Worn
Expended
Altered
Tattered
Harsh
Empty
Reduced
Enduring
Dilapidated
Lightning dances across the sky
The wind blows mountains away
The rain baptizes those below
My heart dances with every drop
Every clap of thunder makes me smile
The wet grassy earth beneath my feet
The pouring rain enwrapping me
The trees dancing in the wind
The dew sitting on the flowers
Mother Nature twirls on by
I gaze on up into the sky
And I feel her love
Very brutal by nature my mind can confirm,
Poetry marathoners need a cap laced with wisdom,
To grace the desired seats of battlescarred warriors,
The skillet must still burn hotter than Hades.
Surely Marathons are run with endurance and persistence,
So is this one, for my goals are lofty.
Though I lack great speed, power, and technique,
My oak must stand deep-rooted through the storms.
My drafts litter bins as torn scraps of junk,
Haters blot the ink of my masterpiece.
Negativity weighs on my frail shoulder,
Yet my resolve stands steadfast on aching feet.
But no one can deny good poems their glory.
Like smoke they escape all traps and dissipate,
Clutching throats to make their presence felt.
All I need do is write—and hope.
The songs that masterpieces sing
Are heard by the deaf and sung by the dumb.
Their rhythm washes away the dust of imperfection;
They heal the soul and soothe the mind of sorrow.
So, my pen, fill yourself with ink of perfection.
Write on this paper I lay before you—
Another poem no sponsor can deny the top prize.
Write before the last drop runs dry.
In the storm of life, my voice is like a lost feather,
A silent wind seeking its path where thunder has ceased.
They strive to hear, but silence is all they find,
As if in my quiet there is nothing to be told.
Some call it sweet, like a gentle and enchanted brook,
A lullaby lost in a distant dream.
Others laugh, saying it's too weak, too small to be heard,
A shadow of sound daring to fall into infinity.
I speak, but the world does not listen, words fade into the wind,
A mute song and a secret that remains unrevealed.
A gift left unanswered, a cold hand in waiting,
Perhaps my voice is meant for another realm where longing is felt.
But here I am, gentle, like a silent river that yearns to flow,
With the strength of whispers rising and silence breaking apart.
Gentleness may be a grace, a soft echo in a ruthless place,
A song not meant to shout, but to sing, a wind beneath the wing of hope.
Even a whisper can shape the sky, with its tender breeze,
A breeze that makes the stars sigh in the dream-filled night.
In this silence, this deep and quiet art,
Lies a force that moves the heart, a mystery that keeps us united.
A sharp bang it sang,
Which struck down with a loud pang!
Jagged across the sky like a laser beam,
What a streak to see underneath;
the black skies of old!
It lighted the heavens,
And extinguished the flames.
Forever in Jahanam!
Forever in Jahannah!
That is what we are told in legends foretold.
Signs of light seep in the dark abyss!
Showering down hail!
Keeping a tight grip of the rope of the Merciful Lord!
We shall not fail beneath’s God’s hidden veil!
I went to an art fair this morning,
The breadth of the talent immense.
Don’t know if they knew of the warning
Of some thunderstorms, maybe intense.
The day started muggy, but sunny
And all of the art was displayed,
In hopes of exchanges for money,
In booths which provided some shade.
Yet the weather prediction was fitting,
Since a storm barreled in much too fast
For the artists to do much outwitting
Before the intensity passed.
I hope all that art was protected
When the winds whipped on by, all a’howl.
With Nature, it’s not unexpected
That a fair will turn into a foul.
Storms off Cape Verde garner strength in the Oceans.
Fed by seas of angry, restless spirits, Middle Passage emotions.
when the eyes that are the sky start to open and cry the thunder, and clouds comfort me like a cozy lullaby
I love the thunder the screams of nature from the pain of nature.
I love the thunder it holds me close although sometimes I shake in fear from the howling
I'm surprised yet not hurt scared but not seen
Even though I am scared and quite shaken the love for thunder will never weaken
I'm surprised yet scared of you when you yell and cry, but I've never thought that it could be cause from something in your eye
"LISTEN to the Wind as it sparks your imagination giving life to the words you write." By Poet
LISTEN to the wind as it softy blows,
so soft it can barely be felt as I write.
As I find gentle words for my pen to write with,
words filled with love and peace for my reader.
LISTEN to the wind as it blows the leaves,
colorful fall leaves dance across the ground.
Now let my words dance in pretty fall colors,
dance across the written page for you to enjoy.
LISTEN to the wind as it blows in a storm,
winds are picking up with mighty power.
Powerful words can blow in both good and bad,
exciting my many readers saying, wow!
LISTEN to the wind as it blows in words,
windchimes will now start to sing to you and me.
Singing chimes and words can bring love to the air,
for a heavenly choir to sing out loud.
LISTEN to the wind as it sparks my writing,
and imagination giving life to my words,
making my readers celebrate what they have read.
Listen to the wind:
it roars, it murmurs,
righteously chants --
In gusty breaths, exhales, rants,
tempestuously pants.
In tyrants it wails --
tearing sleeves
and billowing sails.
It reddens, it pales
the ruddy faces of non compliant seamen
and blithering, pompous beached whales.
Perhaps this poem, too hastily sown
Should have read the rules
before breeze and blown
and not so far from the guidelines would
this pen have wont to roam. But in hindsight,
wind stirs in many out of main focus ways
blossoms beyond bordered-grid of a well centered garden
in orphaned airs, for some, yet, may glisten their sways --
A classic wind upstaged the evening,
Vocalizing Leaves and Tremulous Aria
Branches. On accompanying fused-sand, framed
and clear, began a run of finely tuned
rivulets -- busy writing, I had not
looked, and saw, dark clouds conjugating --
nor sniffed thickening troops of air~ my
sinuses alerting, their usual swelling. Came a lantern's
flash, came a vivid slash, rumbling
likened to a heavily weighted freight-train, with frantic
mind to lighten its burdensome, brooding load.
The Printers clipped her Dash—
And caged her Breath in Chains—
Yet Time—
its Lantern flickering—
Restores what none can name—
They pressed her Thunder flat—
But Silence wove the Wild—
One Century—betrayed—
Another—keeps the Fire—
The Raggedness they could not mend
Fulfills her single Desire—
She would not sell her Storms—
Yet—
Time perceives—
Dashes leap the narrow Page—
Where Songs could never bow—
Letters she sent—
To Sue—so near—
Held beyond the Press—
In twine between the Lines—
Her Voice—untitled still—
Dwells in Quiet Rooms—
Waiting for the Lantern
To scatter Hollows—
Ink may fade—
Fingers cut—and bend—
But jagged Breath survives
Where Silence will not end—
Storms were never meant for Shelves—
But for the Open Sky—
SOIL SOAKER*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
rain
weighty, intense
piercing, soaking, saturating
refreshing earth’s firmament
soil soaker
*Note:This poem was first published at Poetry Soup in June 2025 then deleted (poetrysoup.com › poem › soil_soaker_1738878) This is my original poem.
Poetry Through The Storm
Trembling waters.
Oceans between us.
As far as the eye can see.
Waves crashing.
A long voyage with anxiety.
Trust and believe.
Stand still in the storm.
Look past the horizon.
Birds fly past above the lightning.
Poetry through the storm.
High tides towards encouragement.
Writing through a thundercloud.
Humble in the wind.
Stay calm in the raging storm.
Cry no more.
Dawn is near.
Shed no tears.
All raise you up from bondage.
Stand on mountains.
Side by side standing on water.
Write poetry through many colors.
Philippians 2:14
They see the storm, the pouring rain,
And whisper low, "Destruction again."
Yet who has thought when thunder cries,
It's nature's voice that fills the skies?
A desperate scream, a broken plea,
Begging for help, for harmony.
It never chose this fate of fear,
It's path was carved, it's end made clear.
The storm was never born to scare,
It only carried what it must bear.
For wouldn't it wish, if it had the say,
To bloom like spring, to shine like day?
To dress the earth in glitter and gold,
Make roses blossom, skies unfold
Not tear the petals, not dim the light,
Not turn the heavens to endless night.
It can't choose the wars it fights,
Not what it shatters in sleepless nights.
And that is why I love the rain,
The thunder's song, the storm's refrain.
I'd stand for hours beneath it's tears,
And listen close it calms my fears.
For as the earth must weep to mend,
So too must humans... to let go, to transcend.
Specific Types of Storm Poems
Definition | What is Storm in Poetry?
Poems Related to Storm
blast, blizzard, cloudburst, cyclone, disturbance, downpour, gale, gust, hurricane, monsoon, precipitation, snowstorm, squall, tempest, tornado, twister, whirlwind, windstorm,