PROMPT #413 – A BLIZZARD OF THOUGHT

/ Poetic Bloomings

We’re in for a nasty time weather-wise over the next few days here in the Great Lakes area. A mountainous amount of snow the likes we haven’t seen in a few years. Using a form of weather event, write your poem! (Example – A Flurry of Activity, A Storm of Decisions, A Blizzard of Thought…) Stay safe and warm!

MARIE’S OUTLOOK:

Salting Steps

Lord, season my words,
and salt my path so that I
will not slip from You.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

WALT’S WEATHER:

A DELUGE OF MEMORIES

Memories come flooding in,
a deluge of thoughts that haunt
my heart. I start to reminisce,
that first kiss, that last caress.
This pulsing in my chest
that tells me I am still alive
because of you. It is true
that you had revived this sorry soul,
and I lose control of emotions.
And just as fleeting, you are gone 
again, to linger in my heart and mind,
waiting to emerge when least expected,
flowing unimpeded as memories can.
 
(C) Walter J Wojtanik - 2022
.

95 thoughts on “PROMPT #413 – A BLIZZARD OF THOUGHT”

  1. A SQUALL OF SQUABS

    In spring,
    fledgling pigeons
    storm the skies with white wings
    reminding everyone below
    of snow.

  4. The memories assault
    A flurry of accusations in my heart
    Not good enough, a failure,
    Created only to be bred

    His harm and words whip into my head
    Accumulate as drifts of blame
    Weigh down my limbs,
    Cause me to droop in shame.

    Will I bend or will I break?
    Can I withstand the weight
    And winds of memories that seek
    To destroy all hope – make all bleak?

    If memories were but snow flakes
    And by prayer and joy melted away
    Watering the ground beneath
    My heart would be healed
    And a beautiful garden prevail.

  6. In a Blizzard, Pray

    Maybe, like those heavyweights so bold,
    I’m taking a round off, ‘cause I’m old
    saving up for the final turn at rainbow’s bend,
    hoping to impress the judges with a flurry at the end.
    I have been a little defensive here,
    the thought of a knockout drawing near.
    I hope the ref won’t think I’m out on my feet,
    there are still some challenges I’d like to meet,
    even though it’s been a lengthy fight,
    please let me go the distance into the stormy night.
    I know it’s not the desired norm,
    but I’ve appreciated the occasional storm.
    I’ve been thankful when it came to mind,
    to smile a lot, and to be kind.
    It’s been great to see, with certain clarity,
    I have cared enough for honest charity,
    and I’m still reminded every day
    I’m grateful that I’ve learned to pray.
    It’s been the perfect place for me to start,
    to ease my soul, to warm my heart,
    to get me through some pain and strife,
    it’s the greatest part of a grateful life.

  7. Drifting in the Wind

    snowfall
    drifts downward
    drifts into the wind
    a slow dance
    so quiet
    after the last leaf
    has fallen
    accumulation hides
    dormant grass
    nature transformed
    but I already dream
    of next spring
    or summer
    a story told
    but my thoughts
    turn to winter
    as a cold wind
    sings

  9. Blizzard on the Mountain…

    We survived a blizzard,
    My parents and me.
    That morning in the valley
    Where we lived
    The sun was shining.

    We were going towards the south
    To visit family, and
    I was twelve.
    I was playing in the yard,
    When I was called to get in the car.

    We stopped at Da’s office
    Located in the park.
    It was beginning to snow.
    Before we left, Da put chains
    On his tires, and the snow was falling fast,
    And the sky was dark grey.
    It was eleven in the morning.

    At the gate to the parkway,
    The ranger told Da…
    He would be the last to cross.
    My father built the road…
    He knew it as well as the lines
    On each of his hands.
    It was half past

    Before we got to the top of the mountain,
    The snow was falling faster and
    The sky was dark as night,
    But it was going to get darker
    Before we reached the top.
    It was almost one in the afternoon.

    At the top of the mountain,
    Da stopped to talk to the ranger
    Waiting until we passed.
    As they talked,
    I stepped out of the car
    And within inches
    All I saw of it were its lights.

    Standing within the wildest storm
    That I would ever stand.
    I heard the whistle of the trees
    That shrieked in warning
    As the winds roared
    Across them.
    The sound was loud like a train
    Blowing at the crossroads of the tracks.
    The snow cut into my face and hands…
    Shards of ice pelting on me,
    And I was beginning to freeze.
    The sky so black that black
    Of silky black cat.
    In the car lights that snow
    Was dancing like a whirling dervish.
    (The man from Turkey taught me about them.)
    I heard my father’s muffled shout,
    “Get back in the car!”
    I reached in the dark and felt cold metal,
    And opened the door, and
    Da gave me a tongue lashing
    And in his voice was panic.
    I was sorry that I scared him,
    But those moments in the blizzard…
    I have kept them close to my heart.

    Our journey downward
    Was slow and the snow kept pounding
    Us in our journey in the dark
    And out of the park.
    The sky was still dark
    When we got to the gate.
    I looked at the clock,
    And it was three five hours
    After we left home.

    There was a man arguing
    That he was from New York,
    And he knew how-to drive-in snow.
    The young ranger asked Da to tell
    Him why he could not go,
    And Da said to the man,
    “I built the damn road,
    And almost did not get across.”

    An hour down the road,
    There were only a few snowflakes,
    And we stopped in a diner
    That Da liked to stop and
    He ordered his coffee
    Like he always did-
    Blond and sweet like he liked his women.
    Ma rolled her eyes at him, and he would laugh.
    Eight years later, I would order my coffee,
    “Blond and sweet like I don’t like my men.”
    In the same diner, and the shock on Da’s face
    Was priceless.
    But on this day… just to have life the same
    Was all that really mattered.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    November 20, 2022

  10. LIGHTENING QUICK

    came her response
    the strike hitting
    hard
    cracking the heart
    wide open
    as if a tidal wave
    of emotion
    had been welling up
    anyway
    a speedy token
    reflecting what’s broken
    cascading down and out
    leaving little doubt
    of imminent rage
    spilling out like a volcanic reaction
    fiery
    ill timed
    explosive
    any sense of recourse
    smothered
    of course
    by the ever hot lava
    flowing in only one direction
    best move out of the way
    no say
    today
    better to just witness
    this verbal mess
    holding onto hope
    it will pass soon
    and trust what I know
    once this storm can go
    in some way
    on another day
    I can say
    I’ll again see
    that rainbow
    because at last
    another storm of hers
    has passed

    (c) Janet Rice Carnahan 2022

  11. Go

    What’s up?
    Why the onslaught?
    Why can’t I clear my head?
    Most of these thoughts just seem petty!
    Will they matter tomorrow?

    But they won’t go away
    And they’re ruining my day
    Maybe I should pray

    “Dear Lord, I’m not complaining,
    but why are these things on my mind?
    I just don’t understand.
    Are they from You?
    What’s up?”

    Then the Lord told me
    “It’s your assignment, My son.
    Go, and do My will?

  13. Marie, your poem about not slipping away was profound and such expressed sweet gratitude! Soothing and comforting! Walt, a beautiful poem about memories and the sweetness of remembering itself! Also, even if they pass quickly, they can touch our heart. Well done, both of you!

  14. Dorothy Dreams a Storm

    The wicked wind
    of the west spins
    and whirls into
    a funnel of slate.
    Dorothy stands
    at the front gate,
    tries to recall
    an old, odd dream,
    or was it? She is
    never sure, although
    family assures her
    it was simply that.
    Still, vivid images
    are tattooed
    on her brain. She
    stands still as
    frozen statue, eyes
    glued to the funnel
    until it splits in two.
    She hears cackling,
    watches as a familiar
    green face in pointed
    black hat emerges.
    Is she dreaming
    yet again?

  16. Shovelfulls of Sunshine

    I’m shoveling sunshine
    In the place of snow.
    In November,
    Phoenix is the place to go.

    I visited the equator.
    It was quite warm there.
    I was shoveling sunshine
    As if I hadn’t a care.

    I’m shoveling sunshine.
    It sure is a breeze.
    Then it’s back to Colorado
    Where it’s seventeen degrees.

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  19. Gleaning after the Deluge

    Icy wind buffets
    wrinkled purple fruit
    dark orange interior
    revealed only after
    a bite that tingles teeth

    wizened orbs plucked from trees
    in the ditch along the road
    these are November persimmons
    ready only after first snow
    bone-chilling nights

    when deer scoot beneath
    low boughs of snowy cedar
    to hunker together near pastures
    where fall calves nurse until
    bellies swell with warmth
    frost settling breath pluming

    and these spindly trees swaying
    above opossum and coon come moonshine
    wading the runnels where wind
    felled fruit into this deluge of bounty
    snaking through brown grass
    tempting me to glean as I wade
    and savoring the sweet juice, I do.

  21. Here is one of mine. I published it in a personal book and shared with classmates.
    WALK BETWEEN STORMS

    Rivulets of rain carve wrinkles
    in the earth; feathered clouds
    depleted of energy for now
    glide listlessly overhead.

    Worms, expelled from sodden soil,
    form mysterious script on the path,
    native code talkers writing
    alien communication.

    Liquid diamonds quiver on a strand
    of spider silk, a bracelet adorning
    the uplifted arm of a redbud tree
    swaying to a rumba beat.

    Rain-pasted leaves craft
    a collage of natural hues
    alongside the river running russet
    with torn flesh from mountains.

    Along the worn path miniature craters
    comprise a moonscape
    as wind wafts diminutive swells
    across scattered puddles.

    The fragrance of moist grass
    is a heady aroma,
    an aide memoire of
    renewal and growth.

    Returning home as rain begins again
    I gaze through the icy window,
    witness the writing of water
    across it, and covet its clarity.

    Rose Lefebvre

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