Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

Category 5

i have rarely been gentle with myself

at times my inner storm bursts forth and i lash out at those closest to me

it is a cyclical pattern as predictable as the spinning cyclones birthed upon the waves each hurricane season

o for the calm that resides in the eye
to trust that change will come in its own good time
that the divine does her work with or without my help or obstruction

o for the will to simply stop spinning and listen
the patience with my broken self and the brokeness in others
whose perceived stagnancy
reflects my own
and spins the inner rage
which so often overflows
in word and deed

o for the silence
that follows the whirlwind
that calls me forth from
the cave of my
skewed assumptions
into a spirit
of deep love and
quiet grace

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

when the sky is fire

when the sky is fire
be not afraid
of the wind
which heralds
the coming storm

the dark clouds
touched by flame
of the rising sun
will water an
earth that is
bone dry

and you too who
walk beneath
the burning sky
with dry dreams
shall find them
wet with rain

Posted in Musings and Reflections

This Maelstrom of Myopic Malignity

In these waning days of summer, when the clouds hang low in crooked shades of blue, heavy with promise, it seems the Dixie storms of my boyhood home have joined the dark migration from the South to here.

Unlike my brown sister, I was not forced to leave by men in white robes, whose cries of hate in the dead of night remind me of the grinding thunder outside my window, the flashes of guns and fire crisscrossing that landscape long ago like the lightning inside the billowing sky.

I make it inside before the clouds open up, but my mouth is thick with the bitter taste of sulphur, my eyes blinded by the strikes, my ears ringing with the booming of ugly words, my heart filled with fear.

I have yet to find someone who can walk between the raindrops, who can step out into this tempest and not get wet. I must succumb to the baptism, confess my capitulation, and admit that I too have contributed to the din of divisiveness, to the howling hurricane of hate.

I cannot control the weather. Yet I can control my response to the storm.

I can wall myself off from the tempest or I can offer shelter to another who seeks refuge from the deluge.

I can let the thunder drown out my voice or I can let my silent prayers reseed the clouds.

I can cower in fear from the strike or step boldly outside, turn my face to the sky, and scream my resistance into the pelting rain.

I can listen with joyful ears as the ugly water disappears with a roar into the gutter, running blindly underground, until it dissipates with a whimper in the bright brine of the cleansing sea.

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

After the Storm

after the storm scattered debris
so to in the world in me
dead things torn away by the wind
so that the new can grow again

Posted in Art and Photography, Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

The Way of the Leaf 50 / Heiwa Haiku 87

After the tempest ~

Florescent leaves paint my world ~

God as Picasso

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

You And I Were Born With Hearts Of Lightning

You and I were born with hearts of lightning.
Who or what has stolen our fire?

Reach out to the sky.
Reach out to the why.

Let the storm within calm the storm without calm the storm within calm the storm without.
Let your whisper be a shout.
Let the IT out.

Now is not the time to let your ashes grow cold.
Face the storm.
Lift your eyes to the rain.
Cry.
Breathe the fire in and out.

You and I were born with hearts of lightning.
Raise your hands until you crackle with
the electricity of love.

Electrocute me.
And
Never
Let
Them
Steal
Your
Fire.

December 19, 2007

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

After The Storm

image

I am the eastern sky fiery red.
I am the umbrellas left for dead.
I am the shredded skin on metal bones.
I am the wet pedestrian walking home alone.

I am the lonely thing that was cast away.
I am the dawning of another day.
I am the puddle drying out in the sun.
I am the muddy one.

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

The Coming Storm

image

waiting
nervous anticipation
eyes roving
wild imagination
flashlights water bottles matches

radar
boiling blue mass
terrifying
wracking brain
freezer stocked
food supplying
charcoal grill
generator close
clothes drying
here it comes
snow falling
now there’s no denying

flashlights water bottles matches
batten down the hatches!