Storm Chasers (NPM ’16-Day 3)

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lightning-945430_1280

Prairie Storm (Image from pixabay.com)

Storm Chasers

The sun shone from Mother’s eyes most days
until the weariness of caring for many children
sowed clouds into the furrows of her forehead
and impatience brought easterlies, even squalls.

“Can we go? Please!” Getting an answer
from Dad was like moving a ship through the doldrums.
We budged him to “We’ll see” and there we sat
in his temperate, patient and becalmed zone.

But children are storm chasers. We often ignored
darkening skies, stiffening windsock, plummeting
barometer to pursue extreme weather
with precipitate behavior,

triggered our usually clement mother, father
with nagging and laziness to lightning bolts and thunder
with insolence and backtalk to funnel clouds in a black sky
until inevitable twister, cloudburst, landslide, tsunami.

After apologies and hugs had repaired storm damage
there were rainbows and blue skies again–
the zephyr notes of Daddy playing his sax
and from the balmy kitchen, the smell fresh-baked bread.

© 2016 by Violet Nesdoly (All rights reserved)

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This third poem post of National Poetry Month was inspired by the subject of Storm Chasers at Wonderopolis, and the NaPoWriMo Day 2 challenge to write a poem about family.

My poet friend Laurel Archer  and I are on this journey together. Yesterday’s moving poem at her blog was about autism in honour of Autism Awareness Month (she mothers two kids with that diagnosis).  She’ll share more poems this month at Four Parts Hope.

Body weather

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Boy blowing nose

Image courtesy Microsoft clipart.

Body Weather

Plugged-up nose
predicts a cold front
scratchy throat
a storm warning.

Gusts of sneezes
are soon a blizzard
of blowing spray
100% possibility of precipitation.

Tissues accumulate
in drifts, filling trashcans
calm eye of the story
followed by a rough trough

of sneezes and coughs.
My nose is a windsock
head locked
in a supercell

that weakens to a drizzle
of draining mucus
while Kleenex flurries
continue.

Winds die down at last
fog begins lifting
long-range forecast is hopeful
clear and calm in a week.

© 2015 by V. Nesdoly (All rights reserved)

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I wrote this poem last January. Perhaps it’s my new but unwelcome tradition—a New Year cold as I’m again in the grip of this sort of body weather. So I’m staying in and hunkering down. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone!

fog

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A foggy walkway

fog

penetrates
cold through jackets
bites into boots and gloves
grips bones
greedy for more
breathes on windows
slips under doors

muffles traffic’s roar
with cotton batting
drivers grope
through the tulle
maneuver cautious
past blurred landscapes
strain to see crimson
pinpricks ahead
standards looming
green, yellow, red

weakens under
distant globe
like consciousness
after a coma
colour seeps back
into earth-corpse
a blush
of pastel happiness
to clarity
then the brilliance
of hope
dissipating depression

© 2013 by Violet Nesdoly

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We are in the season of fog. Though our winter has been milder than many, we often have day after day of the stuff. I don’t mind fog, though it does have a way of poking shivers through jackets, it’s nasty to drive in, and when it lingers and lingers, I do feel a sort of cabin fever, even outside. What’s wonderful about fog is how suddenly and unexpectedly it can clear… like some other types of weather.

poetry+friday+button+-+fulll“fog” is part of Poetry Friday, hosted today by the very hospitable (she has tea!) April Halprin Wayland at Teaching Authors.