NaPM April 27 2016

[milo]

Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month. 


Topic 27: Write a poem inspired by the weather or the whether, whichever.

Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

[just mercedes]

Weather, whether, wether



The first oak tree leaf vibrates green,
a penetrating violin note. Its purpose
seems so plain, the way they often do.
New buds, still clenched and afraid,
must hear this note and relax,
on their way to open. Touch them.
They hum with imminence, like lust,
a bright fire. The eternal path leads far
but it’s seldom taken. Instead, Hell
with its strange charred fruit is chosen.
It’s not only for worship, music,
though all music is almost alike.
Glass, once broken, won’t mend.
Even if you look deep into someone’s eyes,
hope flies too close to the sun; it will
tumble to dust over the faded sea.
Bite the bitter words into a multitude
of stars. You’ll be more alone than ever,
like Caesar at the forum, surrounded
by friends. New leaves, fiery music and
breezes stirring dust; just power games,
whether you believe in them or not,
on which you utterly rely.

[Todd]

A Meteorologist on Her First Speed Date
 

Expect a low pressure system, air rising
into the upper atmosphere, condensing
into cumulonimbus clouds, God’s hammer
striking the anvil.
 

I should have brought my spear

and magic helmet.

 
Road conditions could be delayed
as water droplets are super-cooled
to create a fog with a deposit
of rime ice, a glaze under
what can’t be seen.
 

People are opaque windows.

 
Bit of a vapor bath,
wearing a sticky coat
in August.
 

Words unspoken are baby birds, afraid

to leave the nest. Nervous wings flutter.

 
That blue norther should pass over
for a sun lover’s dream.
 

Tequila Sunrise, later?

 
There’s a sixty-two percent chance
of accuracy in the forecast.

[Tiger the Lion]

Spring Ephemeral
 
The frost on your window
reminds me
spring is a shy girl, afraid
I might turn again.
 
Whatever awkward winter
has come between us, draw
your hot bath, light your candles
and warm your core.
 
I does no good holding
Occam’s razor to your wrist
demanding answers.
 
Not now.

[Achebe]

Mostly not about the weather

'It's a temperate clime, and the mist is a warning
there'll be light rain at some point of time this year.'
Said a vintner in the Atacama desert one morning
when I asked him why he'd decided to settle here.

'Your answer makes me think', I said, 'of a mate
who planted Pinot Noir outside Murmansk town.
For him, climate change will always come too late,
now he buys his breakfast by retailing beer.'

'They never believed me,' said the man darkly
'when I carried an umbrella on the driest of days.
They called me a liberal, PhD from Berkeley,
and closet supporter of the clandestine gays,
the Lord of the Lizards stood me up larkly - 
now their bones lie buried in the Cretaceous clays.'
'Are you saying that you're Noah?' I asked amazed.

'You're obviously Chinese. I can tell by your dry knees.'
(that's cockney for slant eyes, doesn't sound so racist).
'I'm Noah', he chastised, 'the death metal bassist'*

That was when I discovered that my maps were off
We weren't in Chile, but in Kansas (Goff)**
and it rained here plenty, and tornadoed too.
Job would have loved it, and his tribal Guru.

Don't ask me why the vintner decided to settle there, but because it wasn't the Atacama, the reason won't be as interesting.


* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arsis
** https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goff,_Kansas

[Tracy Mitchell]

             Squints

When the world does this, squints like this
things get small.  

The sky hangs on the fields ahead
like an all-day rain.  

My feet slosh
one after the other in turn.

The way her hair draped
             her voice vanished
             her hands went cold
is the way the air smells tonight.

The fog reaches into my coat,
like an anxious pick-pocket.

[Achebe]

@Teagan - nice

The fog reaches into my coat,
like an anxious pick-pocket.

[Tracy Mitchell]

@Teagan - nice

The fog reaches into my coat,
like an anxious pick-pocket.

Thanks Achebe.

T

[bedeep]

These all sparkle. Achebe, I love what you did! And Teagan, your language always inspires me.

[Tracy Mitchell]

These all sparkle. Achebe, I love what you did! And Teagan, your language always inspires me.

bedeep you are too kind.

[Todd]

I'm amazed that some of you guys still have anything left in the tank. Some lovely pieces and lines.

[REW]

             Squints

When the world does this, squints like this
things get small.  

The sky hangs on the fields ahead
like an all-day rain.  

@Teagan - nice

The fog reaches into my coat,
like an anxious pick-pocket.

Yes I second that.  That line is incredible.

[Tracy Mitchell]

Nice of you to say, Casey.  Weren't there some wonderful poems today?  JM, Todd, Tiger the Lion, Achebe.

Most every day for that matter.  And your postings have been really something.

[REW]

These poems are wonderful especially considering the limitations of the prompt. As you will soon see, I wrote the worst poem ever about the weather.

[Keith]

Understanding Chaos

By the time I realised
the puddle wasn't deep enough
I was already diving
through the oil coated meniscus.
A coiled serpent
displaced inside a ripple
only going out to come back in
shedding my skins,
expressions I plucked
for the changing winds.

Nerves that strobe through conversations
tin foil rubbed on metal filled teeth,
beneath the smile a whirlpool waits
to swallow each day
the management of traits.

A clever chameleon
only sees the black and white
his tongue takes the snow flake,
hides all day, awake all night
but roads are meant for crossing.

So I unfold my shield of chaos
and swirl with leaves
were eddies end,
surf each storm behind a made up story,
then fall like kites when calm skies mend.

[bedeep]

These poems are wonderful especially considering the limitations of the prompt.  As you will soon see, I wrote the worst poem ever about the weather.

You can't say that yet, because you haven't seen mine, which I have not yet writ.

[REW]

Tilling Time?

I babysit trays of seeds
for my first garden

will they grow?

a nest of timid green buds huddles
with pale robin egg sky
afraid because coolness in the shadows
still warn of frost onto pink and jade

only zucchini sprouts
did I do something wrong?

when leaves become lusty wings
in the breeze 
new birds will hatch into song 
as mamma bird trills from her 
warm red breast, "kids I have worms"

I hope there will be something
to water with the hose
 
they will learn to fly into summer 
under a great big umbrella
of hot yellow sun 

if everything I planted hasn't died

watermelon drips 
from happy sticky chins
will stain the cement

while young Robins dine 
on a strawberry buffet

and of course
whether or not any seedlings 
turn to crops
a cup of lemonade 
costs 50 cents
winter forgotten 
until brown fall

---

These poems are wonderful especially considering the limitations of the prompt.  As you will soon see, I wrote the worst poem ever about the weather.

You can't say that yet, because you haven't seen mine, which I have not yet writ.

hahaha  

[Tracy Mitchell]

Casey I love Tilling Time?   The colors. the juice, the trepidation and uncertainty.  You have layered so much into this poem.

[Todd]

winter forgotten
until brown fall

That's a nice ending Casey. I think what we're all feeling is the pressure of an on the surface uninspiring topic. I'm glad we did it though.

[bedeep]

I Learn To Love Hurricanes

We'd gone late
to the family fish camp on the coast
in September, just for a weekend,
when a big storm blew up.
I was maybe 7.
I remember sitting
all five of us huddled --
me and the younger kids,
Mom and Dad --
in the dark downstairs with one lantern lit.
The wind took charge, banging, yowling,
the windows shook, and outside them
the rain rained sideways, I could see it.
We held close together
like we would in a cave,
taking that comfort
in the illusion of safety.

Later Mom recalled that trip:
Oh, we were very frightened!
but I remember my dad's excited grin, his eyes
gleeful as a kid's.
He never met a storm
he didn't like, the wilder the better.
Whatever it brought,
he just loved the weather.

When I went home years later
to meet his dying,
a hurricane came along that next week.
He lay in bed with the windows boarded
for four days, finally asking "Why is it so dark?"
when it was all over. We got someone to take
the boards down to let in the day.
The next week
he went on, never once
afraid.

My dad taught me
how to love hurricanes
and then he taught me
how to die.