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Weather Wizard’s Diary

Weather Wizard’s Diary

Because he thinks he can, a blind man
climbs Mount Everest, challenges feats
of extraordinary men who had shamed
strong-winged birds accustomed to heights.

On that note, what prompts me
to disregard my cursed affliction,
discard my wife’s objection and climb a wobbly
ladder? Oh, I could tell you about my malady--
but not now, for I must venture onto the roof
and tag the wind--the shifty, shifting wind.

“I think I can; I think I can,”
wheezes the little steam locomotive
that huffs and puffs inside my head,
and I set one foot on the tall ladder’s
first rung. I’m on a mission:
to prove the TV weatherman wrong.

“Clear sky, no clouds, no precipitation,
and it’s the same outlook for tomorrow,”
so he said.

Windbag! Liar, liar! I sense rain!
True, “If fleecy white clouds cover the heavenly
way, no rain should mar your outdoor plans today.”
but that “Pretty Weather Boy” is soooo wrong!

Cumulus congestus clouds tower in the south,
the ache in my joints predicts coming rain, and
my ringing inner ear is the barometer I can trust.
But does intuition make me a professional forecaster?
I need data to back up my gut feelings.

Until today, I gauged wind directions by holding
a wet finger into the wind, and estimated
its speed by observing swaying tree branches
and other vegetation. But now I must mount
an anemometer on the roof.

“Careful! Don’t be a fool,” my spouse says,
but I cast her valid concerns into the rising breeze.
The ladder sways beneath spasmodic legwork
of someone who ought to avoid high places.

Now exposed to growing turbulence on the roof,
I am a weathercock turning into the wind.
Even my tallest cypress yields to such strong
persuasion, but this fool persists—and so I sway—
and smile at those first falling raindrops.

(Word from below: “I’m receiving data . . . .”)

“Beam me down, Scotty,” I quip, yet pray
for the agility of a younger man to safely
make my way down— But, if not—
at least there’ll be a record of the force
and direction of those wily gusts
that blew me, toolbox and all,
ass over teakettle off the roof.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Review Request (Intensity): 
I appreciate moderate constructive criticism
Review Request (Direction): 
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Editing stage: 


"I'm gonna move that toe"!!!

A compelling and enjoyable read, Jerryk.


Hey, Obadiah,
thanks for the visit, and I most certainly will move that toe. Which one? Ma Nature bestowed me with nine--no--make it ten, lol. See ya on top of my roof, okay? Jerry

author comment

I related and enjoyed your poem very much I would have listened to your wife though your body is the bet forecaster this much I now your poem held my attention to the end


Hello Lynn,
Thanks for reading and liking my little yarn. Oh, let there be no doubt--I listen to my wife--a lot. Even when she has nothing much to say; I just gotta! Thanks again, JerryK

author comment

becoming one of those people that provides weather data to the local T.V. or radio stations? I've always wanted to do that!
Not so much to give people the heads-up on the possible weather, but just to hear my name on T.V. LoL I enjoyed your little yarn and a glad that you made it safely down to spin it. ~ Geezer.

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No, I'm far too busy to be glued to the dek or phone to pass on weather conditions, although I have a friend nearby who does. I simply use my instruments to be aware of those crazy weather changes. that might take the roof off the barn.
Yeah--my wife worries about me a lot. Get off that danged roof! Thanks for the visit.

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