8, 3×8, Storm 6
Then, I heard the thunder would come
but mouths murmered, the top end cut
So I never really got it
Their predictions had none or less
crunch or grind to my mouth, my eyes
now the thunder here, behind woods
does the scrape that only skies do
dumps all the folds in the stratos
rattling the bin of history.
We are talking, when the thunder
comes, stops us, sets us up on posts
ready for the whip-cracks, the fright
deep fright of the millions year
dark creep of the cloud-shadow, fast
ancestor. It puts us on edge.
I love it so much I could end
arms outstretched with one last static
shock to end all shocks, to end storms.
But you still tend orchids outside
As the rain tends all other plants
then sit close and we wait breath tensed
baited with small sounds to draw out
deeper ones. Each new paradigm
storm sound to teach all others how
2, 3×6, Storm 5
Thunder comes once when I
am stood among poetry
among the old books, new
Only once, but enough
to set a featureless
day in stone memory.