Michelle Smith

Wind

El Nino

In atmosphere 

Temperature 

Hurricane 

Eastern

Rain

Offshore 

Rivers 

North

Overcast

Thunder  

gia civerolo

weather haiku

Rain drops and new dew

still smell like you whether dark

remembers daylight

 

please call my name

Call my name

Weather stagnates 

Memory bubbles pop 

You blow a kiss

Good-bye

Call my name

In a church

Stained glass

Streaks for all

To see

Call my name

Take away all

My shame

For all to see

On bended knees

Call my name

Lava flows 

Body loves

Molten memories 

Melt

Purple

Popsicles

puddle

Call my name

Flame flickers 

Dark sky

Don’t ask why

Coyotes cry secrets

Why won’t you

Howl 

My name in 

The lonely night

Screams

Please call me name

fall forgot about spring 

Flirting spring blooms 

Surprise summer love 

 It was meant

as a “meet cute” 

one night stand

 

They got stronger, louder

Everyday 4th of July

Exploding love. Bang! 

But it was in the quietness

when it felt most real

 

Summer clings

to t tan bodies 

Sparking kisses

glisten in the sun

Drips down merges

Hot blockbusters bursts

numbered summer day

Heat dissipates

Weather changes

Crisp fall

Brings the end to it all

She didn’t surrender

Leaves fall into 

winter’s snow globe 

Blurs promises made

 

Memory refrains 

Popsicles purple puddles

She can’t clean

She tries hard

Ice cream truck’s music

Jolts her heart

Parades of kids 

Race towards a 

future of first

Spring kisses

Heather Romero-Kornblum

Is Poetry Fake News?

My poetry is not fake news

he said

it is directly channeled from 

my muse

Deeply offended

he asked 

why I said

all poetry is fake news

Nothing about poetry

is fake

Fickle though we may be

As poets

We do not perform

sleights of hand shadow 

work with our 

fingers or mouths

    My muse is coy

    Seductive

    with its filtered self

    pity cry

There are no fickle poets

he says

I hear fickle

I think of pickle

My muse spoke this to me

I saw

Shadow work

A trick 

My

Self

In 

The

Mirror

I am

Not

That old

I told myself

As I picked up

My pen

This Is Also the Weather

I fell asleep while

You held my leg and dreamed we 

made out

It’s the Sky, Again

My god descended

from a rusty nail

colored mist

tattered wombs in tow

Replace 

man 

made to dust

she said

eating a guava popsicle

Alicia Viguer-Espert

The Weather: Thirst and Fire

Flames crepitate too close to your home,

heat scorches trees desiccated for lack of water,

but still standing straight like Olympian torches.

Here in the Parque Natural de Moncayo,

pine trees used to lean on each other with confidence.

Now, the sound of snapping undergrowth scares them. 

Bright, lustrous greens, dull already, turn red

before bursting into the fireworks of superheated forest fires.

You want to take the boat, now smoked charcoal,

down to the river, but the river hasn’t been in its bed

for a very long time, after pesticides 

exiled trout, frogs, and salamanders

to some undisclosed abandoned fishery. 

You believe dry seeds and spores will sprout

when rains return, temperatures will cool,

overgrazing at the valley will stop,

and legislation will forbid slaughtering cattle 

on the altar of profitability, but you doubt it.

You wake up unsure of whether what you see

is fog, shadows, or smoke from perennial fires

striking the flora and fauna of your mountains.

You pray to Tlaloc, a god from another continent, 

because your gods, already consumed 

by thirst and fire, have no chance of resurrection. 

Previously published by Altadena Poetry Review

R A Ruadh

Storm tracks

The wind from the continental

fossil fuel storm

was steadily rising

Already my best friend

on the west coast

had been sealed inside her trailer

by a wall of ice

Friends in LA have been wearing

jackets and sweaters on zoom

In the middle of the continent

long discussions about warm clothes

candles and other survival kit

as friends blinked out

one by one

Closer to the east 

I check in with family

we grew up with this

so they aren’t much bothered about it

The meteorologist said the punch

would come yesterday

but it was eerily still

as if we had fallen into a vortex

of breathless waiting

while the rest of the continent

was blown and tossed and tornadoed

Now the house rocks with gusts

the hen house stands firm

I make hot chocolate and light candles

wondering how long that will be a thing

as the cocoa plantations

shrivel up and bees no longer exist

to make wax

I want to purely enjoy this

pause from civilization

without the future looming

casting its shadow

over the lights in the darkness

A look at the weather

I look out at the back field

the snow blowing sideways

piling little drifts on the corners

of my kitchen window

I look out at the hay barn

the rain beats against the 

living room window and puddles 

in the tractor tracks down below

I look out across the street

at the blue sky and the sun

shining between the clouds

playing catch me if you can

All at once

All the weather

All around my house

Doing Mark Twain one better

If you don’t like the weather

just look out a different window

Edward S Gault

A Crack in the Day

What would happen, 

I wonder,

If one could

Take a hammer and a chisel,

        And put a crack in the day.

        Just like that.

What would happen?

          Would it bleed?

          Would there be storms-

                               Birds falling from the air.

           Would any of us have a prayer?

Or would anyone even care?

Jack G Bowman

Dog Days of March

Sun beams down, heat releases the scent from a thousand desert plants

ends early hibernations

people come out to watch the vast array of sunset colors

waves of 90 degree distortion

dry the eyes

ears hear the distant rattle of lizards

in the brush searching for the days offerings

and a man sits watches the hawk circle above its prey.

PJ Swift

Feel the land

Feel the land

dance with tiny floating insects

and let the sunshine tickle you

Hold the heavy breath, as the ice longs to melt

so much power underneath

Celebrate the outbursts of the blooms

they are not quite slow-motion, if you listen

Let your footsteps create the crispy crackles

of fallen leaves innate with anticipation

Have you missed all of this, you traveler?

racing so fast and smooth in 2D

losing touch with gravity

Wanting for nothing

Mrs. Teacher pulled out a small bag of sand and dropped a small pinch of the grains on the ice below. Then she took a careful step. Then she dropped a few more grains and took another step. Slowly and steadily she made her way across the courtyard of her housing complex, as the more fit and youthful raced by.

This too was a way to live. Fully, with satisfaction. Wanting for nothing.

Blooming again

Fresh poppies

bloom in commemoration

but petals turn to dust

and dust scatters with the wind

and all becomes forgotten

and then,

when poppies bloom again

it's not rediscovery of remembrance

because all the dust has risen

and all that's been forgotten

becomes a whirlwind, fresh and blooming again

Sultana Raza

Fleeting Generations

 

I suppose you could call us old friends,

because we’ve listened to billions of drops of uncaring rain

drumming ceaselessly on these stubborn walls.

 

We’ve been arguing about how

the number of rainy nights have increased

for the last few decades at least;

due to ordinary humans or those huge buildings

dumping waste in waters, 

releasing pollutants in airy currents…

 

Because countless generations of our species 

have endured so many cold nights together

while resisting the urge to start shivering,

I suppose we’re the oldest chroniclers

of this street, where we’ve noticed 

flocks of folks getting thinner, as

there’re more individuals than couples 

rushing about for pointless tasks.

 

By the way, why can’t you instruct your

young ’uns to stop using my head 

as their favourite perch? 

Springing Forth

No I don’t want to paint trees. 

Cherry trees require the same brush strokes,

repeated over and over again. 

The menu for success is to make 

every blossom different, and not the same,

just like nature produces them.

It doesn’t produce. 

Blossoms just sprout forth with no effort on the tree’s part.

Perhaps you can’t see it, but its ongoing regular effort is there. 

If I’m going to attempt it, 

then it won’t be under my teacher’s strict surveillance. 

Let’s give him a surprise. 

Go away. I certainly can’t do it 

with you breathing down my neck.

Note: this poem explores some aspects of my photographic collage artwork, Intermittent Choir.

Intermittent Choir: Digital Collage by Sultana Raza

Frosty Premonitions

 

He didn’t care too much for gold leaves, especially 

as his coughing became worse when 

churlish storms would swirl him crazy, and the 

sickle moon would taunt his creativity through October 

clouds. For he became stuck for words when the wind

blew them all too quickly before they could coalesce with 

inky firmness. He dreaded the onset of the frosty 

weather that gleefully helped stiffen poetic flow, busy fingers.

 

‘I wonder why the weather conspires, and punishes 

not just me for my transgressions, but also my

judicious pen.’ Did he think so while pulling his thinning hair?

 

 

 

Golden Shovel: Especially When the October Wind 

‘Especially when the October wind

With frosty fingers punishes my hair,

(Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire

And cast a shadow crab upon the land).’

The full poem can be read here: https://allpoetry.com/Especially-When-The-October-Wind

‘The great Welsh forensic pathologist Bernard Knight examined the P.M. report and concluded that… death was clearly due to a severe lung infection, with extensive advanced bronchopneumonia.’

Source: https://www.walesartsreview.org/what-killed-dylan-thomas/

Trish Saunders

Reasons to Continue

If you can survive a cold violet winter, 

you can make it to summertime—

look! warm weather paws at your coat. 

Barren trees will produce their sharp green

knives of life. You’ll need to be there. 

In the shelter, a stray dog waits to press 

a cold nose into your cold palm, sing 

with praise of you.

If you continue. 

Yes, the evening sun crashes down, 

yes, a heart plummets with it. 

Always, morning comes. 

Just continue. 

 

Michael Magee

SKY NEWS

No place to sleigh ride anymore--

antlers are just the same

we're wiping the fields clean

through the front windshield's rain.

We're passing the lorries skidding

out along the motorway, I've half-

a mind to stop--the car has a mind

to drive itself all the way back.

From Nottingham to Middlesbrough

so I keep my foot down on the bass,

my feet keep trading places from

the brake pedal to the gas.

No place to sleigh ride anymore--

antlers just the same

we're wiping the fields clean

through the windshield's broken pane.

TAKE A SNOW DAY

A limb from the cypress

has broken, leaving a gash

and a near miss, my cheek

is bleeding in the snow

and children are sledding

down the hill, screaming

from all directions,

a kind of kill as they swoop

down across the pond

the heron flaps in its escape

looking for a landing,

I feel its cold breath

all across the sound where

I take a page from this journal

as a snow field to sled on

or a pond to skate on.

I walk across the snow,

my feet clinging to my soles,

my breath frozen for now

my lips re-sealed

in my holy book where

I write down the day

keep track of even the dog's

paw prints in the snow and

ducks still swim on a frozen

pond as though it were vinyl.

DAYLIGHT'S SAVINGS

A scattering of robins, crows, hens

across the yard, picking up feed

grubs, tattoo the ground

eviscerate the lawn around me.

Their shrill cries warn

they're massing out on patrol

eat together as friends

hens fill the yard in pecking order.

Perfume of Daphnes in the air

with their pinafores, I cross

the street and up Division, but forget

to multiply, keep the remainder

With time on my hands and counting

I have only wristwatch

to remind me of the hour

I saved by getting up early.

Shih-Fang Wang

Uncertain Sky

I wish I could predict your mood 

like the weather is forecast  

so I can be prepared to face you

I never know 

what temper you will be in

as it changes faster than the sky      

What pesters you

leading to the shift of your emotions            

is it your inner pressure

or some other hidden current

that makes you so volatile

and out of control                      

Do you know 

that I fear your sudden moods 

more than the changes in a storms

so I must sadly tell you

I am going away tonight 

never to return 

Mike Turner

ICE Storm

This cold, grey January

An ICE storm threatens

Nay, is upon us

Visiting violence

Bloodshed

Death

Threatening to consume 

All we hold dear

It falling to We the People

To weather the furies

And return the warmth

Of Justice and Truth

To our shattered Nation’s soul

Weather or Not

Weather or not

We shall go on

Wind or rain

Sleet or hail

Weather or not

This time anon

Our world will turn

On without fail

For does not matter

‘Tis clear or cloudy

Still or windy

Foul or fair

Weather or not

New dawn awakens

Fresh chance presenting

Ours to avail

[untitled haiku]

An eye to weather

And steady hand upon helm

Will yield a true course

Marie C Lecrivain

weather... or not

the afternoon forecast

reflects my mood

a low gathering

of mournful clouds

held in place by

the oppressive hand

of humidity

as tears & rain 

begin to fall

no passerby

can discern

the difference

Uber Crone

When my Uber driver picks me up, I see she’s holding a nail buffer in her right hand. She’s both blond and gray, dressed in yoga pants and a tank top, Starbucks latte in the cup holder and a half eaten protein bar on the dash. She smiles, greets me, asks about the weather, and then mentions her brother is coming from Riverside today for a beach bike ride. I nod in assent, since she needs a captive audience. Her voice is soft, in contrast to her Madonna muscled arms. At each red light, she buffs the nails on her left hand, and laments how expensive manicures are. She keeps up a litany of one way conversation, through her confusion of being simultaneously available for Lyft and Uber rides, school runs for her grandkids, and how she enjoys all kinds of curries, including ones from China  and Japan. I watch her blond hairs shed while the gray ones remain. She’s traveling, slowly and steadily, through time and space, and it’s fascinating to watch and listen to her. This is what old women do: let go, and continue to let go, until there’s nothing left but a silver spark left to wink out of existence. When I arrive at my destination, I wish her a good day and a pleasant bike ride. Her brow wrinkles, and she checks the time, mutters she’s running late to meet her brother, and drives away. 

Dean Okamura

 

Jeffry Jensen

ONE EXTREME DESERVES ANOTHER

I turned over in bed and 4 groggy cats scattered.

It was way too early to make a beeline for the light switch,

so I closed my double-vision eyes and attempted

to bury myself under my banana sheets

before the inevitable cat attack commenced.

In slumber, I found the Great Society was rapidly fraying.

In my morning shower, I had to wash off all sacramental delusions.

By first light, my porch was already being pelted by Biblical betrayal.

The irritations of a blistering summer are hitting Pasadena in spades.

It was no accident that an unrelenting sun was on the move.

I was attempting to memorize some Rimbaud and Baudelaire

as my over-easy eggs migrated into Never Never Land

with the help of a glossy Grace Slick singing in the background.

Maybe it was time to down a boosted strawberry smoothie

before the current ungodly weather report

doomed my enthusiasm for the overbalanced SoCal day.

I did remember to raise an early Guinness to St Patrick

and scour my closet for something Kelly green

as one extremely potent outcome after another was driving me under.

Hedy Habra

What Are the Intimations of Mid-April Snow?

Some call it flurries. I prefer 

les derniers soubresauts

de l'hiver, a moribund winter's 

last jolts, refusing to give up

its last snow- flaked breaths.

It's still breathtakingly beautiful:

 an anachronic realm 

reminding us of our last 

moments, of how we resist,

thinking ourselves invincible, 

how we long to make our autumn 

stretch, exercise our muscles, 

balance our meals, try to finish

our manuscripts in progress, 

lest that winter be the last. 

This year in particular, I took

solace in daffodils sprouting

in the mud, indigo hyacinths'

vivid arabesques, crisp as ever, 

as though nothing had altered 

the rhythm of nature. I didn't get

to enjoy my magnolia's early

blossoms for long, a harbinger

of hope whitening the naked 

branches, its delicate flowers 

eager to dance to comfort the tree, 

even before a single leaf emerges,

insufflating greenness. Head-bent 

under fluffy flakes, petals wither

at their birthplace awaiting

to be scattered by the wind.

First published by SETU

 

Anachronic Growth

Snow melted 

several times this March.

We'd say, "This one's the last."  

Withered grass patches showed 

the persistence of solid ground 

under the porous white covering.

Here and there, 

new green appeared, 

defying the Almanac.

I looked everyday through 

my kitchen window, checking 

leftovers from my herb garden,

hoping all were perennials.

Some days, 

Rhododendrons swelled 

their asparagus tips, 

melting snow uncovered 

an oval rug of newborn leaves 

in place of the timid shrub of Forget-Me-Nots.

Everyone said 

it would not last, 

it was bad for the plants,

it would get cold again.  

I too, felt impatient, careless, 

and the snow came back, 

demanding its dues.

First published by Voices International

 

Early Autumn

After a heavy rain, I drink amber from drooping leaves 

heavy with dew, ambrosia from a gold-capped maple leaf 

curled into a precious artifact whispering ancient stories 

from each delineated vein arising from curved midribs.

I step over fallen petals, sepals still hanging on their stems.

A variegated palette covers the gravel path. Amid pallid 

shades, burgundy reminds me of my favorite Rioja newly

opened bottle left breathing on the kitchen counter.

My tastebuds guide me inside to fill my glass with the wine's 

thick robe while meat pies exhale an enticing pomegranate

flavor asking to be released from the oven. I set the table 

and scatter my harvest of colors around the placemats.

Bill Cushing

HAIKU FOR 1989 

Everglades burning,

chemicals crack open sky.

Do not think. Lament.

FOURTH OF JULY 1981

Clouds, like a herd of whales, 

dark bellies passing overhead,

wheel and turn, moving northeast.

I stand beneath that majestic entourage

Watching, at dusk on the Fourth of July,

while the children down the street stop

 

lighting Roman candles, running 

to seek the shelter of porch roofs 

as Nature’s fireworks outdo Man’s.

A CHANTEY FOR CHANTEY (a haibun)

Imbibe a chantey of when I moved from child to seaman. We raised Chantey’s sail, got underway, leaving the bay’s safety for the race—confused waters where sound and ocean meet and churn. Soon, darkened clouds grew over the bay. Swelling white caps slapped our gunwales. Harsh winds approached gale force, pushing Chantey hard over as water washed over gunwales, cascaded through the hatch, and flooded the cabin bay. The squall shrieked through ratlines, cable shrouds, and stays. Bow and sprit rose, dove, and danced between brutal swells. Turbulent currents drove the sound schooner along an uncontrolled bearing. We rode the squall as best we could—wet, cold, and hanging on to any handhold found. Pelted red by a stinging rain, I made my way—hand over hand on lifelines to attend to tearing sails. The storm passed as it rose—a momentary tempest—leaving us quiet in the bay. If sailors are defined by the storms they overcome, bearing down a squall on the Chantey served as my graduation ceremony.

callous Neptune struck

with antagonistic winds

we weathered his worst

Chantey underway in calmer waters

Merritt Waldon

 #1

Winter rain furious

Spit last ditch snow

Then St Patrick's day 

Blows up in to times

Multifaceted chaos

Where we dream of

Leprechauns in elf 

Suits handing out 

Gold de blooms to 

The wild children 

Of civilization 

 

#2

In the safety of the storm

I roll

W the blunder of thunder

& Flashed of lightning 

All around

Feet slosh & pound 

Pavement 

No time only thought

Only dream

Amid mercurial clouds 

If the future

Cleansed continually

By electrified rain

In the safety of the storm

I roll

 

#3

While the robots of injection mold

Presses dream

& Their operators sigh

W the everyday life despair

The last winter wind & snow

Freezes the world again

Our skin goose pimpled

With the beginning of Springs 

Flip flopping weather

Giving out more reality than this

Poet cares to acknowledge

Until July 

Jackie Chou

We Didn't Talk About the Weather at the Chinese Club Party

It didn't rain that day

and the little paper umbrella 

painted with sakura

was only a garnish 

in my piña colada 

The chrysanthemum brocade

on my cheongsam 

made me look like a dancing girl

from 1940s Shanghai 

rather than a well-bred lady 

The magnolias had nothing 

to do with cherry blossoms 

though I mixed them up 

like some professors did

with their Asian pupils 

I was and still am

a lost seagull

in the metropolis

where we were once birds 

of myriad feathers

Mary Mayer Shapiro

WEATHER THE STORM   

Forecasting the environment 

Meteorites fall all over 

Comets floating by 

Leaving flash of exhaust 

Behind 

Chill of atmosphere 

Glare on eyes 

Feeling sweat pouring 

Down like a  

Thunderstorm 

Then blanket of clouds 

Covering the area 

As you walk into 

A crowded room 

Not knowing what 

To expect 

As you  

Weather the storm 

TRICKS OF THE WEATHER 

Go south 

Go south 

In the winter 

Stay warm 

Not always 

The case 

Not predictable 

South cold, 

Some snow 

April first 

Came early 

This year 

DANCING IN THE SKY 

Dancing in the wind 

Blowing back and forth 

Doing Do Si Do of 

Square dance 

Westies and trade winds 

Coming together 

As ballet dancers' twills around 

Tornados doing the twist 

Hurricane performing  

The Tango 

Fast pace, moving 

Back and forth 

Haboob executing the 

Continuous Congo line 

Breaking dancing embracing 

The monsoons 

Rain comes down 

Tap, tap, tap 

Zephyr Waltz in 

The wind 

Weather having its 

Own dance 

Expressing gestures 

Without word 

jf giraffe 🦒

MISSING SUNNY DAYS (Haiku)

Weather feels stormy

Hateful actions in the air

Climate's cruelty

ANGRY SKY (Haiku)

Weather turbulent 

like our raging government 

tossing hate and lies

A TEST IN TIME (Haiku) 

Whether the weather

has rainbows or stormy clouds 

depends on your vote

Ellyn Maybe

Season of Hate (Haiku) 

Winter was madness

ICE made life more slippery

It was full of pain

Sunshine Needed (Haiku) 

The rain washed away

the beautiful chalk drawings

Sidewalks filled with tears

Where are the Truth Clouds? (Haiku) 

Read all about it

There was a hundred year storm

Not of rain but lies

Susan Isla Tepper

WHAT NOT

                         After William Shakespeare

 

To be

or—

whatnot

in all kinds of

weather—

Taken to the extreme

black is a big mistake

in snow

The slightest brush up

and there goes your

nice coat

looking like hell,

Hair—

can’t even go there.

Marieta Maglas

In My Absence

You will come to comprehend

the essence of love, and

chilly raindrops will descend

from the eye of the sky.

The words will echo through

this enigmatic weather, and

your sorrow will be overwhelmed.

 

Promenade

Hullabaloo and hurly-burly tumults;

Ashes of long-buried, heroic memories;

A plethora of antiquated emotions;

A need for a new divine vitality;

Dark air, illuminated parks, and varied offers;

A topsy-turvy state of things;

Never-ending hopes, dreams,

and romantic thoughts;

Time of lost will

and engraved walls

that were repeatedly conquered;

Hearts filled with fear,

sincerity, and strong willpower;

Snow crystals, offspring,

heating up dog days and early falls;

Uneven weather;

Blooming flowers and happiness;

Perennial conversations,

coffee breaks, and

never-never lands;

Awakening, self-assurance, unwavering

self-worth, earnestness;

Sundays and never-say-die preaches;

Protean and tormented clouds,

sacred cenotaphs;

Tangos in the darkness;

Transient love and intense rage;

Whirlwind;

Minds wandering through

space and time in search of

understanding;

Will-o'-the-wisps; chimeras;

Existentialistic feelings;

Self-reflexivity; happiness.

 

My Dream

Irreversibly, the sun's yellow hue seeps into

leaves. Calmly, they descend from

the Jabuticaba trees onto the obsidian soil.

Unnoticeably, I drift into slumber beside you.

There is a chill, a biting cold, and

a new weather invades my dreamlike realm.

As long as the trees wear yellow,

life remains precarious.

Without a doubt, a puzzle of

hailstones lingers in this autumnal fragrance

of blossoms, ready to shatter

everything in its vicinity.

Unwaveringly, I possess a strength

greater than steel, when

my desire to endure ignites.

You linger still behind

the waterfall that unleashes dread.

Frantic, the night descends

as the moon throbs with light.

There are shadows in the darkness, and

I cannot find the way out.

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Here I Am

 

Here I am below the weather

as the sky pelts me with rain.

I am injured by life’s poor luck,

immobile to love’s desire.

In silence I lick my wounds as

she exists, but is out of

reach.  I have never been so afraid

to lose something I have no

chance to attain.  Her love is for

somebody else.  Even I have

to admit it to myself. 

Here I am below the dark clouds

taking a shower of rain.

I could hide my tears this evening.

Autumn and Winter

Back under the pepper tree

I spoke to the dog

Buried there under its shade.

I was not expecting answers.

I was drunk with autumn

And winter would be no different.

This time of year, I marvel at 

The changes in the weather.

I welcome the cold and rain.

The muses sing from the branches,

A blackbird and a crow.

I prefer the crow's drunken song.

 

Sleeping Through Life

Instead of sleeping through life

try to learn everything you need

to survive. Try a little of this and

a little of that. One of these days

you will see God’s face. Today is

not that day unless it is. There is

no antidote to death. Do not bang

your head against the wall or

sleep through this life when you

could choose better things. Be

free like the birds that fly and

you will start feeling better about

yourself. Do not let damp weather

stop you. The gentle rain will not

hurt. Lose yourself in books when

unfavorable elements are stacked

against you. Take a walk on the

side of life instead of overpriced

eateries. You will feel good about

feeding yourself with your own hands.

Carl Stilwell AKA CaLokie

THE EXTINCTION WILL NOT BE TELEVISED *

“Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing 

can be changed until it is faced.”– James Baldwin

State Farm will not be there like a good neighbor


Nationwide will not be on your side 
You will not know 

“What’s in your wallet”

There won’t be 7 ways to help generate income once 

your portfolio reaches $1 million

Because the extinction will not be televised

The extinction will not be televised

The extinction will have no “skies the limit” addresses given 

to seniors rejoicing for graduating from high school or college 

You will not be able to buy a barbecue bacon double 

cheeseburger combo at Jack in the Box

You will not take off pounds while pigging out on pizza

The extinction will not be televised

The extinction will be brought to you by Exxon who knew 

about the climate crisis in the 1970s but has spent 40 years 

and tens of millions dollars lying about the fact that 

their products are destroying our shared climate

The extinction will not be televised

The extinction will be brought to you by 20 transnational corporations 

and the Pentagon which are responsible for more than 35% 

of the total global carbon emissions since 1965

The extinction will lose no sleep over a record carbon dioxide 

level of 420 particles per million in our planet’s atmosphere

The extinction will not be televised

The extinction will be brought to you by China, earth's 

leading source of carbon dioxide emissions in 2020 

with 30% of global total 

and Donald Trump who claims climate change is a hoax 

and Joe Biden, who said it’s an existential threat 

but approved fossil fuel drilling permits on public 

and tribal lands at a faster rate than any other 

President before him 

The extinction will not be televised

The extinction gave George Herbert Walker Bush a standing ovation 

at the Rio Earth Summit after telling the delegates“The American 

way of life is not up for negotiation!” 

There will be no skies the limit commencement addresses

to graduating high school and college seniors

Because the extinction will not be televised

The extinction will not be televised

The resistance to extinction and rebellion for life 

will be brought to you—

By Kayaktivists in Seattle protesting Arctic oil drilling in ancestral 

habitat of whales, seals polar bears and Inuit people

By Standing Rock water protectors facing water blasts

in freezing weather because—YOU CAN’T DRINK OIL

KEEP IT IN THE SOIL

By Extinction Rebellion activists supergluing themselves to government 

buildings and shutting down the London Bridge to protest Britain’s 

inaction on catastrophic global warming 

  

By white haired grandmothers locking themselves to bulldozers 

to stop the construction of pipelines carrying toxic tar sands oil

By Swede teen Greta Thunberg telling world leaders, "How dare you! 

We are at the beginning of a mass extinction and all you can talk 

about is money and fairy tales of eternal economic growth” 

By Climate activists and Indigenous water protectors protesting 

the construction of Enbridge Line 3 which violates treaty rights 

of the Anishinaabe people along with threatening their sacred 

wild rice watersheds in Minnesota

By divestment campaigns calls for banks to end 

their financing to fossil fuels

By more than 330 U.S. research scientists sending a letter to 

President Biden telling him that listening to science means—

acting on science,

stopping new fossil fuel projects, 

opposing industry delay tactics, 

and declaring a national climate emergency 

By over 1000 land defenders, water protectors, environmentalists who 

have been murdered since the climate accord was signed in Paris in 2015

By young climate activists from the Sunrise Movement chanting 

to Democratic Senator Joe Manchin as he stepped off his 

$5 million houseboat bought by fossil fuel money

WE WANT TO LIVE…

WE WANT TO LIVE…

WE WANT TO LIVE…

Because the extinction will not be televised

The extinction will not be televised

The extinction will not be televised

* Based on “The Revolution will not be Televised” by  Gil Scott-Heron who was an American jazz poet, singer, musician and author, known for his work as a spoken-word performer in the 1970s and 1980s.

Joan McNerney

Three Weathered Faces from March

1. Cheapskate

Grinding yellow teeth

this awful miser spits

out bleak afternoons.

With gnarled jaws he

collects frozen gloves

to bury beneath snow.

2. The "Lady"

Prissy faced prude praying

for skids and smashups. She

puts wet blankets over our plans.

Lowering frozen eyes,

she knots cold crystals

into braids of frost.

3. Thug

That tough guy as mean as sin

and twice as slick hunches his

shoulders stealing the sunshine.

Showing us who is in charge...he'll

make an offer we can't refuse

or crack a few bones over ice.

Lynn White

Creatures Of The Wind

We’re creatures of the wind

holding up

a damp finger to feel

which way it’s blowing.

We’re all creatures of the wind

trying to weather the storms

trying to stand straight

or at least to not bend

too far.

We’re all creatures of the wind

and now

we’re sucked

into a tornado.

First published in Voices Unbound Anthology, Fresh Words, May 2025

Wild Weather

Weather wasn’t always like this

with the feral forever winds 

bouncing off mountains 

bringing the chaos

of flailing and falling 

leaf heavy boughs

broken, 

and the gush 

and rush 

of wild, 

wild water

spiralling 

in chaotic 

cascades

in this feral fury of a blizzard.

First published in Last Leaves, Feral Issue, October 2024

Stormy Weather

It’s not the blizzard I fear most,

it’s what’s going on inside,

the dark clouds thickening

to provoke the downpour,

the thunder within

that builds and builds

and builds

so much energy, 

so much negative charge

it can only be released 

in an explosion

beyond my control,

beyond all control.

First published in Pub 158, Cold And Crisp, Fall 2022

David Fewster

THE WITHERED FIG TREE

And they drew nigh unto Jerusalem,

thru Bethany and the Mount of Olives,

hot, tired, and dusty,

and verily, Jesus was in a pissy mood,

thinking to himself,

"Christ, we sure waste a hell of a lot of time

walking around in this damn desert,"

(I mean, face it,

the weather in Canaan sucked--

"Come to the Promised Land!"

it said on Yahweh's promotional brochure--

"Milk & Honey up the wazoo!

Buy now! Or invest!

Special rates for Chosen People!"

The first real estate scam...)

and so he said unto the disciples

"Go your way into the village over against you;

and as soon as ye be entered into it,

ye shall find a colt tied,

whereupon never man sat;

loose him, and bring him."

And Peter said, "Gee, if he's tied up, like, maybe

he belongs to someone."

And Jesus said "Shut up and bring the frigging horse."

So the colt was brought, and there was much rejoicing.

And riding along, he found he was hungry

and seeing a fig tree afar off having leaves,

he came unto it, and when he came to it,

unfortunately he found nothing but leaves, because,

frankly, it wasn't fig season yet.

And Jesus said unto it,

"No man eat fruit of thee hereafter for ever,"

after which they went to the Temple

to beat the living crap out of some moneylenders.

And returning later that day, as they passed by,

they saw the fig tree dried up from the roots

and withered away,

and Peter calling to remembrance said unto him

"Um, Master, remind us again why

we were cursing the tree--I mean, for instance,

later on there might be some hungry folks

who could use it when, you know,

it's actually fig season?..."

And Jesus began to reply, "Hey, Jack,

when I tell this mountain to jump into the sea,

it doesn't go 'Why?' it goes

'How high do you want me to go, Lord?'..."

But saying this, Jesus realized that perhaps

He had gone too far, and said unto them

"Hey, I'm sorry guys, that was over the line--

I guess maybe I'm having a bad hair day.

Forgive me?"

And to break the ice,

Stephen, the funny disciple, said,

"Bad hair day? Every day's a bad hair day.

It's 33 A.D., for crying out loud--

We're still shampooing with sand."

And as they were laughing merrily at this jest,

Judas chimed in,

"Hey, and after all,

Being God means always having to say you're sorry,"

and again there was much merriment,

although Jesus' laugh seemed a little less

boisterous this time around.

And reaching into his robe pocket,

Jesus came unto a handful of shekels

that had accidentally dropped there

from the tables of the moneylenders

and he said,

"How's about we head back to town

and buy a few goatskins of wine

to go around--my treat."

And thus it came to pass that

they returned to Jerusalem

that very evening...

Joe Grieco

THE CORIOLIS EFFECT

High pressure systems in the northern hemisphere

turn clockwise,

caused by the earth’s rotation.

Low pressure systems,

counter clockwise.

Men like to look at women naked;

the nakeder the better.

Since the weather is nice, 

and before we’re too old to rotate,

would you please take off that sweater?

And turn clockwise?

Robert Fleming

 

Andy Palasciano

Riverhead Poem

“Those mules got in the

meadow and got unbroke.

They were drinking water

from the upper part.”

“That horse got in with

a pack of wild horses.”

“What did you do?”

“I found him and took him home.”

“The Chief’s daughter

has a horse for me.

It’s snow white.”

The Wild

Why do we not allow the 

full glory of the wild horse?

I saw a documentary

on how they are hunted

down and exploited.

Are we jealous of their strength?

The Bible says,

“God is not impressed

with the strength of the horse.”

So who are we jealous of?

Only One has strength,

yet we want super powers,

anything to not

say that our strength

comes from 

   above.

God's Economy

For truth, no amount is wasted.

For illusion, one penny is too much.

The whippoorwill cries in the marsh,

like my friend, who commented on

The San Diego River behind our house,

 “River? Looks more like a swamp.”

I remember being in that house

and reading Coleridge, as he wrote

“There is nothing melancholy in nature.”

A moth can flutter around

a sea of moss

and life abounds,

 like circumstance

without the need for pomp.

Barry Vitcov

Sousa the March King

March arrived in late February

Snow softly tiptoeing like a sleepy housecat

The wind roaring like lions

Seasons changing

Without military precision or derision 

Like a discordant band disturbing the end of winter

The poodles and I hunkered down

With books, movies, and occasional treats

Although the puppy found the snow interesting

Especially when pushing icy crystals around with her nose

And running laps in the backyard

The older dog finding the soft, warm confines of her wire crate

More to her liking

While Sousa required the structure of marches

The order of finely-tuned music

The punctuation of drums and fifes

To usher in parades and other public spectacles 

I embrace the quirkiness 

Of a season’s unexpected comedy

I enjoy the anomalies of a good winter storm

And arrhythmic weather

I want to embrace the uncertainty and the burden

Of cyclical change and expectation

Surprise me with a snowball on the Fourth of July

S.A. Gerber

Global Warnings

Severe heat warnings…

practically world-wide.

Is Paris burning?

London sure is.

Pacific Northwest,

straight to New

England, below,

and all between.

Feel most badly,

for those with

high humidity levels.

Can be unforgiving.

In L. A., I

sit reading Gabriel

Garcia Marquez stories…

the c.d. belts

Jelly-Roll Morton.

Naked in my

shaded living room,

sipping ice tea…

attempting to weather

the hot weather.

All should survive…

most generally do.

 

Weather Invited 

 

The June gloom—

in my room.

 

Well past noon,

not going soon.

 

Love it dearly—

even more dreary

 

yet I’m leery,

it’ll turn cheery.

 

In my refrain—

wishing for rain.

 

Try in vain

to stay sane.

 

Dark gray clouds—

Take a bow.

 

All of now…

covered in shroud.

Weather…Or Not

(On the Road to Pueblo-Highway 160-Co.)

 

Still the wind blows,

but says not a thing.

Rain pelts the pavement,

with a familiar ring.

 

The snow flitters down,

and re-blankets the earth.

The entire globe appearing,

in the midst of re-birth.

 

The sleet slices through,

like a sharp pointed knife.

Hail falls like rocks,

oh well, such is life.

 

The above-mentioned elements,

can be forever extolled.

Though their power and beauty,

yet, never controlled.

 

Chad Parenteau

Castoff

Snowblind 

see again.

Aftershock 

inches down.

Don’t need

weatherman.

All know

this blows. 

Salt with dirt

for our wounds

can last us

entire year. 

One breath of

Fimbulwinter

whole land 

had to take.

It blasts both

hot and cold

and will until

all explodes. 

We survived. 

So fucking what.

Charles A Perrone

Post-Session Summary

She told me to jot down some thoughts about our encounter

in red ink so as to be able to ponder a consequence of color.

She suggested I focus on features in the face I imagine I have.

She reminded me that autumn was soon to be on the horizon

and to put seeds in the ground for a wish to come to fruition,

to a fruitful conclusion down the road of clean dirt and green.

But she went on to conclude noting that it is still cold season

so you might get the proverbial cold shoulder from gentle me

or a cold reception from my snappy staff who got cold feet

when I presented you as a candidate for client of the month,

now a cold case sans cold blood or any type at all nor snaps

of frigid weather dropping cold drops in the eyes of the clan

and looming above everything the threat of a cold cock ending.

Debby Hackbarth

 Enjoying Nature – Ignoring the Weather

Melding with nature is marvelous. 

Being there with friends was fabulous. 

Planning using common sense.

Times treasured, not tense. 

Traveling through terrific terrain.

We disregarded insects and rain.

Nothing would stop us.

Mutual respect, a plus.

Irrespective of the weather, we went.

Ignoring the time, we were not spent.

Lots of snacks to eat.

Savory and sweet.

As was our custom, we vanished for hours. 

Our plastic hoodies held off rain showers. 

Huddled together.

Snubbing the weather.

One Saturday in May, we did get lost.

Three different signals got crisscrossed. 

Do we ask for help?

Could we yell and yelp?

We agreed to back track to the start. 

We knew, to keep safe, don’t be apart. 

What plants did we see?

Which structures were key?

Two hours later, we found our village. 

No one knew about the thrilling roam. 

New skills for our trips.

Equipped for hardships.

Older now, we continue to walk. 

Enjoying nature, a time to talk. 

Forever friends. 

Soggy or muddy. 

Maria A Arana

Monster

they call you a monster

because a smile has faded

like a rainbow that appears

after a storm

the smile comes after

the torment

and the fighting

but once the thrill is gone

the smile goes with it

and rainbows are rare here

 

nameless, faceless

it’s the way you said it

like clashing of pans

thunder beating the sound barrier

and when it’s over

the only thing missing is a name

that is the way to hide

no shame

and it makes you faceless

like the mosaics before painted

rain wiping sleet off the wall

 

First Bicycle

 

you couldn’t hide this Christmas present

we knew before the day

before the week ended

it gave us a new freedom

young kids riding alone

enjoying the sky

the wind

the moment together

it took us to the library

the park

the school when it was out

around the block and back

we could never get this freedom felt again

we dig deep

and deep enough to find the memory

like a distant drum

beating endlessly

but we can never get there

 

CLS Sandoval

Claim You Love Me

Exhausted and used

Still I refused

To believe you lied

Although I have tried

Weathered and worn

My heart and soul torn

Yet all I want of you

Is to remain true

Battered and scared

Altogether unprepared

For this heartache

You chose to make

Silence bred tears

As I released fears

Nights on the phone

When I bought your tone

Tonight you have not called

I guess I am appalled

Though I should not be

For many claimed they loved me

Just Another Day

 

Another bomb dropped today

I can tell you when and where

And I can swear that I care

But I’ve never been there

And I’m still brushing my hair

My hands are connected at the wrist behind my back and I’ll never let this one go

There’s just one more tear falling to the floor and my head is crammed full of a rainbow

I let go too soon again

There is one less reason to wake up

One more reason to sleep in

Another dead

One more dying

And they want me to teach a speech class

To students that assume the sun will rise another day

Whose greatest worry is whether or not there are any Eggos left in the freezer

Then he walks in with his red hair and grin

He emancipated himself from a foster system

that drops children like bombs on sands of empty parents

who view their young people as just another paycheck

ladder leaning next to sign

 

white around the window edge

peeling back reveals more

than the wooden blinds will

 

more sepia tone than a stark white

the stucco supports the ladder

left to rest

after it served as long as it could

held as many as it could

 

the sun setting provides

just enough light

for the sloppy paint spot

to be visible

 

Deaf girl walking by

interprets the splotch

as an intentionally painted

handshape

 

    I Love You

Wayne F Burke

Eternal Return

the sun comes out under

the carbon copy gray

sheet

of clouds;

it is a new dawning

but 

at dusk

heralding the night of dark

magic

to come, when

the moon takes over

from the sun

which, so

far, has

always returned

in the morning.

Pigeons

circling City Hall

year after year

never stopping--in continuous

flight--longer than the span

of a human life--even as

the hearse goes past and

revolutions start and end

the birds fly round & round

in ethereal blue under the

eternal sun.

Stormy Wednesday

the snow plow plows the

driveway--

the wind howls--what's it say?

The snow falls, as it has all

day--

the great pine tree sways

Godzilla-arms

held at bay--

the crows caw

caw

the fog covers awe

awe

until the rain

rains

and the fields

and the plain

come out come out

wherever they may.

Don Kingfisher Campbell

WEATHER IN THE BODY

It's easy to see

dark clouds are

disturbing eyes

There must be

a cold front

developing nasally

A look down

throat confirms

slick roadway

Rumblings

inside stomach

indicate shift

To high pressure

creating change

in wind direction

Earthquake follows

followed by

flash flood

Expected

mudslide comes

later that evening

In morning

clear vision again

but low approaches

Precipitation

sign of

instability

BAD WEATHER POEM

Gray clouds dominate sky

like rolls of stomach fat

Darkened mountains line horizon

like piles of bat guano

Wind topples trees

to look like awful toupees

Rain falls like gods

peeing on their people

Concrete gutter rivers take

fast food cups and wrappers away

Fast food cups and wrappers

wedge into iron drain grill

Soaked streets glisten 

like diseased black veins

Grass matted down

like a beatnik haircut

Snow covers peaks

like bird poop on statues

Chill permeates skin

like death acquiring a soul

GOOD WEATHER POEM

merciless sun beats down

like a lowrider's backseat speakers

clouds become wisps

and disappear like paychecks

mountains warm up like

piles of fresh poop

hot wind flows over all

as if Big Brother could touch you

trees embrace haze

go from green to yellow

flowers stretch out petals

like reawakened zombies

grass blades grow like hair

on a punk teen's head

asphalt streets bulge

like lavaflow over land

concrete gutters are home to

tossed fast food cups and wrappers

heat makes skin pink like

salmon in a processing plant