Best Weathering Poems
A storm is brewing, dark clouds advancing in
While tears roll down an embattled face
Betraying the tortured scars within
Each tear falls entwined in rains embrace.
He knows the hardships aren’t over
Soon colour will drown out scorched dust
Time must elapse before forage and clover
Further rain to beat this drought is a must.
Unloading his animals when he ran out of feed
There’s a cost to sell, when no one can buy
When the drought breaks, once more stock he will need
Irony demands growth will push prices up high.
Financial pressure has taken its toll
Each day of sun filled completely with gloom
No income, while a mortgage eats at his soul
Years of recovery on the horizon do loom.
Exploding emotions as rain touches the dirt
A passerby might see something awry
A storm slowly starting, and a man that seems hurt
Kneeling bent on the ground, he's broken in cries.
18th April 2015
A Storm Is Brewing Contest
Sponsor - Kelly Deschler
Shock hits my heart like a bolt of lightning.
Then the tears fall, heavy rain from the storm cloud above my head.
The same questions; Why? Why? Why?
Guilt hits me, stinging my skin like hailstones.
Then anger comes. Like a tornado. I am engulfed inside this rotating column that twists and spins uncontrollably.
Slowly the freezing fog of depression envelops me. It reduces my visibility on life. I can't see a way forward anymore.
Eventually time brings a thaw. I see bursts of beauty between the showers. The rainbow brings its pot of gold, full of loving memories of you.
The sun begins to shine again, bringing acceptance and hope for the future. Its warmth is my connection to you.
As the seasons pass I still have days when the snow falls cold and silently around me. Or like a breeze you blow your memories over me, softly reminding me you are still here.
there is a storm deep in me
skies turn dark within my mind
a raging tsunami begging to be free
clouds obscure the truth to find
tidal waves crashing forcibly
lightning strikes and i am blind
battering my body for all to see
thunder tramples my heart to grind
pain lashes out to ignore my plea
as winds howl and i am resigned
to my fate,
my life,
my time.
In the eye of the storm I hover,
daring not move close to the edge.
My comfort zone moves with the core,
waning, wafting through life situations.
My brain aches as I weave the syntax.
Laughing at the storm of my design.
A wife, a child, a lover, a problem,
the perfect pain of self incrimination.
Loving my family, what can I say.
Their scent is upon my heartstrings.
Resonating in pristine harmony,
faint vibrations of self biorhythm.
Love infinitum, a family trait.
offers no source of absolution.
I find myself crying in silence
as I muse in search of forgiveness.
Forgiveness for what, I ask myself.
I should hate myself for loving to lust?
Or do I lust for loving to love.
Semantics, pure semantics hogwash.
No one is there to offer solace.
Could my wife and lover get along?
What would my child think of that?
No, I’m sure I will give someone up.
Adrenalin flowed as a river tide,
keening my senses beyond reason.
Taking my breath, shadowing reality,
demanding as an old flickering movie
But, lord what will my decision be.
Best to leave God out of this decision,
except to pray to him for guidance.
And I already know what I should do.
But I also know what I have to do.
For the one not living in my home,
I know my love is more lust than love.
If I have to hurt, I have no choice.
As I moved away from the core
the storm subsided within my soul.
Gentle spring rain caressed my heart
as I knew I had but to confess.
© 01 Dec 2010 for John’s “jaded partitions” contest
WEATHERING THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT
In this, the death prone winter of our discontent,
the world lay languishing from mitotic chaos
and malignant uncertainty---spreading a pandemic
cancer of destruction over the body of our moral humanity.
Infected rebirth cells of ancient crusade history
scatter world wide---blown like dry leaves
in chilling winds of cold war seasons.
Here, in the frozen season of time, Armageddon
stalks democracy in the chilled midnight hour;
while in the twilight of the eve of destruction,
world watchers waddle the time away: constructively
engaged in spotlight moments of warming scenes.
With a bloody but unbowed head, let not our world wallow wearily
in the mirage of winter’s defeat; nor allow her frigid blast
to shatter the bruised reed of hope or out the burning wick of love.
Let us stare adversity in the eye, rekindling the spirit of unity;
let us refashion the crumbled, rejected stones of our moral society;
we building a new and better world where we hold it to be self evident:
peace---perfect peace, is the dominant ethos of our recaptured humanity.
HOPE WEATHERING THE TRYING TIMES
In the winter solstice
Of struggle,
Nets of justice and equality
Lay rotting in the inclement trying times;
Yet hope prevails.
Out of the circadian celestial revolution
Of nature’s chiming seasons,
The healing Sun will rise
To resurrect the fallen leaves of change
And melt away
The freezing snows of injustice.
Winter chilling tribulations cannot be denied;
Nor can determination and hope that abides.
Pandemic trials and tribulations have their time,
So do the loving spiritual supports that are mine.
Though many are filled with grief in their fate,
I maintain loving trust in my ever-promised faith.
And though pandemonium and faith challenge me
Together,
There is nothing in true faith that my faithful spirit
Can’t weather:-
It’s not that I have never been through a winter of
Dreadful deep discontent;
My faith never denied me, the divine power to deal
With whatever winter sent.
For I have never lost faith in God’s promise to my soul and me
That we would weather winter’s terrible turbulent Paul-like sea;
Thus, with the fake Greek-Covid god and goddess trust upon us,
Let us epitomize the essence of our God in whom we place our trust.
There’s yet a winter of challenging freezing discontent—we’ve been in—
That we’ve wondered what warrants ways to deal with what this life sends.
The sun doesn’t shine
All the time
As sad as it may sound
Sometimes the dark
Swallows the light
Where nothing can be found
We feel our way
Through the night
Attempting to hold on
Getting a grip
So we can rise
Weathering the storm
In the midst of the fog of life
we now find ourselves, we often
conclude that we came into this world
with nothing and will leave it likewise—
in doing so, we miss realizing that we
came into this world blessed with love.
Thus, often is the nature of our foggy being;
considering ourselves as valueless creatures—
irrespective of our ethnic foundation, gender—
born/chosen—or our chosen faith-based source
of spiritual wisdom and guidance in our lives.
No one is born valueless and unworthy
but with lack of positive self-concept, allow
and let themselves become perceived as such
in misguided foggy mind, body, and soul.
In the weather of life, fogginess is really just a blind mist;
and while we cannot control the weather of life, we can, via
forecast awareness, prepare ourselves for what to expect.
Often, in the stormy weather of life, we merely become unplugged
rather than having become the victim of an external power outage—
causing us to just sit around and wait for the repairs when all we really
needed to do was to just plug ourselves back in and be re-enlightened
by way of renewed self-awareness! Come now, let us get to plugging!
After strong showers
Wilting like precious hours
Fresh cut wild flowers
By Robb A. Kopp
All Rights Reserved © MMX
In this, the death-prone winter of our discontent,
the world lay languishing from mitotic chaos
and malignant uncertainty---spreading a pandemic
cancer of destruction over the body of our moral humanity.
Infected rebirth cells of ancient crusade history
scatter world wide---blown like dry leaves
in chilling winds of cold war seasons.
Here, in the frozen season of time, Armageddon
stalks democracy in the chilled midnight hour;
while in the twilight of the eve of destruction,
world watchers waddle the time away: constructively
engaged in spotlight moments of warming scenes.
With a bloody but unbowed head, let not our world wallow wearily
in the mirage of winter’s defeat; nor allow her frigid blast
to shatter the bruised reed of hope or out the burning wick of love.
Let us stare adversity in the eye, rekindling the spirit of unity;
let us refashion the crumbled, rejected stones of our moral society;
we building a new and better world where we hold it to be self evident:
peace---perfect peace, is the dominant ethos of our recaptured humanity.
The weathered nest swayed
in tree top
battered by the wind
[ Poet' View: The lune is an American form of poetry similar to the haiku. It has thirteen
syllables; there are two variations it can be written in the format of 3/5/3 or 5/3/5 syllable
counts. ]
Weathering the Storm
The sun shines so bright
Warming me with its light
The storm has past me by
Showing its might
I found shelter from the storm
In advice that was so right
Bend with the storm and live life
Fore, there will be other storms to weather and days of bright
Shining light
Days filled with laughter and joy
That will steal the storms might
Until it is nothing but a gently, blowing breeze
Blowing in new hopes and dreams
Dreams of happiness and love
A life of surprises and experiences to live
Live in those moments and make
The most of each moment
Fore no storm has the might
To block all the light
Mirth and pomp on high
Birds your soaring anthem bly
Angelic discourse; rapturous lullaby
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky
Sappy clouds bleed your snowy dye
Bleach the evil plume that dark spirits ply
With your balmy cloak enshroud every evil spy
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky
Fiery spright in your hoary sky
Reveal every shielded tower where evil spirits pry
Enlighten every dark deed and vixen alibi
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky
Availing wind bleat, sigh
Brandish scourging thunder; boisterous ally
With lightening speed scour every crevasse where airy spirits lie
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky
for Jim*
Equinox is past, yet the wind
blows cold. From a veranda swing
he watches pansies, daisies, snapdragons
color-up his garden; Smoky Mountains
so far distant he cannot see. He hears
the eastbound train echo warning. Rain
tomorrow.
*My late husband was born in the hills of North Carolina. Among his people was a belief that when the air was so calm and clear that the sound of the whistle of a train was amplified and echoed loudly, the sound was a harbinger of rain.
In 1970 Jim moved from North Carolina to SW Washington state. He lived there until his death in 2011, but once in a while he became homesick for his home in the Great Smoky Mountains.