Poem: Fog

We’ve had some particularly sunny days lately. Sure, we’ve had our fair share of rain—a thunderstorm even hit. We got tornado warnings, and the river flooded. But overall, the weather has been nice. Still, I was inspired to write this poem by two things: one foggy afternoon where I found myself transplanting my pansies as soon as I could and all the craziness in the world right now.

I don’t think I mentioned it here, but the COVID-19 has shut down my workplace for at least a month. I’m fortunate enough to be financially stable and have family at home, but I have plenty of friends who are struggling financially or socially. I think we’re all struggling mentally. I’m going stir crazy. I read. I write. I try to get out of the house and work in the garden, but some days, it just isn’t enough.

The world is an uncertain place these days, even more so than usual. So, as writers do, I wrote about it.

Fog

It’s hard to think

that yesterday

I stepped out in a world

bathed in sunshine

and today

the white expanse

bares all my work

like words sketched

in a thought bubble.

remember how I

uncovered the dead wood

and exposed the black salamander,

how the rain washed

away the topsoil

I carefully laid

to prevent floods

that came anyway.

I hang the ferns

and walk from the porch

to the mailbox,

unable to see one

from the other,

my hand near translucent

in front of my face,

yet I take another step

and wonder

what I’ll find

around the hundred trees.

I stare into the white abyss

and listen

for the birdsong

but none comes.

maybe tomorrow—

but not today.

***

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? What are some activities you do to cope with being cooped up at home?

Similar poems: Waking Up, Lost as a Leaf, and Silent Words

Poem: Ode to Winter (Video)

I know winter is technically over, but I’m not much of one for following “rules” such as “you must write about a season only when you’re in it.” (Is that technically a rule? *shrugs*) Have you gone outside on spring-like days in the middle of January and gotten sunburned? Or heard about the way it snowed on Easter?

Besides, last month, I went on a trip and took a brief blogging break. This month, I thought I’d tell you about it! My siblings and I went to the Ice Hotel in Jukkasjärvi, Sweden. There, we got to see the Northern Lights;* we got to go dog sledding and reindeer driving; and we got to groom, tack, and ride Icelandic horses!

The trip had been a dream of mine for well over a year, and now I can cross the Northern Lights off my bucket list. Next on the (ant)arctic subsection of my list: see the Southern Lights and wild penguins!

*Not featured, sorry! I managed one semi-decent photo that won’t be making National Geographic anytime soon.

Ode to Winter

How my fingers froze when we first shook hands,

a gasp escaped my lips from frigid air

as I left the plane, finding foreign lands.

We hurt each other in attempts to embrace—

I scarred your skin once fair, leaving indents—

how my lips froze when I kissed your pale face.

Forty-eight paws across the river’s spans,

and frost formed on my own fur, my own face

‘till I left the sled, escaping foreign hands.

Twenty hooves bore us after dark, this start,

over hills and under skeleton boughs

how my body froze when I touched your heart.

A green ribbon sliced through the Milky Way,

joining stars and folding up horizons.

How my fingers froze when we last shook hands

as I boarded the plane, leaving known lands.

***

Let’s chat! What did you think of my latest travel poem? Want to see more like it in the future? What’s on your bucket list?

Similar poems: The First Snow, Snowfell, and Weird Winter Weather

Poem: Autumn

People often ask me why I enjoy biking to work so much, despite the change in the season. Within the last week, the temperature dropped, the rain became more frequent, and I can see my breath in the morning. But I relish it. Okay, I complain about the cold a bit. After I open the door, I often turn around and grab an extra scarf or a vest, but still. It’s the perfect biking weather. Summer is too hot. Winter is too cold. Spring and fall are just perfect.

The chill is just enough so that biking warms me up on the uphill bits, and the wind cools me down on the downhill ones. Every now and then, the sun comes out just long enough for me to take off my jacket, and the scattered clouds after the recent rain make for brilliant sunsets. The slugs come out, the fog lays over the fields, and the leaves are turning.

Sure, it’s not always pleasant. I tend to over-romanticize things in some of my writings. Fall—like life—is full of ups and downs. Hence, the following poem.

Autumn

Autumn sweeps in like crushed dreams—

filled with the scent of rotting apples,

the plight of a squished slug beneath my bike tire,

the wilting of the sunflowers, sagging in the field.

Death comes for us all—

but first, it sets the forest ablaze with reds and yellows

as the goldenrods fall like tiki torches,

and mums crackle and burst with purple and orange flames.

Wind trickles down and raindrops howl—

striking my face as I bike to work,

walk the dog, set foot out the door.

A book sits closed by the hearth—

ribbon wedged between the pages,

somewhere near chapter three,

waiting, just waiting for its reader to come home,

settle down with a mug of black tea,

and breathe in the damp musk of autumn.

***

Let’s chat! What’s your favorite season? What do you think of autumn? Do you see it as a bunch of cold, dark days or time for more tea and reading?

Similar poems: Biking to Work, Lost as a Leaf, and Shadows

Poem: Still Life in Spring (Audio)

Reader's Choice Poem of 2018: Best Imagery

It’s officially spring!

At least it is where I live. Actually, we had a pretty early spring, a brief snow that killed most of the crocus, then sunny day after sunny day. It’s unusual for this time of year. Usually, we get more rain, but I’m enjoying the sunshine! (I kinda miss the rain. Then I don’t have to water my outdoor plants.)

Until we get our next rainfall, I’ll take whatever kind of weather we’ve got! (Unless it's tornadoes/droughts/floods/earthquakes/tsunamis/erupting volcanoes. No and thank you!)

Still Life in Spring

Have you ever seen a flowerfall?

The way the petal spills down the rocks,

a bouquet of white and purple icicles.

The cherry blossoms unfold like origami—

one day baby buds, the next busty blooms,

then their color drips away like waterlogged paper.

The sky’s painted blue; somebody forgot

to erase the smudges of white and with one stroke

a blur of purple-gray thunder shatters the illusion.

Not even the ground is still—

she crawls with ants, writhes with worms,

cracks from the dry days all too firm.

The tomcat stands petrified in the field;

the hawk swoops down; the dog bites dirt

as the mice wait for the rain to come down.

***

Let’s chat! What does your typical spring weather usually look like? Do you prefer sunshine or rainy days? What’d you think of the poem?

Similar poems: Early Spring, Dandelion Seeds, and Some Notes on the Three Days of Summer

Poem: Early Spring

Weird weather can be fun, like when you get an early spring in January and the daffodils pop up and then you get sunburned because why wouldn’t you want to be outside?

On the other hand, it can be annoying. February sees winter return. And then March sees spring. And then the first day of spring is celebrated under a layer of snow.

I just can’t wait for spring to officially be here so I can start gardening again. I already planted my cucumbers indoors and their gravitating toward the window. Even the plants want to be outside.

Until then, I’ll have to suffice with my houseplants, tend my indoor veggies, and think on the warmer days.

Early Spring

I want to call it spring, the way

the sun

            drips

         d

         o

         w

         n

           

             like dissolved

          snow dustings

while the bees zip

            v e

        o          r

       the fence.

Yesterday I donned by trench coat,

turning up my collar to the blistering

                                                            wind.

Today I opened the doors

                                                let the breeze dance

      for a spell

          as I knelt

on the porch

to trim

back

winter’s rot

revealed like toys hidden

under a blanket

now melted

                        away.

***

Let’s chat! What’s your favorite season? Did you have an early or late spring this year? Or was it on time? Do you have any plans for this season?

Similar poems: Weird Winter Weather, In Season, and Some Notes and the Three Days of Summer

Poem: Ether

Truth: I have favorites among my own poems. This is one of them. I’ve been saving this one for a rainy day. (Read: when I’m so busy editing that I haven’t had energy to write poetry.) As the rain falls when I type, and as this poem relates to weather and bright colors, I thought it fitting. Yet while this may be a poem about gray skies, it is not necessarily about autumn. It could apply to any season, really.

“That’s why Camilla and I got married,” said Denniston as they drove off. “We both like Weather. Not this or that kind of weather, but just Weather. It’s a useful taste if one lives in England.” (That Hideous Strength)

I wrote this piece while I was studying in England. It happened to be another cloudy day. Surprise, surprise. I was sick of the clouds and desperate for sunshine. Until I sat down to write. I decided to choose a new perspective, to put a twist on the typical attitude of “gray skies are depressing”. So if you happen to be feeling down about the weather, if it’s too cold outside to feel the kiss of the sun, if it’s too wet to go for a walk, this one’s for you. Take a step back. Read a good book. Make yourself a cup of tea. And, as always, enjoy a poem.

Ether

The sky is on default—a blank slate, a whiteboard—

What will you write? A sonnet of romance—

of the enchanted way the petals of water kiss your face?

Or a sarcastic comment on how horrid the weather is—

Bother, should have stayed inside!—damp, grey?

Before the water waltzes down, the white sky mimics

your imagination—an empty computer screen.

How will you personalize it? Set it with a picture

of a roaring waterfall in the lush Amazon?

Or a rotund retriever shaking the last bits of water away?

The red brick structures rise up like icons on your screen,

but no matter how many folders you open,

no matter how deep you go,

the blank slate will remain in the background, watching,

waiting for you to return to see its straight face.

Don’t just greet the powder blue skies and sunshine

bursting like a ripe orange—a grapefruit!—

for it’s the white canvases stretched across the earth

that holds the most potential for a painting.

***

Let’s chat! What’s your take on weather? Do you enjoy cloudy days or sunny ones? Or both? Which place, in your opinion, has the most stereotypical “dismal” weather?

Similar poems: Cathedral, Shadows, and Riptide

Poem: The Crow and the Heron

The winter world is full of simple beauties. A thick blanket of snow, a perfect day for curling up by the fire and reading. The nip of the wind on your cheeks and the way they warm when you come back inside. A blue sky after days and days of seemingly endless gray.

A heron and a crow standing side-by-side on a frozen pond.

One afternoon, I was out walking our German Shepherd, Pfeffer, when I saw them. Perhaps they were just two birds standing on the ice. But it looked like the heron was taking council, receiving a daily report from the crow. Maybe a bird is just a bird, but a walk can also be an opportunity to live, to discover.

And a poem is never just a poem…

The Crow and the Heron

The crow cawed to the wind,

his voice swallowed up among whispers of change.

The creak of the ice beneath his claws

settled in an answer of sweet silence,

perfect stillness among the white winter world

stained by a single black spot, striking feathers.

The crow cawed to the heron as he glided

               down

                        down

          down

onto the lake, to take his perch on the ice

to hear the younger bird’s report.

The crow cawed about the days,

lengthening like a stretching shadow

drawn out by the playful dance of the sun.

Winter will end, the world will wake

up the crawlers, the diggers, the prancers.

It’s time to begin the song of spring.

The crow cawed about the dog,

like a she-wolf in her crouch

new to stalking the neighborhood felines and fowl 

hackles raised and teeth bared

only to lick the gruff hands of her master

who stoops to right a beetle,

overturned

on his blue-black wings.

The crow cawed a farewell as the heron took off,

gliding

            up

                        up

                                    up

amid the trees, over the red sloped roofs

of the jigsaw puzzle that is the village,

stacked atop one another in one way

until the world is sifted again.

***

Related posts: In Season, Shadows, and Weird Winter Weather

Let’s chat! When was the last time you made a discovery by catching a glimpse of something simple? How does this poem make you feel? 

Poem: In Season

In the 21-century, most of us live in a world where we are privileged in one way or another. A couple weekends ago, I went on a ski trip with my dad and marveled at how much fruit there was for breakfast in the middle of the winter. I was also in the middle of reading Inkdeath, which takes place in the Inkworld during winter. So the book prompted me to compare my circumstances with those of the characters. The differences between our century and those of the middle ages is astounding.

Of course, I read medieval fiction and fantasy stories all the time, so you would think I would have thought of these things already. But there’s just so much to take in. I wondered, how much of our present technology is really necessary? And what is privilege really?

This poem is just an exploration of technology and privilege and how it differs from country to country.

In Season

Apples are always in season

in this, the first world,

where we know everything.

Crank up the thermostat,

and you can feel the heat soaking into your skin

like the summer sun, harnessed with a metal bit;

or turn up the AC, and relish the nip of winter,

like an albino housecat ready to sprint

at the crack of the door.

Raspberries are only always in season

if you’re willing to ship them across the globe,

like little red slaves to sate our appetite for fruit

in a world where we think we know everything.

But some slip on a sweater,

and northerners laugh at your shivers

while they stride about the snow in shorts;

and Europe—sweet Europe—laughs at the thought of AC,

for summer, like a fickle butterfly flirting with one flower then the next,

only sticks around for two weeks.

***

Similar Posts: Weird Winter Weather and Some Notes on the Three Days of Summer

What are some of the privileges you take advantage of? If you've ever traveled to another country, what are some of the major differences you've noticed, aside from language? 

Some Notes on the Three Days of Summer: A Poem

For many people the weather is just a menial form of small talk, but I find it fascinating. I relish the feel of rain dripping down my face and soaking my hair (unless I have someplace important to be), and I cherish each moment of blessed sunshine warming my entire body. I mean, come on, the very name Word Storm should tell you something about my inclination towards weather, particularly in its extremes. 

If there’s one thing the English like to talk about, it’s the weather. Having spent nearly a year studying abroad in England, I’ve experienced plenty of England’s internationally-acclaimed horrid weather. But come on, it’s not that bad, right? A little rain never hurt anybody. But, as Alan Parish (Jumanji) reminds everybody, “Yeah, but a lot can kill you!” Well, as you can see, I’m not dead yet. Key word: yet.

Besides, England is not the only place known for weird weather. Washington State gets rain year-round so that when the sun comes out, locals refer to it as a “sun break.” Missouri has a claim on having bipolar weather. In other words, residents experience four seasons in one week. I kid you not, I got sunburned in January because I was wearing a tank top and had the sunroof down. Then it snowed. So England may not be the only place on earth with odd weather, but it certainly has some. 

One of the most recent examples of English weather I’ve experienced was the brief-lived summer. Being so far north, instead of hot summer days, England gets—you guessed it—rain. But there are times when the sun comes out from behind the clouds. This phenomenon is often referred to as the “three day of summer”. (Never mind that we had a full week of glorious sunshine and that random day in February.) And that’s what this poem is about really—weather. Well, that and bugs and people and bike rides and tea. Lots and lots of tea.

Some Notes on the Three Days of Summer

England is like a sleepy giant, hitting the snooze button again

while the rest of the world is waking from winter.

Just five more days, and suddenly it’s spring,

everywhere it’s green like the nation finally shook itself awake

and downed a cup of Earl gray. It’s a dour May,

but the daisies are alive and doleful, dancing beneath a cloud-streaked sunset.

Suddenly it’s summer—the perfect warm weather to get outside.

I’ve been sunburned in England of all places. #Lifegoals

I should not be punished for actually leaving the flat. 

Where did all these people come from?

Who knew so many resided in the city?

They’re like cockroaches—fair weather friends—

and summertime has disturbed their peaceful rock.

My flat mates call it hot, but my skin knows the difference

between this English sun and an Italian one.

This mild sweat is nothing compared to the blistering heat of the south.

A warm breeze tickles the hair on my bare arms,

and the oak’s shade offers a cool solace.

The only clouds now are the bugs by the river,

thick as thieves. The blasted bugs are pelting my face

as I cycle through them. Help. I’ve inhaled a gnat.

The thing is tickling my sinuses with its tiny little legs.

Getitout-getitout-getitout!

The other day, I sauntered into a café

to meet a girl for afternoon coffee and cake.

Before the sun sank another even’, I curled up on a couch,

a cup of tea in my hands, amongst friends on a movie night.

Finally—finally—I’m not alone.

But why is it people decide to wave hello

just as I’m breaths away from smelling the fresh black ink of my itinerary?

I don’t miss the winter. My spirits soar

as the days stretch before me like a cat before a sunshiny window,

like a dog sprawled out in the flood of light—the ray of death.

Next week’s forecast: rain.

***

Let’s chat! What’s your favorite type of tea? Do you think your hometown has the weirdest weather? If so, why?