” ~ Jesus, Son of God (Matthew 5:43-45)

Love Your Enemies

While rain and sun are
not ours to give, cool drinks and
warm smiles hinder hate.

© Marie Elena Good, 2021



Caught in the cross hairs of fate,
in the eye of the storm we live on.

Winds destroy and water washes,
in the eye of the storm we live on.

Danger in the swell of torrents,
in the eye of the storm we live. On

the gasp of collective breaths held,
in the eye of the storm we live on.

Semantics makes it no less severe
in the eye of the storm. We live on!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik

208 thoughts on “PROMPT #348 – WEATHER OR NOT


    It helps my mood to think on snow
    whilst sweating in the summer heat;
    at times when sunshine scorches so,
    it helps my mood to think on snow
    and drifts of white that ebb and flow
    in tune with winter’s wind-borne beat.
    It helps my mood: to think on snow
    whilst sweating in the summer heat.

  2. Walt, your poem invites a lot of reflection, especially, for me, the arresting image of “the gasp of collective breaths.”

  3. Marie, your piece took me back 50 years, to a cool drink and a warm smile. Wonderful phrase.


    We share the same sky.
    Breath the same air.

    We walk the same light.
    Peruse the same clouds.

    We wear the same rain.
    Share the same thunder.

    We taste the same fog.
    Blame the same blunder.

    Benjamin Thomas


    We are the sky.
    We are the weather.

    We inhale her moods.
    Exhale her pleasures.

    We inhale the air,
    that is the sky.

    Exhale the air,
    that is the sky.

    We witness the storms
    and wonder why?


    We are fair skies.
    Exhange of weather.

    We inhale the heat.
    Exhale careless anger.

    The flow of air streams
    to us, in us, through us.

    Tainted, it flows then
    out from of us.

    Painted, it flows
    what it knows of us.

    Back into the sky.

    Benjamin Thomas


    You can only throw shade
    where the sun is already shining.


    As the sun sets, or as it rises,
    it rains on the just and the unjust.

    Then those who are in the shade,
    once in the light, are those who are whining.

    Benjamin Thomas


    Could we tinker with Mother Nature
    to suit our base needs?

    Know the extent of rains across the land
    to feed beast and man?

    Understand the purpose of violent storms,
    sizable hail, or heavy winds?

    Would we stir the pot of churning sea?
    Stop the will of silent drowning plea?

    His wise ways are much higher than our ways.
    I’m thankful that he is God—and not me.

    Benjamin Thomas


    Pounding rain
    So hard everything bends
    Or ends its cycle
    Wind so strong
    Right or wrong
    It could knock you over
    Lightening so loud
    Illuminating every cloud
    Trees shaking
    Taking all leaves to the ground
    Debris scattered
    Old branches tattered
    Fresh new petals
    Curled in
    Looking as if
    They’ve lost all hope
    Morning brings the sun
    To see what’s been undone
    And out of the remaining mist
    As if kissed
    The tender flower
    Almost destroyed
    In the bleak
    Darkened night
    Releases its fright
    To trust
    The sunlight
    Once more
    As if brand new
    With just a drop of dew
    And that bit of glory
    Will always

    (c) Janet Rice Carnahan 2021

  9. The Forecast is for Clear Skies

    Light from shadows-
    the day emerges from clouds.
    Dreams and past lives whisper
    messages without words.
    The forecast is for clear skies
    the air full of promise
    one more day
    before a chance of rain.
    Today I live one life and many,
    and the roads I take
    lead to many places.
    A glance downhill taken at an intersection
    shows the river glisten as it flows,
    barges in tow burdened by their loads.
    Two silver spans of a bridge unfurl.
    Like angel wings, they glisten
    and recall many flights of fancy taken.

    • “Today I live one life and many,
      and the roads I take
      lead to many places.”

      When I first came to this, it jarred me from the poem. After re-reading the entire poem, I see the fit … both in topic, and within the poem itself. Well done.

    • “Dreams and past lives whisper
      messages without words.”

      “Two silver spans of a bridge unfurl.
      Like angel wings, they glisten
      and recall many flights of fancy taken.”

      This poem follows through on its promise. Gorgeous, Mike.

  10. We’ve had the coolest, wettest summer on record!


    I remember heat,
    a swarm of flies,
    brackish air, still
    and heavily bruised.
    But not this summer.

  11. Marie your kind soul speaks thru that little poem… Walt… you are simply amazing…. and to both of you… I love this prompt… I have written so many weather poems that I am not sure I can do more but I will try…

  12. Rain, Rain, Come Today

    We live in America’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.

    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.

    Hoping for rain in my still mind,
    wishing I would need to hide,
    knowing I would be just fine,
    dry and comfy deep inside.

  13. the best of my old poems is this one… I witnessed first hand cruelty done by a person in cat rescue… I got PTSD from that experience…this was at one of my darkest moments…writing this helped to clear my mind

    Frozen Wasteland

    The frozen empty vastness of my spirit
    Created by the darkness of some human souls.
    I could not understand it, and in the stillness,
    And quietness that was so often my comfort-
    Now became a place of a frozen wasteland.
    It stretched out forever with no horizon
    Within my view. I was so cold- I could not move.
    I was lost in the frozen quietness.
    When a person freezes to death,
    In the end they feel warm, and
    They fall asleep- but before then the cold cuts
    Down to the inner bone.
    I was frozen, but I would not freeze.
    I walked myself across the vastness…
    Even when the quietness was crushing.

    There came a place of rest-
    I knew it was so for it was different.
    The stillness and quietness here
    Was not born out of cruelty-
    It was born of love-
    I felt the ice break, as I rested there.
    I woke to the horizon and a sun rising.
    I heard a distant song….
    Found myself singing, and
    I no longer saw the frozen vastness.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    October 3, 2014

  14. Weather or Not

    We were young, then,
    living above the weather,
    only a few thousand feet up,
    looking down on the Santa Rosa plain.
    It was our first mortgaged home,
    three loans and a garden.
    We needed that garden,
    the food it provided,
    fresh, dried, canned, frozen,
    whatever it took.
    Didn’t even have a real shovel,
    only a spade,
    with a lot of rocky adobe to turn,
    but it was worth it,
    losing weight,
    getting into farm boy shape,
    appreciating both sun and rain,
    no time to complain,
    not picking the corn until
    the water was boiling.
    It was my third garden,
    the first with my mom after WWII,
    the second with my friend Tim,
    small but bountiful, and
    we learned a lot.
    Getting close to 80 now,
    not much rain here,
    but a lot of sun.
    Don’t know if I could
    do it all again,
    but I’d like to try.

  15. Respect for a weather vane.

    For eighty years, give or take, that hip roof barn with weathered wood
    had seen its share, for heaven’s sake, of wind and rain and yet it stood

    on solid rock, both deep and sure; bedrock fixed in earth’s tight vice,
    and stained blood red, years to endure, its whole life painted all but thrice.

    Its corn crib woke, to each sunrise, stalls westward watched sun’s daily death
    large wooden doors, north south endwise, invite in nature’s gentle breath.

    Stalwart shelter, hiding place, for mice and kittens, ox and horse
    against dark foes, harsh storms and ice, and all of nature’s cruelest force.

    On highest point, ‘top roof of tin, black rooster on black arrow perched,
    to warn withal, without, within, of looming storm her eye had searched.

    I mocked that rooster, job so vain, tossed to-and-fro by every wind,
    Respect! said farmer, beloved vane, does not deserve reproach. Rescind!

    For while we cower, and turn our backs, from weather cruel in all her forms,
    brave rooster stands, as lightning cracks, in love she turns to face the storm.

  16. Respect for a weather vane.

    For eighty years, give or take, that hip roof barn with weathered wood
    had seen its share, for heaven’s sake, of wind and rain and yet it stood

    on solid rock, both deep and sure; bedrock fixed in earth’s tight vice,
    and stained blood red, years to endure, its whole life painted all but thrice.

    Its corn crib woke, to each sunrise, stalls westward watched sun’s daily death
    large wooden doors, north south endwise, invite in nature’s gentle breath.

    Stalwart shelter, hiding place, for mice and kittens, ox and horse
    against dark foes, harsh storms and ice, and all of nature’s cruelest force.

    On highest point, ‘top roof of tin, black rooster on black arrow perched,
    to warn withal, without, within, of looming storm his eye had searched.

    I mocked that rooster, job so vain, tossed to-and-fro by every wind,
    Respect! said farmer, beloved vane, does not deserve reproach. Rescind!

    For while we cower, and turn our backs, from weather cruel in all her forms,
    brave rooster stands, as lightning cracks, in love he turns to face the storm.

  17. Southern Winters…

    This morning it was cold
    Ice on my windows
    Just cause I am going out early…
    I am just glad this isn’t every day…

    Snow expected tonight…
    The grocery stores will
    Be raided for toilet paper,
    Milk and eggs, and sometimes
    Frozen pizza…
    The next morning
    The pickup trucks will be revved up
    To go truck skiing in the snow and ice
    With no consideration
    For other drivers…
    This is what they think
    Playing in the snow means…

    I prefer the walks I take
    In my quiet forest
    As it slowly fills up
    With feathery light flakes…

    Two days later the snow melted,
    And temp is barefoot weather,
    And the reason my flip-flops
    Are year-long attire.
    Tomorrow it will rain, and be a chilly-
    Fifty degrees…

    I wish for spring to arrive,
    It will at least be rainy,
    And has flowers,
    And occasional snows…
    But it has flowers…

    But winter has the red of holly berries,
    And dogwood berries, and
    Wonderful hats to wear
    On those few days that are cold.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    August 22, 2021

  18. A Hurricane Named Hugo…

    I remember the night that Hugo hit…
    It was once a category five…
    But over the islands it hit
    It became category four…
    The wind raged that night, and
    My windows shook…
    Not even the earthquake
    Shook them that hard…
    The forest was feeling the brunt of the winds,
    But no trees fell that time.

    A forest had seventy percent
    Of its trees brought down…
    Birds perished,
    Animals perished, and
    People perished…
    The storm surge was the mightiest
    In a quarter of a century…
    Twenty mighty feet of waters
    Sucked swimming pools
    From the ground and dropped
    Them blocks away.

    The storm shook the South Carolina coast,
    And took aim at Charlotte,
    Wreaking havoc all the way…
    Windows of tall building
    Flew from their frames…
    Destruction was everywhere.

    The morning brought pictures
    Of buildings torn away…
    The Grey Man had appeared,
    And that family’s home
    Was safe…while
    Rows of homes were missing…
    The ghost who chooses to protect
    One family from the rage of a storm…
    Legend lives on until the next big storm comes.

    I watch out for hurricanes
    Since that night…
    I can keep those I love safe
    From the hurricanes on the coast,
    But I can’t protect them
    From the hurricanes of life events
    That ravage them like Hugo did
    That September night back in 1989.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    August 22, 2021

    • The LEgend of the Gray Man comes early 1800s. There was a man who was to marry a young woman who lived on the ISle of Palms… He was killed in an accident, but he came to warn the family of a hurricane after his death… since then… any time the Isle of Palms is to be hit by a hurricane he appears, and whoever sees him will have no damage to their home.

  19. Pingback: Pretty Potato in the Wind | Experience Writing

  20. Fickleness of the Heavens

    Central Park sparks
    lit up New York City.
    The Homecoming Concert
    was packed, energy level
    pulsating, awaiting
    performances of top
    singers and musicians.
    Wishing for it to continue
    all night, but rain came.
    People stayed. Maybe they
    could wait it out. When lightning
    flashed, only half the magic
    had taken place. Too dangerous,
    they said. The show did not
    go on.


    Where there is lightning.
    There is thunder.

    Within the cloud of rain.
    Or at odds with the land.

    An awesome electrical discharge,
    is nature’s attempt to right itself.

    Rid itself—
    of imbalances between heaven and earth.

    An explosion of light,
    a wicked boom, to meet its demand.

    A return of imperial balance,
    by the reigning Queen—called Mother Nature.

    Benjamin Thomas


    I am born of rain and blood.
    A child of the most high.

    He who rides atop the clouds.
    Who set firm foot upon the earth.

    Who bellowed a shout of victory,
    with booming voice like thunder.

    I am born of rain and blood.
    Fresh water flowed from his side.

    Mercifully born anew,
    of righteous blood shed without pride.

    Benjamin Thomas


    She awakens
    those wading in the deep
    darkness of their dreams.

    Welcomes the living
    back to reality,
    as she sprays aloud her beams.

    Every eye is taken,
    from their sleep—
    entranced in beauty, now it seems.

    Benjamin Thomas


    Who taught slaying winds to dance?
    Descending sunset the tale of romance?

    Who wills fair skies, or makes a sure beauty?
    Who tames salty seas until it complies?

    Who grips a breeze and hurls a tornado?
    Who breathes a fire that burns like volcano?

    Who feeds the rain that drains from above?
    Who starves the earth that all the roots love?

    Who stirs a hurricane or commands still water?
    The only one—whom we call the Sovereign Potter.

    Benjamin Thomas

  25. Its no doubt , the relentless power of the earth’s natural processes could never be controlled,
    Yet still; it yields for us all, such beauty to behold.
    Sensual bliss
    product of the sun, immense shine
    Bringing forth scent
    lavender, jasmine, or a tall standing pine.

  26. One a.m. lightning

    Auroras the sky
    Heralding thunder storms
    Earth holding its breath
    As I hold mine then
    Having to breathe
    Scent the distant Sulphur
    Between blued lavender
    Borealis greens rippling
    Southwestern skies.

  27. I should be ashamed doing this, but I am not… I will write a new weather poem later today…this is an old poem… which i had much fun writing… Maybe I should do a counter poem of how the seasons would be if they were men..

    How Would the Seasons Be, if They Were Women

    Spring woke up from a long sleep
    When the crocus one morning
    Brightly shined…
    Spring skipped and the daffodils
    Danced on the breeze….
    The rains fell and Spring
    Splashed in puddles in her galoshes…
    As the sun and days became hot,
    Spring went to sleep again.

    Summer blew in on a storm
    From some vacation spot
    Along equator.
    She wore flowered hats,
    And when she fanned herself
    Because she sweat…
    A big storm blew in
    Tearing up leaves and
    Toppling trees…
    Then one day
    She headed back to that
    Tropical beach.

    Autumn caught a ride
    On the last storms that Summer sent.
    She was a flashy lady
    Who liked meteors to don the night,
    Glitter on black velvet,
    A flash and then it is gone.
    She painted the leaves of the forest…
    A little red, a little orange, a bit of rose,
    And gold to give it depth.
    She felt cold of Winter,
    A wind that would freeze her bones
    So as the leaves fell,
    She caught a ride on the artic express,
    And found Summer on the beach.

    Winter floated in her sleigh
    An icy delight with six
    White ice horses
    Whose breath frosted the windows.
    She cracked her whip, and
    Snow began to fall
    Trees became statues, and
    Houses became castles
    With white glistening sparkling roofs.
    She froze the pond, so her horses might
    Get a drink, and she could step on ice.
    She covered the night with dark blue satin
    And flung her diamonds to become stars.
    Then she waved her arms in the air,
    And the music was there
    For those who heard…
    The sound of crystal bells tinkling.
    She saw the crocus began to rise,
    Knew that Spring would soon awake,
    And retreated to her ice castle.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    November 9, 2017

  28. How the Seasons Would be if They Were Men…

    Spring, who prefers the nickname Sprung…
    Stomps through mudpuddles
    When he wakes from his long sleep.
    Sprung dances with glee in the rain
    He has tossed to feed the earth,
    And make people scurry
    To keep from getting wet.
    He picks up his tops,
    And tosses them here and there
    Causing tornado damage
    As they spin away.
    He is a naughty boy
    Who likes to play, but
    The heat of summer vaporizes Sprung,
    And he waits until the end of winter
    To be born again.

    Summer is tan with muscles rippling
    As he walks along a beach…
    He loves the tropical heat,
    And spends most of the year
    Relaxing for the day
    He can stride across the sand.
    His voice is loud and boisterous
    When he parties too hard.
    Sometimes he spins around
    And the oceans give birth
    To storms that rage for days.
    He loves his days,
    But the first hint of cool air,
    He flies away
    The tropics are waiting for him there.

    Autumn prefers the nickname Fall,
    And he loves the crunch of a newly harvested apple.
    He loves the reds, and yellows and pink
    And paints everything in his love of color.
    He likes to lay in a field at night,
    And gaze in wonder at the stars.
    When humans pile up his dead leaves,
    He blows a puff of wind
    So, they must do it again.
    You can almost hear his laugh.
    But when Jack Frost
    Touches everything
    Leaving windows with feathered ice patterns,
    Fall packs his bags and takes a snooze
    By a beach in the tropics.

    Winter is tall dressed in shades of ice and snow,
    And his beard is long, white and twisted with curls.
    His sleigh is led with six Percheron greys
    As the fog mists of a cold night.
    They stamp and the ice falls
    From trees and off eaves of houses.
    Winter is regal and is wise.
    He knows that to every Spring
    There will one day be a Winter.
    He blows the cold winds,
    And the clouds give snow…
    He watches in amusement
    Of people trying to get
    To a place they are warm
    And can drink a cup of hot cocoa.
    At night he opens his cloak
    Which is made of dark blue satin,
    And diamonds and a changing moon
    Rides across that cloak…
    But he as he hears the rivers unfreeze,
    He turns his Percheron horses
    To head to the north
    For Sprung will be splashing
    In puddles soon.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    August 23, 2021

  29. The Patter of the Rain
    (a Ghazal)

    Tap tapping on the roof, sings the patter of the rain
    I sit on the porch and listen to the patter of the rain.

    The cool air washes over me in sweet, peaceful waves.
    The trees sway and glisten to the patter of the rain.

    The fresh-washed scent of roses flits past my nose.
    As they are softly christened to the patter of the rain.

    I swing back and forth and my soul is full and content.
    Absolutely nothing is remiss in the patter of the rain.

    To the calming tune, I imagine all things pleasant.
    And as a poet, I create this in the patter of the rain.

  30. The Storm

    In recent days
    I have been pelted with hail,
    In a deluge of rains of anger…

    It was my reaction
    To the enormity of it all.

    Some people cause chaos.
    Their lives are like tornados
    Ripping across the land
    Creating destruction
    In their wake.

    These chaos people
    Feel they are of value
    Only when they create storms.
    They are addicted to it, and
    Not peace…
    And storm clouds
    Are around them
    Waiting to be a cloudburst
    And scatter chaos in their wake.

    I strive for the peace of sunny days,
    And the simplicity of simple breezes.

    I met these chaos people
    In those years I worked
    And they always made me
    Feel like a tornado picked me up
    And threw me somewhere else.
    I refuse to go back there.
    I refuse to be anyone’s whipping boy.
    I refuse to be the bad guy.
    Those days are behind me.

    But they are not,

    Except I can choose to allow
    Those who cause chaos
    In my life on my terms,
    That is within my power
    Not theirs.

    The storm has passed this time.
    I felt it rage against me.
    It left me trembling
    With anger, and I lost my peace.

    I choose to live in simplicity and peace
    And to walk in light, and
    Letting the wind speak to me.

    The storm will come again,
    But this time I will prepare
    For the rages of storm.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    August 24, 2021

    • One type of case I got over and over again was what I called Chaos People. they go thru life creating drama… if there is no drama they will create it. They are the most difficult families I ever dealt with during my years as a foster care worker because these people are addicted to chaos…After one particularly bad group of chaos people and I was able to close my case, I went to my director and said, “Send me to North Korea, I can get a peace treaty.”

        • It came home with me… many a night and I was on call 24/7 on all of my cases…but this particular family took pictures of each other eating in restaurants and wondered why it was not evidence… stalked each other and rode thru three counties taking pictures of each other…I called them in once and told them to stop it, and two of them said, ” YOu can’t make us.”

  31. an old poem from my study on a long poem from the Celtic Daily Prayer…towards the end it had a list of questions and one of them I still mull over.. It is: “Do I trust You to calm the storms within Me?” I did my Lenten study on this poem back in 2019. I had lost my purpose, and had all sorts of things to shake me from losing the Inheritance, melanoma on my face, shingles, and a snake caught in my oven. I did this study to ground me… early in the study I wrote this poem…by fall I found a new purpose and that is to write.

    Seventh Wave

    There is an ancient legend
    That the old sailors knew.
    When a gale wind blew in,
    And storm is pelting down…
    Beware of the seventh wave
    For it will break you up, and
    You will be lost at sea.

    That seventh wave is said to carry
    All the fury of the storm,
    Coming from the dark deep
    Lifting up your craft,
    Pulling back
    So your craft slams hard upon the water.
    It will then slam hard over you
    Breaking your ship into splinters..
    Water washing everything away.
    All will be lost.

    My life has been like a small ship
    In the force of a gale.
    The waves come sliding under me
    Lifting me high,
    And I slam with force upon the sea.
    I have been shaken;
    My muscles are bruised, and
    My old bones ache from the fall.

    I have counted the waves
    Wondering when the seventh wave
    Will rise high above me
    Slamming into my ship
    With the force of a giant sledge hammer.
    That seventh wave will toss me into the storm
    So I can see heaven, and
    Will jerk away
    Sending me into the dark unknown
    Of an earth made he-ll.

    Standing here I am counting the waves.
    I am on the deck…
    Hoping this gale will end, and
    There won’t be a seventh wave.
    Despite my aching bones and bruised muscles
    I stand watch…
    The warrior in me
    Will stand.
    It is who I am.
    It is what I do.
    Come he-ll or high water
    I will stand.

    Besides, I know I have the Pilot by my side
    And He can handle the waves.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    March 7&13, 2019

  32. Connie’s poem made me try… and I know I failed, but it is a start… by the way a lot of people call me by my initials…

    I was defeated, but I always knew there were storms.
    Disillusioned by love and its storm.

    Why don’t you conform? the others implore.
    The aftermath left debris from the storm.

    The hailstones of words tossed towards me.
    I felt them pelt my soul like a storm.

    I dreamed of reform, but I found pain.
    He trashed me- rages of a storm.

    I stand here transformed, waiting for you.
    Some call me MET, you are not that storm.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    August 24, 2021

  33. Whether or not….

    I am in a debate with myself…
    Do I go buy groceries now?
    Or do I sit on my porch,
    And enjoy the sunshine…
    Tough decision…
    The porch won…

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    August 24, 2021

  34. The last of my old ones but one of my favorite fantasy poems… I like dragons…

    The Storm Dragon…

    All day the weathermen
    Excited with controlled delight
    Revealed this Dragon Storm coming.

    I like storms;
    Storms roar and whisper.
    Trees crack and groan.

    The Storm Dragon
    Slept with snores growling
    Beware when she wakes.

    Down in the belly of the hollow
    Raged a wind, thunder clashed
    Like swords battling said dragon.

    I sat quietly typing,
    When the Storm Dragon
    Spewed her hail down upon my house.

    The rough cedar ceiling
    Vibrated the fracas on my roof
    I was living inside a drum nature was playing.

    Then it stopped.
    The Storm Dragon whispered
    As she left this battlefield.

    I returned to my typing,
    While I listened to remote growls of thunder.
    The Storm Dragon carried her wrath further into the dark.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    April 6, 2017

  35. The storms within…

    I was born into a storm.
    I heard the wind blow at my birth…
    The wind would guide me…
    And whispered…
    “Don’t listen to the storms outside,
    But beware of the ones inside you.”

    I did not listen.

    I let the storms outside me
    Influence and direct my ways.

    Within me
    I was being pelted
    With hail from my own thoughts,
    And deemed I was

    Words of praise
    I did not hear…
    The thunder belting me
    With rolling sounds
    Of anger
    At myself…
    I heard.

    It is hard to hear
    The whisper of the wind
    Or to be still
    When in such turmoil.

    But as I slept
    When the storms
    Inside rested,
    The wind whispered…
    “Ignore the storms within…
    You are worthy
    And loved.”

    The wind also whispered
    “Trust me to calm the storms…
    I have done it before…”

    But I did not understand…

    Those storms within
    Were strong
    And had waged war at me
    For decades…

    The wind persisted…
    “Trust me to calm the storms within you.”

    I stepped into a still place
    Where peace reigned.
    I heard the whisper of the wind say,
    “Do you trust Me to calm the storms
    Within your soul?”
    I fell on the ground wet with dew,
    And heard the music playing
    In distance…
    And I heard my soul speak,
    “I trust You to calm those storms.”

    It was the beginning
    For I had to unlearn
    What the storms had taught me.
    Each step forward led to two steps back,
    I took more steps forward,
    Than I took backwards.

    I heard the wind whisper
    To me at my birth…
    “Don’t listen to the storms
    That rage within you…
    Seek stillness,”
    It would be sixty years
    Before I understood those words.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    August 25, 2021


    There was a twist.
    There was a turn—
    of sorts. 

    And the faucet
    released, burst forth,
    a downpour.

    Of crashing rains
    into the streets
    of the city.

    Refreshed and wet,
    the land never regrets
    a cleansing.

    Benjamin Thomas


    Married to the brilliance of borrowed light,
    he shares,
    bears the beauty
    of soft silent moon-storms into the night.

    There it spends a time beneath bold spying cloud,
    in a crowd,
    fray of shadows
    doing the subtle sweeping work of twilight.

    There it lends a silver ray seeking fleeing darkness,
    giving way,
    to a bath of grays
    never meant to stay—but until quiet storms, become day.

    Benjamin Thomas


    Thin sheets
    of pillow grains of grey
    stretch abroad reluctant skies.

    Giving birth
    to an overcast child,
    a bland taste of nature for awhile.

    Mighty calls,
    urgent yearnings are heard,
    for the great red wine of tulips.

    Soothing pink
    magnolias, a sip of Dom perignon
    of gardens.

    Benjamin Thomas


    A kiss.
    A twist of lips.
    A chance of storms.

    Heat advisory.
    Take caution.
    Things could get hot.

    Cool nights.

    Morning fog.
    Obscured lights.
    Faulty vision.

    Of things missed.
    Gusty winds.

    Blow away.
    Old memories.
    Into the distance.

    Benjamin Thomas

  40. Fog….

    This morning there was fog…
    I could hear Da telling me,
    The fogs in August
    Will tell you how brilliant
    The colors of fall leaves will be.
    If there are piles of fog
    Floating down the mountain
    A flood of mists
    Over several mornings,
    The trees in bright colors well wear.
    He observed nature,
    And understood those nuances
    That most of us miss.

    I love fog or mists
    In the early morning,
    And being up on a mountain
    In them is a dreamland
    Of muted green, as
    The mist brush
    Tiny droplets of water on my skin.
    There, I can breathe deep
    The cleansing air,
    And release the old
    To be refurbished
    By those mists.
    This is bliss to me.
    This renews my soul.

    Some say I walk in a fog
    Of my thoughts,
    And they are not far off,
    For Ma told me I was like Da
    In that our minds never rest,
    Which accounts for many
    A sleepless night.
    It was how we were alike,
    But yet so different.
    There was never any fog
    On how we both understood each other.

    I learned early to keep my thoughts
    From my mother for it would make her worry.
    There was always a fog of misunderstanding
    Between us, despite that we found our way.

    A friend used to play
    Foggy mountain breakdown for me,
    I would shake my head.
    He was easy to comprehend;
    I confounded him.

    This morning I stepped outside
    And watched a spider build a web
    And knew that it would be displaced,
    For I would need to walk thru it.
    I wanted to feel the mists of August
    Upon my face, and
    Think of golden leaves to come
    While remembering
    How the mists felt
    When I stood upon a mountain.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    August 26, 2021

  41. My Brother’s Heart…

    It was twenty-three years ago
    That my heart was broken
    For your heart had stopped.
    The images flashed before me
    Of you tossing me into the air,
    And taking me on wild rides
    On your bike..
    Our secret until
    Ma got calls.
    You were so handsome
    In your air force uniform.
    First married,
    And you loved her
    With that generous heart of yours.
    I remember Ma fussed at you,
    But also, how proud
    When you gave your new coat
    To a boy who had none.
    Ma said, “You had an old coat.”
    And you answered,
    “But he never had a new coat.”
    I remember that midnight call
    When you spoke of your death to come,
    And your last dream
    Was to help the inner city
    Young men trapped with no hope.
    You wanted to give them hope,
    And sunshine, and a chance
    Of a better life.
    Your heart always cared for others,
    And that never changed.
    Your daughter had called me
    To tell me that you were nearing death.
    I knew eight months before
    That you would begin the new year,
    But would not be there as it ended.
    Your wife, your children, our mother,
    Our brothers all had their reasons to grieve.
    I grieved you because when I was small
    You gave me wild rides,
    And made me laugh,
    Unlike our brothers
    Never teased me
    But brought me joy.
    Your daughter called
    To say your heart had stopped.
    I went home to tell our mother.
    That human heart had stopped
    Its beating just before its sixty-first year,
    But the heart that loved us
    Has never stopped beating.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    August 27, 2021

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