Thunderstorm

Thunderstorm

 

Lightning strikes somewhere out there distant, just north and east

The silhouette creeping dimly through the darkened drapes pulled carefully over the windows each

-there to scream “stay away” to the world out there on any usual basis, except for maybe game day.

 Soon follows a low, beautiful echo that gently shakes the house; the earth, I count about six seconds

the first signs of both the oncoming storm, and of life outside to be had in days, possibly months

come to think of it, It has probably been days since even a thought of the outside world penetrated these walls,

-whether physically or metaphysically erected

 yet I find myself smiling as I reach for the door to be greeted by a rush of cool, restless air,

 I step outside onto the porch and take a drink of coffee as I look- first at the rattling trees in the valley below my home,

Their leaves celebrating a breath of life that might have been a bit too late to help them in any way,

then to the sky, where gray, propelled by that same breeze kissing my face, rolls over the tops of the trees

to smother the remainder of a once endless blue. I light one up and take in a drag.

 I always hated blue. Blue is such an ugly color. Emotionless and silent, it is best defined by the void it shades.

It says a lot about blue skies when it takes shapeless, white, colorless things to give any sort of character, any reason.

  - The only reason to look up at a clear sky is to imagine placing ones’ self beyond it, a bird or an astronaut,

travelling towards the chaos and the beauty of the endless heavens,

and that in itself for most is just a dream best left un-humored.

Another flash of lightning and I’m thrown back towards the rolling thunderheads, my spite gone now, replaced-

carried off on the tail of that hateful warm front that plagued us for days. The thunder echoes through the house,

 then my body, then my mind, as it hurls itself down into the valley, as if Poseidon’s horns were sounding

as he came on the back of gargantuan waves, But the ocean is much too far away for a dream as such,

I take another drink, another drag. My eyes closed, I simply take in the sounds for a moment

Before the first drops of rain fall as if on cue, however off-time the song of storms may be,

(As If their song is to be held to such humanistic standards anyways. Who says?)

The rain falls harder, shading everything around me just a little darker, except maybe the dog

Whose fur just seems to sparkle as the earth laps up each drop it can- filling ravines, causing streams.

             That will surely be as short lived as a dying mans dreams. Whats that a wise man said once? “it cant rain all the time”?  

Reviews

[Sharon L.H. Kelly]

I like your line "That will surely be as short lived as a dying man's dreams." This is a descriptive and flowing poem. I, too, could see the storm. Nice work!

[A.J.]

many thanks! I truly appreciate it!

[*Clare*]

This is a really long poem!
Its very descriptive. I could visualize the setting as I was reading this!
Very well written :)

[A.J.]

thank you very, very much!!