Storm Animated Inspirations...
i.
In the dark I sit.
Several sputtering candles lit.
Lightning flaring
in ribbons and cracks
across the velvet blackness
of the wet nocturnal night.
On guard, I watch
at the window.
Praying not to see
a tornado
drop
capriciously
from the heavens.
Hail pelts the ground
adding to the wall of sound.
Vibrating powerfully
the space about me.
A-throbbing and a-thrumming.
A roaring cacophony
of timpanic rumbles.
A symphonic intonation
of male voices thundering!
Raucous brothers
rowdily rough-housing.
As they race one another
to the horizon.
ii.
A nascent pall,
begins to thickly gather.
Then boils over the horizon.
Eating the light
of the sultry afternoon.
Turning day to night.
Ominous growls of thunder,
rumble, then crescendo,
to an awe-inspiring roar.
Lightning flashes, white hot.
Splitting and fissuring
the roiling wall cloud
of blackened pewter.
Pregnant, with pure,
unadulterated Hell.
Driving rain
turned vertical,
by powerful
downdraft winds.
That also,
gives saplings,
the unholy bends;
as it whips and tears
the crowns of mature trees.
Chunks of ice,
cold-hardened fire,
hammer the Earth.
Gouging the green turf.
Knocking senseless,
small, hapless animals.
A situation, made impossibly worse.
As the Heavens' give birth,
to a mighty tornado.
Nature's Armegeddon...
iii.
Go Ask Her...
In our twenty-first century
patriarical society,
mankind is still of the impression
it is he, whom
has all of life
under his thumb.
And who could blame him?
Why, he can almost clone
himself, without intercourse,
much less, the aid of a woman!
Mankind has the power
of total annihilation beneath
the whorls of his index finger!
Flush and plumb,
one nation after another,
on the head of a button
marked: END OF THE WORLD-
ATOMIC BOMB!
Then, a force mightier than him,
foolish human,
reminds him of his inherent
precarious position
in the universe;
and the scheme of things.
As Mother Nature,
steps up to the counter,
throws together her favorite recipe-
"a can of whipped ass!"
In her kitchen between
earth and heaven,
she never stints
on the ingredients;
or is discriminatingly crass.
Dropping tornadoes to the ground
from her figurative hand,
like homemade biscuits
into a round pan.
To skip and hop
rapaciously, over the land;
across rich and poor, alike;
believer and non-believer;
spreading fear, mayhem
and unbelievable destruction.
And if you don't have a taste,
for her "cooking",
Would you like to play hardball
with Mother Nature?
She starts out slinging handfuls
of dime sized ice.
If you're lucky, she'll
pitch nothing else,
deciding to play nice.
Otherwise,
she might throw ice chunks
the circumference
of softballs!
And my friend,
that's not all...
Straight line winds,
upto eighty-five mile per hour,
uprooting, like more than one,
weak stemmed flower,
hundreds of trees!
The toppled crowns
of the older ones fall,
dragging down lines
of manmade power...
Leaving him, without electricity.
A situation, both dire and dour.
Now, don't you whine!
For Mother Nature,
she could undermine
the situation further...
Adding insult to injury!
Causing ponds, lakes and rivers
to overflow and flood
low lying areas.
Leaving home after home,
full of mud and crud,
when the swollen waters recede.
Having completed, their awful deed.
Me, I don't care
what mankind believes.
I know who "the boss" is-
each person"s interpretation
or their Higher Power.
But "the other boss",
isn't us, mankind.
It's Mother Nature.
If you don't believe me,
go ask her...
vi.
Another Thunderstorm Take
Life is a terminally clear, robin's egg blue sky.
Time after time, relentlessly, crackled and fissured,
by white hot, filamented arcs, of electrical lightning;
followed by capriciously, violent thunderstorms.
Arranging technical difficulties; power outtages;
and enough noise, to wake the walking dead.
No matter how hard you may try to maintain,
keeping up a semblance of normalcy,
amongst, naturally organized, impending chaos-
the sky never fails, to crack wide open;
on schedule, if you've noticed!
Pelting one with stinging raindrops
and icy hot stones and pebbles of hail.
And there you are again,
right back where you started;
in the middle of the last
unexpected thunderstorm.
Bruised darkly, right down to the bone;
drenched to your prickled and reddened skin.
Just like the day you were born;
and will ultimately die.
Even if you are caught unawares,
with 10,000 other, silently screaming, maniacs;
being heavenly stoned, by a symbolic hellstorm.
We all die alone, even in a crowd of the walking dead...
So, life; you might as well embrace it.
Just pray you're left standing and breathing,
in it's stormy, sheet lightning ripped,
hail riddled, thunder ravaged, wake.
That is, if you can't run for cover,
telling "Katie to bar the door", behind you;
to coin a phrase; while you dive into the deeps,
beneath your pillowy bed; as life goes on,
around you, right outside your
closed, shuttered window.
v.
Angry, masculine, pewter rain
drizzles, pours and drips, drips, drips
from the edges and tips,
of the jungle green
leaves of the catalpa.
She who rises,
head and shoulders,
above all but the cottonwood,
in her stately beauty.
Arrayed in the terminal
wardrobe of a May bride.
A profusion of tubular,
skirt edged blossoms,
veil her crown
of emerald,
but two weeks,
of each year,
in May...
Flowers freckled and speckled,
with rich burgundy and golden saffron,
down the length of their inner throats.
A frothy explosion of color,
against a backdrop
of pristine white.
Now windblown and rain driven,
in the middle of the night,
to the field of St. Augustine,
lying across and about,
her far spreading roots;
to litter the ground,
at her feet, where
they have fallen
from her mighty crown.
The catalpa,
in her terminal,
bridal finery,
is a beauteous,
natural blessing,
to behold...
Until some over testonerized,
masuline, late spring thunderstorm,
shears her of her luscious blossoms...
vi.
Thunder rumbles agressively.
Lightning splits the skies asunder
in white hot arcs and fissures.
The dog across the field,
barks and howls in agitation.
Anxious, to be let in,
by it's owners...
I stand in the dark,
upon my back porch;
watching the masculinic,
angry storm roll over,
and across the dark
horizon; watching
the skies light up,
with the unholy
brightness,
of the dancing,
fire hot lightness...
Wishing uselessly,
like the dog I hear,
but cannot see;
there was someone,
available, to let me
into a safe haven;
from beneathe
the thunderstorm
that has become
my life and reality.
Rumble. Rumble. Roar.
Thunder speaks and growls.
Rain pours in sideways,
stinging slashes,
from mighty
downdraft
winds,
I can feel,
the danger of,
but not see...
I am the barking,
howling dog...
And the dog is me...
We are one, in our misery...
~Sabrina.
