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.
MARIE’S WARMTH:
“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
WALT’S STORM:
THE STORM WE LIVE 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
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
Responses
RELIEF
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.
I really like the rhyme. This poem succinctly captures our fantasies on hot days. Of course, when it’s winter, we dream of summer, I like the line, “and drifts of white that ebb and flow.”
Ah yes it does but alas I live in the south where SNow is a disaster
love the poem
Got my day off on a smile, Bill. Thank you! Especially love, “in tune with winter’s wind-borne beat.”
Beautiful triolet, William!
Walt, your poem invites a lot of reflection, especially, for me, the arresting image of “the gasp of collective breaths.”
Marie, your piece took me back 50 years, to a cool drink and a warm smile. Wonderful phrase.
Thank you, sir.
Excellent poems Walt and Marie! Great start for a hot week!
Thanks, Benjamin. I’m pretty certain our neck of the woods has had way more than its fair share of 90’s this year.
THE SAME BLIGHT
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
Love this and love the theme… my favorite song my Neil Diamond lists a lot of names and then ends with we have all sweated beneath the same sun and looked up in wonder at the same moon and wept when it was all done for being done too soon…. GOOD JOB>>>
Thanks Mary!
“Blame the same blunder” was a surprise. Well done!
Thanks Marie.
I really enjoy the the lines “We wear the same rain,” and “We taste the same fog.” Each of those lines has such strong imagery and is filled with other implications.
Thank you!
A beauty, Benjamin!
WE ARE THE SKY
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?
For—
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
this leaves me breathless….
Same here
“… it flows what it knows of us” is pleasing to my ear, and gives me pause.
THE JUST LIGHT
You can only throw shade
where the sun is already shining.
But—
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
you paint light with words like Monet painted light with his brush…
👌🙏🏽
Hmmmmm…. much food for thought here….
We chose the same scripture as inspiration this morning. ❤
Yep!
Love this!
👍
COULD WE TINKER?
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
AMEN
Benjamin, over on Fb I posted a Reflections from the wilderwood after the eclipse in 2017… I used to do those often… need get back to doing them…
Seems to me we’ve done plenty of tinkering as it is.
😂😂
Hear, hear!
STILL THE FLOWER OPENS
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
Nope
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
Opening
As if brand new
With just a drop of dew
And that bit of glory
Will always
do
(c) Janet Rice Carnahan 2021
Love this
Beautiful use of sound
Lovely poem, Janet. Creatively contemplated and penned.
Love the images in this.
Outstanding, Janet!
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.
what a beautiful picture you paint…
Almost ethereal, this. Wonderful.
“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.
We’ve had the coolest, wettest summer on record!
Summer
I remember heat,
a swarm of flies,
brackish air, still
and heavily bruised.
But not this summer.
smile
May I just say I wish I could trade places? 😉
This has a nice subtle power to it.
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…
Mary, you are so kind! Thank you.
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.
Love this perspective
Yes
Indeed!
love this and in the south we have lots of rain…and occasional droughts.
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
You’ve captured a great deal in these words. Beautiful, even when it haunts.
thanks and this one poem that I wrote with no editing…
Wow, that’s sensational.
Amen
thank you…and it was a struggle to get out of that wasteland….
I love the poetry that comes from both of you… and Marie… well she is a darling…
The feelings you had and emerged from, are palpable.
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.
I love this, especially the small shock of “… three loans and a garden.”
“three loans and a garden”
and
“not picking the corn until the water was boiling”
Entirely poetic, this, with these two lines richly anchoring it all, IMHO. Love this, Daniel!
There is a sense of peace in these words… of a good simple life… but isn’t that the way to live…
There is a true yearning in this poem. What you had or didn’t have becomes a glowing memory down the road.
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.
Love “nature’s gentle breath”.
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.
lovely
Utterly superb
My goodness, Kevin, your poems are consistently impeccable in structure, rhyme, sound, emotion, and scene. WOW, WOW, WOW!
Yes, we are friends. Yes, I love you and Lin dearly. Please believe me when I say none of that has anything to do with my going insanely gaga over your poems. YOU, my brother, are a POET. ❤
Thanx, MEG, and thanx for not poking fun at me for mistakenly calling a rooster by female pronouns. If I could edit this piece, I would. gheesh, what a goof.
*gigglesnort* Why, whatever are you talking about? I see no mix of pronouns. 😉
Whaaaaaa??? It’s a Miracle!
MEG
Would you care to read a weather related story I wrote over four years ago?
As pros, it’s not suitable for Poetic Bloomings, but I think you might like it.
Kevin, what I particularly am captured by is this: My confidence was in a wooden boat and in mans skill, but it should have rested in the precise words of Jesus. His exact words from earlier that night flooded my mind. He didn’t say, “Let’s all go die in the middle of the sea”, he said “Let’s cross over to the other side.”
❤
Thank you for sharing it with me!
Oh, and Caffeine and Capsaicin? 😀 😀 😀 😀 !
Caffeine and Capsaicin = writing fuel
HA! 😉
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…
Dang..
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
Such a soothing piece.
thanks
Bill says, “soothing,” and that certainly captures it. This made me smile, Mary.
thanks and I actually love winter but don’t drive it because of those pickup truck drivers…
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.
Vivid storytelling, and the legend is fascinating.
thanks and yes that legend is believed here in south carolina… there have been hurricanes since Hugo hit South carolina but most have have hit up the coast the worst… The grey man has not appeared but when they are going to hit SC Charleston area he does…
I love this legend, Mary. Thanks for sharing it!
I love legends and thanks
Interesting, Mary. Your piece, and the legend.
in SC we believe in the grey man…and thank you
[…] Sunday poetry prompt #348 from Poetic Bloomings is Weather or Not. This prompt feels very timely since I took my flower pictures in the wind this morning. That […]
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.
I like it Sara!
Thanks, Benjamin!
Wry smile here
Thanks, William.
Your title got me straight away!
Thanks, Marie!
very nice and how sad…
Thanks , Mary!
IMPERIAL BALANCE
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
Love this, especially the fourth line.
Thank you sir.
“… right itself.
“Rid itself …”
There is something satisfying to me, there. Nice poem!
Thanks 😊
I love this on so many levels…. I love storms and my mother almost had to hogtie me to keep me from going out into them when I was small.
BORN ANEW
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
Oh, Benjamin … so excellent … and AMEN!
👌
amen and amen
SHE AWAKENS
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
Love the way the rhyming works here
Indeed! Such a pleasing read.
But I am not grasping who “she” is. I have a feeling I’ll feeling I’ll have a totally embarrassing “DUH” moment coming up. 😉
The Sun of course!
Oh. My. Word. There’s that embarrassing DUH moment! LOL! Benjamin, how in the world did I miss that, especially from YOU! LOL! (head smack!)
😂
YOur love of the sun is rich with imagery
☀️😁
“she sprays aloud her beams” Beautiful imagery here, Benjamin!
Thanks Sara!
THE WEATHER MAN
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
This recalls for me George Beverly Shea
grampus4orca@rochester.rr.com
Correction:
He has a great voice!
Good one! I especially am drawn to the first couplet. Lovely!
I love this one also… but then I love most of your poetry but this is just lovely…
Thank you. 😊
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.
Lovely. 🌞😁
I can smell the “tall standing pine”
Breath-taking stuff, this.
Lovely! Who are you, Anonymous?
I can smell the beauty
I am inhaling this one!
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.
Shimmers, this does. I have seen such skies, in such a place.
The beauty in this made me sigh, Pat.
Love the colors in this.
lovely …. I have long wanted to see the Aurora Borealis…. the pictures of it are magical…and fluid
“blued lavender” – gorgeous image.
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
This piece sparkles, in my opinion.
I did a man one…
thank you so much… I like to write a bit of fantasy every once in a while
Totally enchanting, Mary! And zero shame in sharing such a great old write.
ever once in a while I let my fantasy writing out…
This shines silver, Mary.
thanks, and I have always liked it…
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
I’m so glad you did this, but didn’t expect it so soon! Entertaining, these two pieces together. I smiled all the way through, Mary!
thank you…and they were fun to write… my niece Jenn said of this one that it was hilarious
Makes me feel so young. Love it.
thanks and glad it did…
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.
These are hard to write (for me), and you did a good job Connie. I especially like “I swing back and forth and my souls is full and content.”
Most impressive!
I looked up this form…. I am impressed, and part of me wants to try it…. as to the poem… it is calming like a gentle rain… thank you…
Not an easy form, but you nailed it!
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.”
Goodness gracious, you must have the patience of a saint. It must have been so hard to not “take your work home with you.”
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.”
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,
Disappearing
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
Wouldn’t it be neat to have this one illustrated? I can picture it. Well done.
the whole study was about 70 pages long, and thank you…it helped to read a book by a man who took the Brendon voyage in a leather boat about two decades ago…
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
Good for you, brave soul!
thank you because I felt I was stepping into turbulent waters.
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
Yay porch! I think if I had a front porch, it would win every time. 😉
I have a back screen porch that is on second floor so it is like you are up in the trees.
Oooooooo!!!!! Yes, please!
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
This is another one I can picture illustrations for. (y)
thanks and it was another one I had fun writing…
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
Unworthy
And
Unlovely.
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…
For
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,
Until
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
Be still, and know. ❤
Such a creative piece, Mary. So full.
CLEANSING RAINS
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
I Love this because rain often makes the sky seem bluer and the air smell wonderful
This perfectly describes what is happening outside my window in this moment.
SILVER MOON-STORMS
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
lovely and I am a night creature…
Thanks Mary.
Gorgeous, from title to end.
AN OVERCAST CHILD
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
soothing
Lovely imagery!
Thanks
FORECAST
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.
Reminiscence.
Of things missed.
Gusty winds.
Blow away.
Old memories.
Into the distance.
Benjamin Thomas
this one I will have to think about
Quite the pleasing sounds and visuals!
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
Nice. Love the visuals and moods of this.
One last storm will come
when the King of Peace returns
Will you be ready?
Amen Maranatha I am
❤
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
“Ma said, “You had an old coat.”
And you answered,
“But he never had a new coat.”
Be still my heart …
Walt, I love your repetitive line. Makes the poem strong.
Marie, a sweet taste of Summer, and a point well made.
Thank you. 🙂