In The Womb of the Storm

Under the clouds:
rain.

Cutting through monochrome shadow-skies,
the plane presses, deliberate, into the ceiling of the clouds,
the pitter-patter of drops against the pane
a torrential reminder of the unbreakable.
Hard surfaces abound, inviting static,
crescendoing cacophony
until—


…

In the womb of the storm:
calm.

There are no shapes here, only whispers.
A puff of vapor billows to my window,
inquisitive, and dissipates to explore other prospects.
A bolt of light is little more than an idea
passed from cloud to cloud with a soft laugh.
Someone quips a muffled thunder-rumble, and
the Parisian muse steps lightly by, calling,
“C'est tellement simple, l'amour.”



Sometimes another world I feel there is
Which, waking, I am far too laden down
To reach, but with a fleeting close of eyes
Nor weight, nor skin and bone cling to my soul,
Where whim is want and want is truth and truth—
O thing elusive—is simplicity.


…

Above the clouds:
sunset;
my whims and wants personified behind a pane.

Big booty, numbah two!
Numbah two, big booty.

Giants

Under the warmth of your foreign hands
my ribcage was a candelabra--an unknown comfort
pressed away my woe and set ablaze the
guardians of my heart.

My world, (smaller then and brittle with longing)
on first report, leapt full-force into flames,
and I was carried upward on the thermals to slip,
with you, into forbidden bliss.

into each other.

O, how fast the wax can melt under so bright a blaze.

Viewed from above, we imagined, the scorched remains
would read like myths of old--
titans raged and armies clashed and
through it tangled lovers rolled and
burned.

and burned and melted.

and puddled.



Look at the stars:
we are tiny.

The bitter, black, and burnt
with time gave way to shrubs,
a whisper of the life to come,
and saplings, hopeful and trepid, tiptoeing towards the sky--
a forest soon to come but sometimes, still,
I wander through the brush, tracing out
our charcoal dusted path,
and smile

at O, what giants once we thought we were.

-------

Happy still-relatively-new-year!

Remember this time last year, when we all started our 365 blogs, intending to have a post for every day of the year? After a year of hard work, my total comes to... forty-seven. Forty-seven posts.

I still like the idea of having something structured to encourage creation, but 365 was a bit much. How about... 52? My new year's resolution is to put reasonable effort into making this a poem-a-week blog. For a while I've had an idea for a narrative cycle of sonnets that would take place over one year (my usual fixations: romance, dreams, the changing of the seasons), and this might be the place to get started on that.

Check back next Tuesday, and see if I'm serious :D