Late September


The late September thunderstorm drizzles gray on dark pavement.

The wind physically throws a tantrum of plants, chimes screaming alarm.

The trees relieve themselves of dead branches onto accumulated decayed leaves.

Darkness portends a bitter battle but refuses to acknowledge the calm.

The cars slide by with deeper tone, like a man’s voice taking over a woman’s.

The blinds clap merrily against the windows as I rush to keep dry beds.

The thunder is unexpected, rumbling like bowels filled with beans and broccoli.

A flash, a roll, a grumbling of disturbed pressure pockets, then wet, dripping, silence.


The Storm on “W”

Night time storms, hold the orange

Night time storms, hold the orange

The orange halo of the street lamp stands sentinel against the imposing shadows, ozone aromatizes the night.

The edges are fuzzy with skittering raindrops that become blurry with animated protests from jitterbugging leaves.

The paparazzi lightning flares vivid purple/white/lavender rapidly with undulating rolls of thunderous applause.

The gray asphalt steams refused moisture like a lover refusing to be lit afire with passion, darkened by gravity.

A gust of harsh wind bullies a weak branch with a vicious shove downward. Lightning showcases, thunder tattles.

The depression in the parking lot pools a pond where frogs take solace from the forest. They croak there.

The white noise lullaby on the tin roof begs to be only heard through drifts of deepening sleep which I can’t grant.

The wee hours tick-tock-tick-tock, the clock strikes 13, 4, 9, 11 but it doesn’t matter, I dream sleep away.

A Perfect Storm

I love a good storm. The kind where the wind blows so strongly it feels as if I jumped, I could fly as far as the winds would take me. Strong enough to tickle my clothes against my skin in strapping slaps. The kind that threatens imminent danger but harms nobody. The kind that cracks branches, throws flower pots, and stomps through the curtains flying in my windows.

I love a good storm. The kind where stepping out of shelter immediately soggys my clothing. The rain that forces me to seek an umbrella in a feeble hope that it will be enough. The kind of rain that outcries every sad moment; Cleansing deep down into my spirit.

I love a good storm. The kind that holds the early summer heat intimately as a lover. The kind that compels me to lay naked on my bed with the windows wide open, towels on the windowsills. The moment when the heat speaks the language of eternity and I bow in submission.

I love a good storm. The kind where rage-full graces flash across the sky. The kind that turns the sky with powerful strokes into a momentary masterpiece. The chocolate sky drizzles cotton candy oranges onto a grey palette. The kind that temporarily freezes the world; burning into my retinas. It’s a perfect snapshot of my world, gifted to my memories.

I love a good storm. The kind that sounds like it explodes my windows with the force of it’s response. The kind that shakes the earthworms up from their homes. The kind that startles me with its ferocity. Or the kind that washes the air with bass so rich the earth applauds. Man, I do love a good storm.