I wrote this poem many years ago, 1998 according to my dating on the last line. It is more than it seems: see if you can figure out what it is really about.
I haven't read it in years. It amazes me that I actually had/have the ability to write like this. The imagery and words are powerful and evoke such strong emotion. I wonder, now, where the fuck did my talent go? I used to see myself as a writer first, before all things, including friend. Now, writing is such a challenge; the words do not flow the way they used to in the past. I still have moments of inspiration, moments when the words flow out of me like water (See post: Naked). Lately, I have felt verbally constipated. I have ideas, great ideas. I sketch them down and think about them, but when the time comes to put words to paper or keyboard... I get... stuck. I need some lube. Send me an idea, and if it inspires me, I'll use it in my blog. I'll even give you credit for the idea.
Until then, enjoy my poem. It is one of my favorites.
Thunderstorm
Thunderstorm
In the distance, yet, but a dream,
it waits. Gathering, dark clouds about its
feet, the sky presses forward with a soft
rumble of life, a whisper of what is to come.
Electricity crackles, arching from cloud to
cloud, as they grow, and darken. The rumble
is louder now, a murmur of intensity,
a growl of suppressed frenzy. Closer, it
moves, building, gaining, growing, darker
and darker. The thunder is not far off now,
lightening flashes in the sky. Fat drops
of rain begin to fall, dampening the dirt
with an earthy, primal reek. The growl
crescendos, a great roar, the grumbling
bass of a powerful beast. Exploding in the
air, cracking, crashing, the rain pounds down,
forcefully, seemingly unceasing. Lightening
strikes the ground, a powerful spike. The
frenzied thunder rolls on, getting softer.
The downpour passes, too, moving on.
Only soft rain remains, a gentle shower,
a mellowed reminder of the awesome storm.
3.26.98
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