Struck by Lightning

Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment; cheerfulness keeps up a kind of daylight in the mind, and fills it with a steady and perpetual serenity. – Joseph Addison

What if I want to write another poem
on love?  Would that be alright?  Would I need
to apologize?  Last night, the rain fell
just when we were thirstiest, and
as I held you, I listened to the whack
of water smacking against the window.
I watched the drops stain the glass, the blowing
thin-twigged bush outside our bedroom that I've
paid more attention to of late, greeting
it when I wake in the mornings, its gold
buds barely visible except in light
of sun rising.  I am trying, lately,
to form new habits, to notice the small
beauties that surround me and to practice
gratitude.  So, last night when the storm came
I remembered that you love my touch, that
the way my fingers skim your back sends chills
so I traced the outlines of your tattoos
again and then attempted to recall
if I’d ever had an experience
like this− if I've made love to the background
sound of thunder and rain pelting louder
than the music playing to set the mood
and if I have, I can’t now remember
so even though I knew I left my books
outside in danger, I stalled, centering
in the moment, hallowed by our presence
and our choice to still and to acknowledge
that inside love there is something holy
to be revealed so even beckoned by
the worry for my words, surely soaked by
now, I waited until I felt the beat
of your heart slow down.  We unfolded
bodies, redressed and walked out into
the rain, letting the cold drops pelt our skin
welcoming the blasts of wind because in
the desert, we’re parched and storms are something
of a thrill, but still, after rescuing
the abandoned books, we sought safety in
the car, enthralled like children, saying, “Did
you see that one?” whenever lightening flashed,
hunting the sky with eagle eyes for streaks
so as not to miss one and I wished for
a moon roof because they seemed to strike right
above us and you said you could under-
stand how people could want to chase storms and
I nodded and said I understood why
kids and dogs are so afraid of thunder-
storms because even inside the bubble
of the car, the sky lit, at times, so bright
and there seemed to be no seconds between
that and the thunder that I couldn’t help
imagining what it must be like when
one is struck by lightning so I dabbled
in the fancy of our house on fire
even once we’d fallen back into bed
but then I remembered that once before
I’d been struck by lightning – it was when we
first made love, so I settled down against
your warmth in the hollow of the blankets,
fulfilled and remembered that nothing bad
had ever come from entering the storm.

The Sunday Whirl

The Sky

Listen to the sky.  The clouds are slipping
                                                 down
coming
closer,
sliding nearer. 
Do you hear
the pull? 
The rain forming, thick?  Ready to release,
pour down her healing…

I hear
her voice in my dreams sometimes-
                                         soft
and whispering
of a coming storm but comforting,
revealing secrets. 
She tells me where there’s shelter.

Can you taste the air tonight? 
It’s sharp and sweet. 
It smells like sleep.
It’s winding
closer. 
There-
it’s settling
in our bed.

The stars position
                                        outside
                                        our window-
flickering night lights
It’s all for us.

Now,
      we wake
to a shroud of mist.
The land
is damp.  The day is glass.  We tiptoe
out
and our footsteps vanish in the grass. 
Our breath appears. 

Listen, do you hear the sky
call out your name?   
There- under feet,
do you feel the rub
of the ground-
          the mud moving
between your toes,
beneath your heels,
responding?

Fashion your feet with the not yet bloom,
the not yet green.
     Soften your skin
with the glisten of the dew.

There – now do you hear
the sky chattering
now shattering
the barely yet
blue?

The sky is shifting, reshaping
but I know where to hide,
where we can watch
the downpour roar.

Listen- it’s christening the earth.
  It’s christening you.   

It’s falling fast, beating out your name. 
It’s all for you.  It’s all for you.

Now, the sun shines.
The sky sighs. 
Now, she’s humming low. 
Close your eyes and listen. 
She’ll talk all day
and tuck you in tonight.

The Sunday Whirl

The Blue

The night sky is different tonight- the blue more royal,
so the clouds more white,
so low and so full
that only space
of blue is showing
and looking up,
               it’s like looking down,
like the swollen clouds
are land
and the sapphire sky is sea
and the sea is breaking- the space widens
and I, grounded, am privileged
with an upside down somehow,
birdlike view of the show.
My face is lifted. 
I can’t help but watch, to try
and memorize
the heavens. 
It is on these rare nights
that I can most envision
The Second Coming.
The moon is full and brilliant,
but the clouds
tonight are uninhibited
and operating under
full spectrum command,
stealing glory.
The moon’s role, it seems, to showcase
the slow-fast movement
of those low snow-light clouds.
The sky is layered. 
Beyond
and more and more
beyond. 
Clouds at base,
moon and heat
of stars at height
of vault above.
The moon at first, imbound ,
glows brightly even through
and the clouds pass over, cover, pass
over, cover, hiding,
whispering, washing, shining
until at last the moon
released, seems to fall down the sky
      as the clouds rise,
stretch out wispy,
wistful fingers as if still trying
       to grasp the beauty
of the orb.
I marvel at the feat
and later try
to name that blue: Azure,
Indigo.  More specifically: 
Berlin, Midnight, Navy, Prussian
or Parisian.
Some poet could, I think,
should name that blue
and write
a poem about the blue, its shade,
                      the clouds, the moon,
and how it fell.

Arid

cacti
clothe this arid terrain,
       this sapless, sepia soil.
night comforts,
relieves, then rested sun rises
again to torment.
the air smells
sharply
of carnage and ruin.
tongues of insects
are calling out in need
of rain.
tiny reptile
toes
scurry across sand, searching
shade.
overheard, in sky,
overhead,
in adagio chirping, creatures
                         singing
a torrent tango.

Punctuates

The rain first falls wishful,
                       wanting more.
More than the sidewalk,
more than the gutter, more than the elementary
school blacktop
empty now of lanky players.

It falls wistful
        like
      a grandmother breathing,
                       yearning
    for marshes; dry, praying
                               prairies;
forgotten ghost town
forests.

Lacking these,
              the rain jockeys
for attention, pounds
              the storm
              takes the city siege,
                     sends drops down
in droves,
     driving citizens toward safety.
     
People rush awkwardly for cover;
            hurrying
though careful of the slippery pavement,
and the brimming puddles.

The murky morning,
warning enough for fools,
clouds
constructing mood,
          though most paid no mind, ignored
the smattering, rolling roars,
distant but close enough to hear.

Now the rain grows into rhythm,
                                               heckling
with her timing and her beat
                       all
unlucky souls huddled under quagmire
and awnings.
A few brave pedestrians
with their umbrellas and their purpose
march on through the magic
         happening
between the cracks
      where the soil silkens.

The people
befuddled by the weather
though it has run for eons on such
cyclical
                   systems.
The people with their gear, lamenting
frizzing hair
like moisture is akin to electric shock.
The writers
            isolating in their safe house
coffee shops, penning sulky
           stories,
adding for affect a necessary storm,
like their minds
are individual nations unsurpassed
and can only thrive at selective span
and far away from others.
The people feigning casualty
walking slow like they don't care.
The stuffy, puffy business folk
                  peeking out
                            bespattered
windowpanes,
huffing, checking watches,
                                  wondering
if they can still make lunches.
And just across the downtown street
                    of the high rise buildings
                                          sit the sleazy bars
where patrons come rain or shine.
Some weathering the deluge
just to get their whisky, rum, their gin.
The rain
       respects this - at least they thirst.
Their counterparts across the way only know
                                    of hunger
and not a thing of pain.

The rain ceases razor pelt, falls short
        and punctuates.

The Sunday Whirl

The Moon

Hung like a hammock,
the moon, in the black, night sky,
smiles but barely.

Day 1 – February 1st – Theme: Freestyle


submitting at The Haiku Challenge

Vast

Source: None via Nicole on Pinterest

That I could see the world with Wordsworth's hope-filled eyes,

                                   Romantic wonder.

                                              To find within the simple, that which is profound.

                                                    If I could be so close to heaven

                                                                                            and majesty-declaring angels.

But, ahhh, it lays before me, vast, in tiny moments and my eyes are opened wide.