A’s for the Aurorae. Loom there two:
the first’s Australis,
whose plum plumes illumine views down south. The
second’s Borealis.
Its heighted lights ignite bright nights in
thermospheres up north.
My
God! Bipolar pairs! (No
third Aurora? Nor no fourth?)
B is for the Belt of Venus: atmo- [species] -spheric [genus].
Pinkish tints mint hints o' ‘she’ness. Yellowness?
A bit. Less greenness.
Note its horizontal leanness. (Watch
out, weatherwonk! You’ve seen us
eye such skies: obscene’s your meanness: rum attempts to come between us.
Cease! Desist, you cyst, you…penis! (Finis! Amen! Amen! Finis!)
Letter C? ‘Tis for Chinook, Grant's wayward
wind which waxes warm
whene'er it's blowing true to form – or so
pronounces Nixon’s book.
Dick’s tome’s a tell-all Tricky took from
off some freshmen in his dorm,
although such nicking’s not Dick’s norm:
swears Milhous, “I am not a crook!”
Letter D? ‘Tis for Derechos, squalls
whose palls give sheiks the shakes.
Like diesel trains -- huge trains, not HOs, D's tow wind shears in their wakes.
To flee, as Holden Caulfield chose, wise
Waco folks do all it takes
to pull up stakes, release the brakes…then
run like hell, for heaven’s sakes!
E’s for Elephanta, winds one can’t connect with Cannes,
with Santa Ana or Atlanta, Timbuktu or
Kazakhstan,
but can
with India, where Fanta’s set aside the Gold Spot brand.
(What damage lesser breezes can’t accomplish, elephantas can.)
F’s for Firn, a sort of snow. (It’s not
spelt ‘fern’ – that much I know.)
As schoolboys learn, the Eskimo, empair'd, adjourn from Noolaaghe Doh,
and, one with quern and one with hoe, contrive
to churn each glacier so,
to turn such firn as lurks below. (Shall
both re-turn? I’ll not say
no.)
G is for Graupel, a rime, hail'd as “small hail” some most of the
time.
Graupel grows in a supercool’d clime and
makes snow moguls so-o-o-o hard
to climb.
(Note my punning? My internal rhyme? Him
who limns feels his hymn’s quite sublime.
To those readers who don’t, I say, “I’m…sure my puns fit this victimless crime.”
Letter H is for Haboobs, whose dusts, of
sepia and ruby,
roil and boil – like surfer’s tubes – to
buffet both: big-brain'd and boobie.
Whether you an Okie Reuben or a
Rubik’s-Cubein’ Sioux be,
blows from ‘boobs will bruise your
pubes: ‘boobs fell both fakes and “-lievers (true be-)”
I’s for Injun Summer when thermometers
again
achieve their August levels. Bummer, ‘cuz
such warming waxes. When?
When we’ve already weather’d frosts. Such
freaking flux is uncontroll’d.
Forget McCutcheon! With our luck, we’re
sure to catch our death of cold.
(Great-grandad, later, sued for
reprints; long and loud did Grampie scold.
The Tribune’s claim (“The damn thing’s
incorrect”) appear'd below the fold.
Nostalgi’ns ‘cross the USA, when they’ve
been subsequently poll’d,
extoll: “We love John’s piece to
pieces.” But, although the Trib’s cajol'd,
‘tis all for naught. Chicago's daily is (eventually) sold.
Now John’s cartoon lives on the web, while
my lampoons are showing mould.
J is for Jet streams. Don’t fret: they’re
not wet dreams.
Think fast! Blink! They’ve pass’d -- like no biker you’ve met. Seems
they’ve, lest we forget, quite a
character set.
Loom they lofty? You bet! Like my hued
minaret,
Or your blued clarinet. Or her rude
cigarette,
Or his nude statuette. What you see’s
what you get…
[Please attend how I sweat. Help me end
this vignette.
I’d be so-o-o-o in your debt. Send for gents and a net!]
K’s for Kat- (they howl down mountains, mesas, heaps and hills) -abatic Winds.
For Kat-
(as with Jill’s hill, at bottom, something spills) -abatic Winds.
Such winds do not perform well ev’ry time: they're some erratic
ones.
What are
they (Karabatics) most like? Semiautomatic
guns.
L is for Levanters, winds that rock around Gibralter.
Their keening’s kin to cantors’ kvells. Still,
seldom do they falter.
Were Levanters Corybants, sir, Keenan
Wynn would haunt their altar.
But as years pass, fears grow scanter, and
folks’ scorn Wynn’s sworn to alter.
M is for the Monsoon Wind, a monsterous
affair.
In this, our “mondo de monsoon”
-- mon Dieu! – we've monsoons everywhere.
Out in Mongolia, Montana,
Montenegro monsoons blow.
(Were she in Mon, they’d nick the frickin’ frock off Marilyn Monroe.)
N’s for Noctilucent Clouds. They’re high. They’re dry. Their guise ain’t
dowdy.
Noctilucents shine at night when, otherwise, dark skies ain't cloudy.
Ties have they to climate change? Guys –
Yung et al. – have so avow’d. He
leads that loud and rowdy crowd who, framing
“nocts,” exclaims, “Boy howdy!”
O’s for Oobleck, that climatological goo
sent by Seuss, Dr. Seuss (who’s Ted Geisel to you),
to Bartholomew Cubbins with mucho ado,
to help wring from Bart’s king an ”I’m
sorry.” ('Tis true.)
The letter P’s for Palouser, pronounc’d, folks fancy, “pal-uh-SAIRE.”
I Googled it and found its lair. They said, “Pronounce it “PAL-uh-saire,”
which nail'd it not (a lot they care). One
kill'd my cow (which just ain’t fair)…
unless it was that solar flare. (At
base, they’re but vast blasts of air
which fuss – and muss not just your
hair.)
Q’s for Quasi-stationary Front,
the front that tends to tarry.
Squatting on an air-mass barrier, it’s
temps tend not to vary –
out at sea where floats the ferry; inland,
o’er the western prairie.
(QSFs, though not too scary, are,
in fact, liquescent. Very!)
R’s for Raining Cats and Dogs. It pours! It sogs! No “pitter-pats.”
Our streets aren’t clogg’d with fungo
bats but fat – nine meter! – cedar
logs.
It floods our flats -- turn'd cranb’erry
bogs! For togs, wear Wellies; lose your spats.
Some call it “non-non-aqueous”: (We’ve
not the foggiest what that’s.)
S is for St. Elmo’s Fire’s fluorescent blue or purpl’y glow. Be
Pequod’s mate, one Starbuck, spotting
plasma’d gas in Melvelle’s Moby
Dick? Yes, as does Shakespeare’s Ariel, who’s
charg’d by Prospero
to stir the tempest in the drama called The Tempest, don’cha know.
T is for Tsuname. (‘Tis as well for Tidal
Wave.)
“They follow earthquakes,” swann’d our
swami, “and the harm they do's most grave.
When one looms, alert your Mommie. She,
with me, shall shout, ‘Be brave!’”
(One did; Sri collar’d his salami and hightailed
it for his cave.)
U is for Uncinus – cloud de la crook
–
thusly call’d, in the Latin, to
designate ‘hook.’
They’re, god knows, spare as nose hairs
on Alaistair Cook,
and de
trop in the troposphere, realm of the rook.
Seen in pairs, they’re term’d ‘mares
tails’ – a phrase best forsook –
and adhere to the cirrus. See, here:
take a look!
What precip they let rip most elect not
to brook.
And, what’s worse: like this verse, they’re
terse gobbledygook.
V’s for the Virga, which hails from on high –
not as hail but as ice crystals. Down,
down they fly,
and then, all of a sudden, they
sublimate. Why?
Because air pressure’s hot. Such occurs
where it’s dry.
She who’s witness’d, come sunset, a
Virga-gilt sky
sighs as salmon-soak'd streamershine brightens her eye.
(NASA’s Phoenix saw Virga on Mars in
July
of ’08, when their JPL lander dropp’d
by.)
“W’s for Williwaw. It’s katabatic, cold and raw –
a wintry blast best held in awe. ‘Twill
freeze your knees…with tooth and claw.
When ‘Waw’s are due, you’d best
withdraw; no move may prove your
tragic flaw.
Don’t hem! Don’t haw! Don’t set your
jaw: You’ll ne’er play “Willies” to a draw.”
With this – and more – Quick caution’d
Shaw as sat they down to tailgate slaw.
“Haw-haw-dee-haw, Quick Draw McGraw. No
way you’re layin’ down no law.
Your caveats stick in my craw. You’re
nowt if not petit bourgeoise.
P-s-s-s-s-s-s-shaw,” said Shaw with gruff guffaw. Then,
chaw in jaw, again: ‘Haw-haw!’”
When last I saw ol’ G. B. Shaw, ‘twas as
he pitch’d through roll and yaw.
Then, looking like a man of straw, he
wafted high and waved his paw.
“Bid ‘sayonara’ to my Maw and ‘hasta pronto’ to my squaw!”
(I trust this ain’t his last hurrah: We’ll
forge for George when dawns Spring’s thaw.)
X is not for Hunger Moon, who fails to fill my empty spoon.
X is not for Lenten Moon, who hails my fasting from the prune.
X is not for Planting Moon, who warns, “Your weeds remain unhewn.”
X is not for Flower Moon, whose thorns en
rose effuse come June.
X is not for Thunder Moon, who stalks the ruinous monsoon.
X is not for Green Corn Moon, whose candlepow’r can’t shine too soon.
X is not for Harvest Moon, of whom ersatz Bing Crosbys croon.
X is not for Hunter’s Moon, whose glow was known to Daniel Boone.
X is not for Beaver Moon – nor Moon Baboon, nor Moon Racoon.
X is not for Long Night Moon, whose beams, it seems, are seen at noon.
X is not for Bony Moon, who proves, to Cherokees, a boon.
X is not for Barley Moon, who figures in the wiccan’s tune.
X is not for Mourning Moon, who rises of an afternoon (!)
X is not for Goodnight Moon (though now my po’m proves picayune).
X might
be for Yellow Moon. (“But ‘Yellow’
boasts no ‘X,’ you loon.”)
Then let X be for Xanthin Moon: it’s yellow-like.
(How opportune!)
Y’s for Yellow Snow. It isn’t what you think.
“Three kinds of yellow snow are seen,” say
snow men...with a wink.
“The first is air pollution. Yeah, our
planet’s on the brink.
Another? Pollen turns snow gold. But,
no: it doesn’t stink.
The third is sand. Sometimes, sand turns
snow black or brown… or pink.
(The yellow snow kids’ bladders sow you
don’t want near your rink.)"
The last letter’s Z. It’s for Zephyr,
a breath mild – prized by child, pup and
heifer.
Currents? Hush’d: those who’re “shush!”ed
grow no deafer.
Loved by “-Titi” – arch queen known as
“Nefer-.”
