About the Weather

climate change

Perhaps because I was talking about the haiku kigo, or seasonal word yesterday to the primary school kids, weather is on my mind. (Kids, rain in Ireland is like the evergreen tree; it is with us always. We need to be like Eskimos and have more than one word in our vocabulary to indicate the variations and grades of rain in Ireland – like mizzle, a fine mist, raining stair rods, etc.) But I digress from the point of today’s poetry practice. Weather is on one of the lists for gratitude. But perhaps because I am feeling a tad chilled and kind of Kermit the Froggy, I am more under the weather than feeling grateful for it.  At any rate, I woke sneezing and then decided I needed to try a new poetry form to mix it up.  I found a wonderful web resource for up to 86 kinds of poetry forms to try on for size at http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/list-of-50-poetic-forms-for-poets

So I decided to try out the decima, a ten line poem with a rhyme scheme. You get a bonus poem today, because there are two variations, one from Latin America/Puerto Rico and the other from Italy. Both are composed of ten lines with each line having eight syllables. The rhyme schemes vary.

First up is the Latino version.

About the Weather

If, like me, you shun dawn mornings

and need caffeine intravenous

to face the new day, its brashness…

If, like me, you look for warnings

(since shepherds and sailors are bust,

employed elsewhere earning their crust)

meteorologists will have

their job’s worth reckoning to salve

worries about cruellest winds’ gusts.

Copyright © Bee Smith 2018

But since I am also concerned for those Californians living in the Bay Area and Los Angeles who are experiencing terrifying wildfires, I wrote this. My friend in San Jose reports that even though they go out with breathing masks against the smoke, there is no protection for the eyes, that are smarting from the poor air quality.


Where there is fire, there is smoke.

Where there is fire, there is ash.

It consumes, belches, then it chokes

the life from what is in its path.

Something shall survive, I suppose,

phoenix-like – that mythological bird

who can rise and rise above all

mass destruction, landscape altered.

Earth, too. Turned to fireball.

And this was the fate human’s chose.

Copyright © Bee Smith 2018

Meanwhile, Nero fiddles while climate change burns.

Featured image: Photo by Matt Howard on Unsplash

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