The Weather Makers

  Hi, I was especially drawn to this group because of the “poet tree”. Years ago, as a counselor in prison, I started a primitive version of this, by exactly the same title. I asked prisoners in “segregation” (a dark lonely place) if they would like to make some use of thier awful situation by writing poetry. We called the project the - you got it - “Poet Tree”. I gathered up 3 or four rounds of “limbs” to place in a photocopied compilation of poems, and distributed the publication to the interested parties in “seg”. Unfortunately, I transferred my employment to another prison soon after this project, so no real tradition was established. 
   Years later, after I happened to return to that particular prison, an inmate told me how important his participation in the “Poet Tree” had been to him - how it helped him reflect on his life and to use his mind in a more creative way. 
   Now, I am in segregation again - segregated, geographically isolted, from the members of this group who live “who knows where”! And here I am participating in The Poet Tree again, as though nothing has changed. What an irony! We are the one's who are changing. 
    Below is a poem that I just shared in the context of a discussion about how to handle anger in a love relationship. The thread was based on thoughts about anger shared by the Daali Lama (sp?) and Aaron Beck (cognitive psychology guru) as they talked with each other in a video that a moderator brought into the group (Integral, Postmetaphysics - or something like that! - group). 
   It thrills me to see how, like the branches and twigs of a tree, poetry can work its way into real life situations such as the personal sharings that inspired me to share the below poem in the first place. 
   Here (finally!) is the poem: 


The Weathermakers

We are the Weathermakers - 
Mr. and Mrs. .
You stepped this way
and I stepped that.

Your step started clouds
collecting a condensation of tears,
turning into bloated effigies
forming battalions pressing overhead, over heart.
Scorn, jagged and white hot,
jumps out from your dark disposition.
Suddenly, love is shattered,
blazing and smoldering.

My step started a drought,
collecting cracks in once-loamy soil,
turning into deep gaps,
forming a mosaic of distance under foot, underhanded.
Indifference, jagged and shadowy cool,
spreads out from my dry disposition. 
Soon, love is shriveled,
stagnant and evaporating.

We seldom recall stepping this way or that,
both left wondering
where the thunderstorm or drought came from, 
or why it came to this (or that). 
Way back, years ago, or only yesterday, we stumbled,
began pushing or moving away. 
Magnetic fields formed moist or dry air;
we worked the weather, 
whether we knew it or not.  

So, why don’t we use this or that power to step together,
form a gentle rain on a dusty path
we settle down softly?
Let’s hold hands and stroll home,
welcoming the sight of our front door,
where we’ll step onto a plush mat
that reads “The Weathermakers”. 


copyright 2005 Darrell Moneyhon

Re: The Weather Makers

wonderful, so glad you directed me here, Darrell! But you know, there are other poetry groups that are more active…

Love,

Nicole

Re: The Weather Makers

Hi Nicole, Yes, I will see how this moves, and if too slow, I'll try some other poetry groups, instead or and (probably and). The concept/title fit too well for me to go straight to the larger groups. Slow is OK if accompanied by enough heart-felt initimacy and/or quality of the artform. 
    Darrell

Re: The Weather Makers

You and I may be the only ones here at the moment :)