Second Storm of year - a poem

Black Wall
Drifting overhead slow
as the storm finally
digs its way
into valley.

They Canyons
already are getting
hammered hard with rain
if not snow
higher up.

Second Storm
grinding in harsh
the threat of winter
and his weather
and chills.

Watching outside
I see trees
already golden or bare
as others change
with season.

Getting wet
is pretty inevitable
on nights like this
but I survive,
by willpower.

2October2013 - Dyfedd Rex

Looking at the building storm - A poem of today's Weather

Rippled dark stratus clouds
cast the Wasatch into shadows
that leave those rugged peaks
looking ominous this morning.

Grey haze in the valley air,
dust kicked up on warm winds
as the seasonal shift begins
and the pattern speeds up.

First cold storm of the Season,
those dark peaks will change
as a mantle of white falls
across those shoulders this week.

Camp is abandoned, for now,
as I seek a bit easier place
to move in and out of daily
heeding my gut feelings today.

Looking out, the trees sit
still compared to waves yesterday,
a sea of deep greens for now,
though hints of Autumn peak out.

Looking up at the foothills,
and the center of the range,
still no great color cascades
amid the trees up there.

Doesn't matter a bit, though.
I know the aching bones speak
to others as well as me
of Winter's cold hand reaching out.

The mountains remain dark today
and my thoughts turn that way
feelings of despair peak through
only to get crushed heavily
... by laughs over two "tag-you're-it" squirells.

25September2013 - Dyfedd Rex, Looking at the building storm

Call of the Elephant - A poem of anger management gone to ego inflation.

Mom will probably invoke
that dreaded Rule One
as the towers rise
in the sky above
tempting me to dance.

The Elephant stalks today
calling me to cavort,
with black clouds rising
over the mountain ranges
yet to drift near.

Do those thunderheads soar
in response to moods
I feel down here?
Or is my anger
fueled by resonating rumbles?

Above me they rise,
like angry gods' fists,
as air spirits toss
their spite to mortals,
and occassionally, the Finger.

I feel their call,
to dance under anvils
where Thor's hammer falls
and lightning races beneath,
something I've always known.

Am I so powerful?
To raise those tempests?
Or is that vanity,
twisting me around wickedly
on her fickle fingers?

I need those storms
to break across me,
cleansing my soul again
of worry and stress,
leaving my slate clean.

But I know not,
even deep within me,
if I call them,
or they beckon me
to a doom fore-ordained.

Watching, I feel turbulence,
not just amid atmosphere,
but that dark place
others still have hearts,
calling out in anger.

Break, oh might storm,
let that old beast
flick his tail now,
towards me or away
that I may know....
... is it just me, or real?

15May2013 - Dyfedd Rex between lines of boomers forming still.

Playing with Weather Magic - A poem of Warning

They asked, despite my warnings...
Knowing I can touch clouds
twisting them to my desires
my family begged for precipitation
even as I reminded them
of the storms such stir.

Cupping hand over trembling hand
I felt the ley lines
racing through the skies above
hairs raising as power surged
through fingers that twitched about
seeking to make them respond.

Now the results land there
the weather folk speak up
about the mixing of elements
to build a storm there
but I know the Truth...
I touched the forbidden powers.

Our storm faltered out here
shredded by my questing reach
to bend the weather around
make it do my bidding.
So now the fury roars
across the prairies of home.

So, tomorrow as you shovel
amid the cold, howling winds,
I remind my kinfolk sternly
and my kith as well
be careful what you wish
for Murphy messes up magic.

19December2012 - Dyfedd Rex

Phantom Sirens for the Ghost Tornado

Silently it rolls by
noted only by the dead
a gust front rolling just before
clouds of only ethereal energy
come over our town.

Only the sensitive see
the dim flashes and drops
that echo from long past storms
to haunt the prairie now
churning up the cemetery.

Most the town's ghosts
flee to the storm cellars
or lay under the heaviest furniture
disturbing only cats and mice
as they seek shelter.

But one last soul
manages a brief poltergeist moment
tossing a switch in the firehouse
to sound the fire siren
and warn the living.

The wail raises all
living, dead and even animals
as the dust devil dances along
Main Street in physical echo
of the Ghost Tornado.

For many decades ago
the storm nearly destroyed us
taking many lives in its scythe
passing through town at night
and does again now.

After several confusing calls
and arguments that last days
it gets laid on a glitch
amid the controlling program's lines
instead of the Truth.
For the first death
that fateful night years before
is now the ghost sounding alarm
in an attempt at redemption
for drinking on duty
and failing them
when needed
most.

(9May2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

Sunning in Plaza of Winter

I sit here now
basking in the warm rays
wondering if this is the life
sipping soda time to time
as muscles slowly unclench.

It feels damned good
this lazy moment I steal
sunning in the Plaza of Winter
surrounded by remnant snow piles
below the Wind's line.

It's not Summer's Plaza
at least not right now
no, the trees are bare branched
and everyone so bundled up
not like weeks ago.

Then there were more
who sat here waiting patiently
for the library's doors to open
soaking in the weekend sun
laughing and happy folks.

But Winter came finally
his cold cloak of fogs
driving them away or into shells
that hide the warm smiles
until they break through.

Despite the chilly air
I roll up my sleeves
tip back my hat with care
leaning against this big pile
that is my wealth.

Deep breaths slowly taken
shivering at scraps of chill
as scud clouds announce another storm
fueled by this short warming
ending my short rest.

Yet I tarry longer
denying the inevitable its moment
sucking in a few last rays
storing them for later release
huddled under Winter's blanket.

As the temperature drops
the other brave souls flee
seeking shelter elsewhere to warm in
as I gather my gear
still waiting to depart.

The smell of precipitation
may be in the air
filling my nose with its softness
and that little tongue zinger
that marks snow's coming.

A simple break occurs
letting down a few minutes
of Winter's cold sunshine to warm
this lost soul who wanders
before he forts up.

At last I leave
steps reluctant as I go
wondering when the next heat wave
will let me sit out
on the Plaza again.

(15 JAN 2012 - Dyfedd Rex)

Well, after the long dry spell caused by a frozen to death power supply (yep, they really mean you should not expose a laptop to sub-freezing conditions), I am back at it again. This poem, and several more to come, came about during the lack of communications and digital preservation. Enjoy them as you wish folks...

The Dance of Inversion's Airs - a Poem of Weather

Dawn on the Wasatch Front can be strange
during the short days of Winter's chill rule
for amid inversion's fog light takes strange paths
making distant lights seem to dance about wildly
amid the branches of the trees just outside
as I sip my coffee slowly to come awake
wondering if this is the end of it all
for the chaos out there rules so supreme
that there is no order left to see
save the gentle motions of twigs gently swaying
as the fog sheds moisture as snow flurries
and the breath of Winter touches the flakes
to give them just a bit of angle
amid the hanging ice crystals of the smog
as the sun breaks through for short bursts
to light it all up in crazy patterns
leaving me to sit here if total wonder
of how the air can be so beautiful.

(12/19/2011 - Dyfedd Rex)

The Lost One that Rains.

As the clouds gathered over the mountains
to lay down their sorrowful burdens as snow
on lone cloud missed the train of the wind
and drifted along the valley's seam south instead
like a lost sheep who lost the flock of fleecy ones
and wandered off crying his tears on the lowlands
between the rocky spines of ridges and peaks
as rain falls in its shadows until it is cried out,
giving life to those below in its death.
But north again, over the inland sea
that spawned him, he will be reborn
with the North Wind's next rising,
and maybe he will get it right this time.

　

Winter's Warning Shot

Winter's first brush by
and the warm returns.
But for how long
and will I survive
living as I am
day by slow day
walking, waiting and worrying
if that one job
will at last fall
into my shaking hands?

Winter's first warning shot
as I camp out
with tarp and blanket
under some conifer tree
who's location I keep
away from all here
so I can return
and use it again
for a while longer
without losing it forever.

Summer's last call here
a short warm period
before the autumn settles
bringing its own issues
upon my weary head
as I wander slowly
around this busy place
seeking more hidden places
to use as shelter
when the winter comes.

Autumn's beauty around me
in changing colors bright
as the trees slip
into their long slumber
but I still move
amid and below them
seeking release a way
that will keep me
safe through until spring
and warm air's return.

Winter's melting calling card
still on high places
for a little while
reminding me the dangers
that will soon fall
upon me in earnest
unless God grants again
his grace upon me
lifting me genlty out
of this dark time.

Spring's echo still rings
in a few flowerbeds
where yellows and golds
reds and neon oranges
glow their last days
but this morning held
their death on blades
of deep green grass
coated in white frost
as summer finally ends.