"weathermen" poems
The weathermen were not prepared,
the storm turned West towards the shore
For eighteen hours it came down
in blinding sheets three feet and more.
It buried cars, it covered streets
It weighted down branches
on the trees, it dusted roofs
It snarled the roads, The winter
storm did as it pleased
When it was done, the air was calm
a cold serene and peaceful scene.
The snow in drifts lay on the ground
as I looked upon what once was green.
Then, as whiteness overawed the earth
A single red snowdrop appeared.
It briefly touched the snow draped earth
then rose again towards heaven's sphere
then one by one, here and there
flakes disengaged and rose on high
until all the snow that was earthbound
in blinding flight had disappeared.
In a flash, the snow was gone
The fields of earth once more were green
No traces of the storm remained
like a half remembered dream.
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 10:58 PM UTC
when you fall in love with an angel, you must understand that there are things you will never understand.
- when you first go to run your hands through her hair, her halo will slice your palm. and it will hurt like hell. she will mend it with the touch of one golden finger, and leave so abruptly that she is gone almost before you even blink. the thing you will see is her at the doorway. terrified eyes, blood stained hair.
(later, she will tell you that she never realized how breakable humans could be. when she explains what it takes to make an angel bleed, you begin to understand )
- ask her about the sky, about stars and suns and galaxies light years away. ask her whether or not the universe looks like a blooming garden. never ask about lucifer - she will become a soldier before your eyes.
and not, do not, donot, ask about god.
do not ask about rebellious older brothers and absentee mothers.
(do not infer about a war you know nothing of)
- in a science class you are taking simply for extra credit, your teacher will be talking about quantum physics. he will explain galaxies and refer to stars as "celestial bodies," but you won't be listening. suddenly you will only be able to think of the way her mouth curls at the sides, of the way her golden skin glows, of all the puckered scars that crisscross her torso, of the graceful arch on the bottom of her foot. celestial bodies are certainly on your mind but they are so much more than gas and light and heat and touch and --- oh heavens ---
when the teacher asks if you are alright, you will flush an even deeper red. supernova.
(at times it is lovely to be in love with an angel. but at other times, it is not)
- beware when you fight, it is like the world is ending. her anger conjures a thunderstorm, and soon the entire country is three inches deep in water. you shatter a picture frame. a bolt of lightning catches the house across the street on fire. you are screaming at the top of your lungs – something about duty, something about god – and there is a crash of thunder that shakes the foundations. the weathermen talk about the storm for days. you flinch and change the channel.
(no matter how right she is, she will always let you win)
- there are times when she won't visit for months on end, and when she finally comes back to you, she is not herself. there are new scars across her chest, and she does not speak. she sits with you in her arms for hours, her nose buried in your hair, and her arms squeezed tight, so tight. she does not cry. you do not cry.
you do(not) cry.
(but you do remember the miles and miles of white scarring. you wonder if angels are as immortal and unbreakable as they think)
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 5:25 AM UTC
Here in the west borough, down three or four blocks from the epicenter, the shocks come to you in tides — little, electric, delightful in some alien way. Even the sounds of instant decay ring pleasant. The concrete, the bricks, the mortar, the Corinthian columns, the suspended ceiling tiles, the florescent bulbs, the coffee cups, the desktops, the family portraits all fall from their stations, screaming toward the cool pavement. It’s a temperate Thursday in January and the weathermen continue to talk in stunted disbelief. A car catches fire on Malcom X Boulevard, and weather is the wrong word, you think, for this phenomenon. It’s rage. It’s bitter. The violence of the sun-catching glass smacks of vengeance and this whole thing is man-made or, at the very least, god-made but not anything so indiscriminate as weather.
There’s still the pleasure of it though. The collapse of the old world. And there’s nothing but rubble on the corner of 9th and Dominican, and for the life of you, you can’t remember what stood there before. In your evergreen bones you know one thing: whatever anodyne brick institution reigned will be replaced by that glorious glass and that glorious steel, 100 towers impaling the sky. The future is now. A tremor. A cloud of dust.
For about ten seconds the windshield is worthless yet you speed up, hurling yourself through the fog of destruction into a **** world, feeling essential and brilliant and and and.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 11:59 PM UTC
There is snow and more snow and more on the way
As weathermen take over the networks today
There is a blizzard on the way
So the weathermen say
Excited to scare us today
The winds growl and whip
As we watch the snow blow and drift
Are those tombstones or our cars?
(Who wants to clear off the dead?)
Not me I will stay in my bed.
There is black ice tonight
So the weathermen say
Who are they trying to scare?
They warn drivers beware
Expect to flounder and flip
We scrape and brush and shovel again
The same the very next day
Oh winter woes
I think I froze my toes
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 3:07 AM UTC
!all men are fair weathermen!
if what they predict and promised
don’t happen quick, a thunderstorm of oops and aahs, follows asap.
quick move on to making more forecasts
with a higher degree of confidence that either way,
may be you need not wonder
a withering whether, or not,
if they’ll come true
always end your broadcast with the
I Love You (You Know Who)
with a wink and no names cause safe
is the fair weather
always accurate
now I know that it can rain oil from heaven,
promises that come
pre-broken;
summers predestined to end and the fall prepares us
for bittersweet cold alone and
the oil rain just smokes
but does not warm
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
Tomorrow is just today re-lived for Punxsutawney Phil.
It is odd to me that he is so very human, hunkered
low against the cold winds of winter's wrath until
finally, in celebration of Imbolc he rises to survey his vast
lands, a keen eye to the ground to scout out this years'
competition, even if it is only his shadow.
Phil's home in the burrow on Gobbler's **** is the
family sanctuary; there is a joke there but it is beyond
me, God. Just please keep us warm and brave, looking
to the sky instead of the ground, our shadows to our
backs where they will always belong.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
It's like a pit (a
massive gap in the thoughts that
unsettles you)
and (lest your resolve be crushed to
a fine powder suitable only for the most
tasteful framing)
saturates conversation like a
virus
but there's a problem with this
invitation, if only to
convince yourself the gap is
useful, (that it's a landmark of
sorts, a real treasure, why not
picnic next to it, make up stories
and holidays and marvel at the
obvious ingenuity of the earth in
creating such a beautiful loss)
at the end of the festival, (when the
streamers have faded and
the food lies stale, when the cars have
herded their people home for the
night and the moon reclaims
her sky from clingy weathermen)
it is still a hole, (and you might
fall in).
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 4:14 PM UTC
Stories about people aren’t really about people
this tale is a separate reality
full of opinions and perception based senses
I saw Michele’s addiction as a sketchy weather forecast
the most famous weathermen lie the most, ya know
She watched the sobriety of her life zoom by a whirlpool of backstreets
flew by them in Chance’s silver Chevy malibu going 80 mph
through our quiet suburban town
she waved at every lightning strike the moment before electrocution
you see, she was in love with blinding pain
out of control burning rubber scented pain
and I, tried so hard to be her fire extinguisher, her seatbelt
I wanted her smile to radiate every karat lodged in her throat
because her words are precious diamonds
Her mind is a museum built upon three floors
the first floor is tragedy
concrete blankets and concrete misconceptions
of what feeling safe is like
shadows with shark like teeth
she can never escape their threat of gnawing
it even reaches her on the roof
the second floor is forest green
in-between escape and peaceful freedom
she was born an observer, a lover of hidden oddities
an explorer of broken wide eyed hope
she could smile at a mosquito and every spider
would willingly starve to death
the third flow is a fireplace in the middle of a bonfire
a wishing well anchored in the atlantic ocean
everything she deserves, harmonious orchestras
of sobriety salvation are stationed in a country
dependent on chemicals
she will never get the shooting star she deserves
because she’s been soaring through our galaxy for lightyears
a blazing comet amongst dull asteroids
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
We've been expecting rain
for three days.
The weathermen get it wrong sometimes too,
I suppose.
Besides, rain always seems to come
when you least expect it.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC
November 4th
The weather it seems, seems time to put on your coat,
but the way the wind blows,
a way nobody knows
will have you put your coats away,
but as the weathermen say:
”we’ll be delivered from the heat by snow this Thursday.”
Satchmo Bukowski
wants a bottle in front of me
not a frontal lobotomy.
What’s it to stop drinking?
smoking, though—it’s the best season
for it. Rather die than give up.
Yeah, my ***** distorted, same with my story
that I tell you now, but it lives each day twice—
but like Christ down the mountain
I come forth emblazoned,
no more reckless nor hopeful than him.
Halloween here, we saw the dead dress up.
We pulled together costumes
while estimating the temperature.
As the day shortens
and night falls as you clock out,
so our phase of experience does;
so the creatures of dark troll;
so the climb though the black berry patch
becomes the only visible path.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 4:56 AM UTC
It was so hot I was afraid to breathe,
The air so thick, there was nary a breeze.
The sun fried down, trying hard to bake
Our dusty town into a caramel cake.
No birds in the trees, no kids out at play,
Only sound you could hear were the a/c’s that day.
The weathermen gloating about a record high,
Who cares about that when we’re all about to die?
What is that we see? Off in the distance there?
Could it be a cloud on the horizon? Do we dare?
Hope builds as do the clouds in the sky,
Only to crash as the rains go rushing on by.
It is too hot for any rain to fall here.
It gets dried up before it even gets near.
So we continue to sweat, to moan and complain,
And wish for winter, when we will be missing summer again.
Copyright Peggy Montgomery 7/30/2011
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 3:35 PM UTC
I tried drafting a poem about the dyed daffodils perched against my window and I was even going to make a half-hearted slant rhyme for "daffodils" with "windowsills" but my slanted heart gave way because suddenly the flowers appeared so artificially tacky, so stupidly hopeful with birthday glitter dusted onto their unnaturally painted petals as they tried their best to soak up some sunshine though outside it was an ever so naturally unnatural temperamental March day coating the green grass with snow flurries though the weathermen expect nothing short of seventy tomorrow so the cold coat seems jarringly out of place like a good intention gone horribly wrong and I couldn't help but think, and think, and think
We never fit, did we?
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 4:37 PM UTC
it's a tad overcast
in our parts to-day
and rain shall fall
by the end of day
the weathermen
have told us to be ready
as the falls of rain
will be quite steady
we've got our wellington boats
at our back doors
and our umbrellas
are unfurled on verandah floors
the rain will give us
no trouble at all
as a matter of fact
we'll be pleased with its call
for the rain's multitude of drops
we've been waiting
and its pitter patter
will be ever so satiating
conditions have been
as dry as a bone
a few puddles on the roads
will not makes us groan
the rain has just started
to spill o'er the town
and all of our car windows
have been left down
but we're really happy
that the rain is falling
listening to its moistening spree
is ever so enthralling
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
it's a tad overcast in our parts to-day
and the rain shall fall by the end of the day
the weathermen have told us to be ready
as the falls of rain will be quite steady
we've got our Wellington boots at our back doors
and our umbrellas are unfurled on verandah floors
the rain will give us no trouble at all
as a matter of fact we'll be pleased with it's call
for the rain's multitude of drops we've been waiting
and it's pitter patter will be ever so satiating
conditions have been as dry as a bone
and a few puddles on the road will not make us moan
the rain has just started to spill o'er the town
and all of our car windows have been left down
but we're really happy that the rain is falling
listening to it's moistening spree is ever so enthralling
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 5:24 AM UTC
Skies have been cloudy for days
Great mothballs threatening liquid
Vengeance, and all the weathermen predicted
Rain. I for one anticipated a second
Flood, torrents of water so as to wash
Everything down the drain
And why not?
That would be horrifying and
Exciting in most respects
But the rain refuses to be
Dislodged from its clouds, looming
Above a waiting world to firmly assert that
It will not visit, not until the grass is a bit greener and
The flowers show their true colors
But the brittle brown grass cries out for water and the
Cracked gray flowers weep with despair
Because, of course
Water is vital, and
Everyone needs a rainbow
May 28, 2011
May 28, 2011 at 7:50 AM UTC
Am i not entertained?
Channel 2: weather...
Channel 7: murder...
Channel 13: lies...
Channel 34: murderous weather...
Channel 43: lying murderers...
Channel 99: murdering lying weathermen and women...
and all points in between and so on,
ad infinitum.
Am i not entertained?
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 1:53 PM UTC
The mist of some Autumn days, make's me rather recumbent
no way do I rise on a grey morose day liken to this icky sticky day
it does my lungs not any favours and I choke on it's moist cloak
and if I go out with an umbrella matter not, my clothes get truly soaked
Let's see the forecast again for tomorrow
maybe a Mack I will ask a friend to borrow
but they are not like me, up at the crack of dawn
so I go back to bed as I stretch and yawn
Forecast low cloud and mist again
they must must be taking the ****
those ****** weathermen
are truly one off the wrist
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
© 2012 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
the pitter patter of rain
hath stifled all sporting plans
they've put a dampener
on the kicking
batting
and bouncing of *****
weekend fixtures appeared
much brighter
on Thursday
the weathermen
trotted out a fine forecast
they were talking up
the sun's forty eight hour
weekend blast
yet they didn't mention
a thing about a substantial rain band
which was very close
at hand
those of the golfing
and soccer fraternities
are taking shelter
in their club houses
out of the down pours
no driving with a nine iron
on the par eight hole
nor twill there be
a heading
of a crowd pleasing goal
the mid larks
at Flemington race track
are to the wither
well and truly bogged
as the entirety of furlongs
hath been water logged
enthusiasts of sport
are glum faced souls
their weekend of competition
swallowed up in
the wettest of bowls
the weathermen
never showed any consideration
on predicting
the weather's
wild fluctuations
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
The second shot screamed and
restrained the rest of the grins and claps
lapping up milky, concrete streets
Something internal
dictating inhumane reactions out of her, wanting to
sew jagged parts of skull together, later,
hoping the American public might help thread a needle
Her hands weren’t steady like they used to be
Maybe chaos could be wiped and shed cleaner than
Blood bathing white lace gloves, that covered quivering fingers
Stained skull, candied like cherry juice
seeping from George Washington’s cherry tree (people
believed so, even then) chopped down
slowly imprinting fibers of cotton and silk
blends, suddenly transformed into the world’s
dusty blue jeans
Lady Liberty’s iron once tried to rid the wrinkles of
How lightly the President graced roses
white as a reflection of fair weather culumus clouds
Thermals thanked by American weathermen, now watching
Glory tucked away in the past deep into a date to remember
November 22, 1963
“Dallas, we have a problem,” nothing else could be said
Bushes of roses, sprinkled with presidential blood
Cloth, camel cushioned seats lined his head
a motioned grave, she refused and swept
fingertips, vacuuming shards of cheekbone, scraps of
A previous moment still standing as she reached out again
Smothered by sweat seeping bodies
their chance for a moment, a starred moment, “I was there,”
their excitement unwelcomed, unfamiliar through lighter versions of
governmental suits and the mist of adrenaline
Her body tensed, sniffing the air for his scent, wanting to sense
His fear, too
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
it's a tad overcast in our parts to-day
and the rain shall fall by the end of day
the weathermen have told us to be ready
as the falls of rain will be quite steady
we've got our wellington boots at our back doors
and our umbrellas are unfurled on verandah floors
the rain will give us not an iota of trouble at all
as a matter of fact we'll be pleased with its call
for the rain's multitude of drops we've been waiting
and its pitter patter will be ever so satiating
conditions have been as dry as a bone
a few puddles on the road will not make us moan
the rain has just started to spill o'er the town
and all of our cars windows have been left down
but we're really happy that the rain is falling
listen to its moistening spree is so enthralling
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
i waited for tomorrow
because they said it wouldn’t rain
but the weathermen
is often wrong and by the time
tomorrow came
it thunderstormed all day
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 10:57 PM UTC
Her love was like rain,
Falling a million drops at a time
Scattering through the sky.
Her love soothing, calm, wet.
This love not predicted by
forecasts given by weathermen.
Coming when ready.
She often fell without limit.
A huge gulp swallowed without spill.
Her deed readily prepared without haste.
Her love like rain.
Falling drop after drop.
Sincere without shame.
& I the none swimmer,
carried by her flood
& without fear,
I insist that she carry me
where ever she may go
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 10:22 AM UTC
Going to a wedding -
We will watch them tie the knot.
It’s nice to know that younger folk
Still give this thing a shot.
I’ll get myself all gussied up
(That word is proof I’m old),
Although I’m not the dress-up type
Most times, if truth be told.
The ceremony’s out of doors,
A garden the location
And then we’ll head inside to dine
And dance in celebration.
Originally weathermen
Predicted it would rain.
The sun decided otherwise,
The worries all in vain.
I’m sure it will be lovely
But the main thing that I think
Is, with all the preparation,
It’s all over in a blink.
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 3:27 PM UTC
Being slowly stripped
of obsessive compulsion,
unable to creature the habits of X--
its greater pains taken by
pains taken.
Volitional deductions, and
inferences...alibis and motives
scarring a madman's template.
Ram-shouldered entries
through paper thin doors, in response
to off color remarks on his meta-physique.
Isn't nature self-regulating, why shouldn't
it produce freaks of like control?
To assemble variables thereof, Warholian
assembly lines stockpiling non perishables
for unseen disasters.
To man, to woman the reins is a most
satisfying illusion...spurring on the tramping boisterousness.
We like formalities, dress rehearsals, the arteries
of maps...to run our fingers down,
nonplussed by their pulse.
We know that we don't know, today the weathermen
completely butchered the forecast, of this wouldbe
blizzard.
Time is already filtering their accountability.
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 12:46 PM UTC
It’s a dull woollen grey sweater day
Where the birds too have withdrawn their song
and tucked their wings in for winters chill fingers
that will reach out and capture their whistling tunes.
Dropping pleasantries on the big city boulevards
Hidden from prying eyes, windows shut tight
like mouths with no words left.
Winter comes suddenly.
With no pamphlets announcing a matinee
show of ballet beauties or bronzed horsemen
riding in the sultry sun on careless beachfront.
That shuffle sand and people into shady nooks
and under trees.
Winter does the opposite.
Each evening from now winter will keep the refrigerator door
open for chilled soups to warm up to toasted breads
to bring a summer inside ourselves with its comfort.
Of course the weathermen will wander of course
talking up storms and snowfalls, ice and wind sleet
and temperature drops to keep the moods down
locked and lifeless, now waiting for summer to come around.
The garden will go limp with excuses
shedding its autumn floral displays
and standing bare and naked before
the mirror of winters reflection.
As each day passes, the mood will dampen down
and slink into caves of warm pockets.
We go from room to room
aimlessly looking out the snowy mountains
Wearing their white skull caps like chinese market gardeners
waiting to harvest
the last fading greenery around.
Soon the snow will
capture the mountain ranges
and spread its feathery fishnet sheets
all the way down to the valleys.
This is it. The conquest of windchill against a blazing summer
Is complete. Down at the door level of temperatures
it feels unique to be so isolated and lonely.
The sun does come out but it acts s subdued and
lukewarm- not basking, not bright,
just staying for a short while each
day and leaving even before dusk comes rapidly,
never overstaying the welcome.
Author Notes
The seasons now change in New Zealand. Only yesterday it was summer filled with so many pleasant activities. Autumn has its own language of colours, but winter rolls in and rocks, drawing us into ourselves and planning for next summer. It is a warm winter now.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC