In light of Ian and the devastation left in its path, let’s write of weathering storms. We may write about hurricanes, blizzards, electrical storms, or storms of life. When trouble blows in, what does it look like? How do you cope? Or, maybe you are the storm? 😉 Grab your galoshes and words and wade on in.

Marie’s Haze


I’m not observant.
You’d be amazed at how much
blows over my head.

I’m like memes that say
“I was today years old when”
I fin’lly noticed ‘this’.

It often seems like
thoughts swirl around in my brain,
and can’t seem to land.

And obvious things
don’t click … until they do.  Like
Dorothy’s last name.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

Walt’s Weather


The storm begins.
The mist of a drizzle.
Drip, drip, drip,
then a deluge.
That’s read tsunami.
The storm is upon us,
will we weather the storm?
Nothing can stop it!

(c) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022

111 thoughts on “PROMPT #406 – WEATHERING STORMS

  1. Stormotion

    The swirl is enormous.
    The forecast is dour.
    I’m thousands of miles from their door.

    A storm of emotions.
    I wish they would leave.
    They live just five miles from the shore.

    I’ve texted, I’ve called them.
    What more can I do?
    The eye is an ominous core.

    They don’t want to leave yet.
    They’ve weathered such storms.
    They say it could be a Cat four.

    They can’t hear a dad’s heart.
    Their lives are young, loud.
    I know there’s no use to say more.

    The gusts are relentless.
    My prayers, constant pleas.
    I’m thousands of miles from their door.

    © Damon Dean, 2022

    (My daughter lives in St. Pete. For days I was in this mode. Ian went south of them, but so sad for those in the path the devastation took. )

  2. The Passing Storm

    She was late again.
    She rushed past me several times,
    gathering her glasses, her purse,
    her cell phone.

    She stopped,
    looked at me and glared.
    “Why aren’t you getting Jacob up?”

    “I’m waiting for the storm to pass.”

    “I am the storm,” she said.

    “You are the storm.”

    She left and I got Jacob up.

  3. Rescues

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

    Joey was his name,
    possession was his game.
    An only child for so long,
    lived in microclimates of his own,
    a couple of cages in 
    a couple of shelters,
    not having to live with
    the updrafts and downdrafts 
    of another pet.

    He came late to us,
    cuddly with us humans,
    in his forever home.
    At first, not so cuddly
    with the other rescue,
    the one who’d been with us longer.
    Max, another tuxedo,
    usually warm but sometimes 
    given to a cold front,
    sometimes a cyclone.

    They worked on it,
    waited each other out,
    but their eyes told me,
    always just before my bedtime,
    there’s a storm coming,
    it’s nearly time for the zoomies.
    Will it be a gale,
    or is an haboob on the horizon?
    I never could tell.
    Just strapped on the gore-tex
    and went to sleep.


    Like a rainbow, an old friend
    brings the sun after the storm
    and a taste of lighter air
    where heavier had been the norm;
    a promise of brighter skies
    in place of sullen grey,
    and a feeling that naught can go wrong
    throughout the livelong day.
    Like a rainbow.

  5. Perspective

    I am fortunate to live
    in a place where
    the rescue of ducklings
    from a storm drain
    received the same headline as
    the burial at sea of
    a mass murderer.


    While cardinals are singing
    the rain keeps on falling
    at a rate so appalling

    I cannot discern
    where cardinals are singing;
    but I’ve come to learn

    that a flash of bright red
    will best a storm’s dread
    when cardinals are singing.


    Every time it rains, it rains
    April showers;
    raindrops keep fallin’ on my head
    in stormy weather,
    and baby, the rain must fall
    when the rain begins to fall
    as chocolate rain
    over the rainbow
    while I’m singing in the rain
    that September in the rain.
    Louisiana rain;
    mandolin rain;
    purple rain;
    I can’t stand the rain,
    but I get misty, thinking of you.
    So when you hear it thunder, don’t run under a tree;
    just dance in the rain,
    kissing in the rain
    with Marie from sunny Italy.


    as storms churned up
    my creative childhood play
    I danced right into turbulent water
    not even aware
    of the affect of choppy seas
    what that much rain
    might do to my sunny day
    or how the wind
    might generate such strong gusts
    as to literally blow my mind
    certainly away from play
    until dizzy, frizzy bouts of confusion
    caused more questions
    a downpour of curiosity
    ultimately seeking shelter
    into an imagination
    full of its own rich imagery
    and as I watch you
    years later
    as I sit in calmer seas now
    navigating your own
    surrounding wild weather ahead
    I wonder how to keep you
    in my own safe harbor
    protected and warm
    without the waves
    and pounding surf
    threatening to engulf
    your precious innocence
    until I remember
    this is your ride to take
    but I’ll stay close
    just in case
    you need me
    your own loving buoy
    in the storm

    (c) Janet Rice Carnahan 2022

  9. Surfeit of Storms

    Whether or not
    you weather storms
    well, there is no
    getting used to

    Here is your weather
    report for the next
    ten days:

    Tsunamis followed
    by tornados, with
    ensuing cyclones
    and hurricanes.

    If you cannot handle
    the weather forecast,
    tune in to the dastardly
    deeds of Putin or
    the crushing crusade
    of Al Khamenei. Confine
    the storms to your head.
    Mine brew nicely there.


    That big blue sky.
    That sweet golden delight.

    Gives way to storms cast,
    strewn across innocent lands.

    They ultimately demand
    chaos from the norm.

    ©️ Benjamin Thomas

  11. Fear Not

    Weathered day-by-day
    Some slow us down
    Some stop us in our tracks
    But none can defeat us
    Lest we give up and give in

    For we have the Great Defender
    Our Guardian against the gale
    Our Savior against Beelzebub
    Our Deliverer from the storm

  12. Nice description of the arrival of a storm, Walt! Such intensity sometimes, even when it just starts with a ‘drip, drip, drip’!!

    Anything that reminds me of the Wizard of Oz is good with me! Nice work regarding Dorothy, Marie Elena!


    The day is still.
    Not a stir in sight.
    Tranquility can be tasted
    in the subtly of breeze.

    Yet a fierce storm
    brews, not overhead
    in quickening clouds of grey,
    but deep within.

    ©️ Benjamin Thomas


    I’m weary of hurricane seas frothing about.
    They hear not my pleas and toss me about.
    Those charcoal grey clouds pierce my mind—
    set on peace, disturbing a life at ease.

    Peals of thunder strike a somber soul.
    As if my sole purpose is to weather the storm.
    Perhaps they’re apportioned for a greater good,
    rather than what is misunderstood at hand.

    ©️ Benjamin Thomas

  15. Prelude

    others and i watch lightning dance
    as light ripples the sky
    on a september night
    as summer turns to fall
    amidst posted storm warnings
    in the midst of an nfl game
    and we laugh and talk about our lives
    together we are an island
    but inside I know
    that soon I’ll rush to beat the rain
    the landscape of fields lies in shadows
    and soft songs on the radio play
    until a downpour sings a song of change
    and city streets glisten under a fall of rain

  16. ON THE RUN

    I weather the storm,
    because I must.

    There is
    no other way.

    When broken

    is a soft

    Like an
    invasive species.

    On the run,
    overtaking the city.

    ©️ Benjamin Thomas


    Suffer the storm, and yet gain a rose.
    Battered by winds, hail, and rain from
    whence all things grow.

    The expectant earth slurps the drench—
    down that the heaven throws,
    like the celebration of aged champagne.

    Blindsided again, while we’re stuck in the throes,
    we mourn. Our broken heart is torn. Yet,
    when you suffer the storm, you gain—a rose.

    ©️ Benjamin Thomas

  18. Travelers

    I watch them, young people with
    their backpacks and trendy clothes.
    They walk through the airport with a
    confidence bestowed on them by
    nature. Secure in their ability to navigate
    the maze of shops and signage and crowds.
    I can not help wandering how they will
    weather the storms that living brings or
    if they too will someday join the shuffling
    mass of elderly travelers, confused and hesitant.


    She comes and goes as she pleases.
    She is a storm unto herself,
    and to those around her.

    The prowess of her gale force winds
    are ever daunting, remarkable,
    even to the most rooted.

    She is both beautiful,
    and deadly as the open sea.
    Cleansing, with a pang of saltiness.

    She is the calm after the storm.
    The sun arriving after a day of rain.
    The departed cloud with a rainbow.

    She is.
    All these

    ©️ Benjamin Thomas

  20. Dust Devil Outside the Court House

    I’ve dug all day
    in this peculiar dirt
    dust and sediment
    from around this
    concrete pole cemented
    into a tiny wedge
    of broken concrete

    then, a shadow and two
    blue-jeaned legs the clatter
    of a cart making me rely
    on a sliver of hard crust
    balanced on my back but
    hardly camouflage as I try
    to tuck legs, bury head

    until I see bare feet
    in brown leather sandals
    suddenly feel cool hands
    scooping me gently holding
    me securely as I take flight
    hearing her voice telling me
    we’re going on a little trip
    calling me Little Buddy

    I feel her step off a curb hear
    tires whirring on pavement
    and still we journey until
    my stomach drops and I know
    we’ve landed somewhere

    I smell the fall milkweed and
    purple butterfly bush feel
    rustling leaves brushing near
    as she opens her hand and bids me
    safe haven, tells me I’m in
    a master gardener’s plot
    where I’ll be safe

    I slip beneath red Euonymos
    and begin to dig tentatively
    into rich damp mulch turn soil
    with feet and belly and wish
    she knew just how much this means
    to a toad living in the city.

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