Tag Archives: storm

THE SOUND OF FURY

 

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It could be explosions at sea
that cloud our sky, dim the peaks
that guide us home at dawn

as thunder cells return to the scene
of the Rough Fire, thermals billowing,
vortex rising in a fire storm.

The mountains wear the violence
that has shaped them, know the sound
of fury in all its beautiful colors.

 

IN A STORM

 

Four dry cows: two old,
one young and one
whose calf came too early

run together
apart from nurseries
and nosey calves—

four girls content
to be not seen or found
on vacation

in a far corner
of a thousand acres
with water and grass—

hear the diesel purr
and goosenecks rumble
with horses pass

and pretend to be
invisibly still within
an army of oak trees.

They have no calves
to brand, no reason
to be included

and refuse to go easily—
split and make the girls
cowboy-up, leap

brush and rock
and cuss like sailors
in a storm.

                         for Robbin and Terri

 

AFTER THE STORM

 

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The birds sleep later now,
new guests in boughs without nests,
overwintering—coyotes and bobcats

hunt late in the morning chill
as we wait for sun
to break the ridge line,

eager and easy into the day
now that it’s rained
enough to start the grass,

settle four years’ dust—
cotyledons claim puddle mud,
arms open to new light.

 

WRITING A STORM

 

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Metal roof
machine gun fire,
strobe lightening
and rolling thunder:

cracks rip black
with jagged light,
redbud silhouettes
dance with the dark

               like the Fillmore,
               like the Shrine—
               endless bass
               rocks the canyon,

canons bark with flame
and the war goes on and on.

               Moist breath,
               eager heart electrified
               not to be contained
               within old skin.

               On stage:
                              the Doors
                              Janis Joplin wild with
                              Jimi Hendrix crescendos.

Last flashes break with dawn.
Inch-seventeen all in the ground—
she hasn’t lost her touch
with how to make it rain.

 

PILLOWED CLOUDS

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I used to think that inside the deep heart
of the world gone wild, that we all wanted,
craved, needed, or would acquiesce to,

                         a yet to be identified
                         common soul:
                         a ‘peace and love’ tranquility
                         where we all got along
                         with our dreams—

a musical, moaning chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’
that kept us busy feeling fine as frog hair,
trying harder to make life better for everyone.

But how could heaven’s everlasting light
be so great without a dark side, without the moon
rising in new places dressed in different phases
behind the skeletons of oak and tops of pine?

                         Rain and storm for free.
                         Life from dust, the miracle
                         of green reaching up
                         to seed itself
                         against adversity

should be enough to brave the skullduggery
of all the power-hungry opportunists that slink
and lurk in the shadows. And what of poetry
rooted in the illusion of pillowed clouds?