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It is a rather glum and gray day in York. My own spirits are decidedly low, despite the bursting Beltane energy all around me. The city is humming with it; concrete can't stop that. But, my thoughts are turned a little more inward, poking around dark hallows that I never really enjoy exploring, and the drizzle outside makes me feel cooped up within a sphere of negativity. 

So, in honor of a very different sort of rain, a very different sort of mood, and a very different landscape, I thought I would post this poem from a while back...

In the west a storm boils up
crawling on clouded belly across the mesa
loose and slick, a snake that moves faster than you think.
It strikes sudden with a rush of feral power.
It strikes sudden and makes the dogs howl.

Hot and furious lightning licks, stirs the dust devils,
ghosts of the sun, to scurry over the dry land
shriek and moan through my long tangled hair.
It makes my body shake with the fear.
It makes my hackles lift.

And down in its curtain comes the rain
fat drops of dread and promises of hope
flicked gray and green and golden.
It makes the spirit in me rise.
It makes the spirit howl.



( 1 comment — Leave a comment )
Jul. 13th, 2010 06:42 pm (UTC)
I'm not sure why you even have a category labeled bad poetry. I have always thought that your stuff is great. I like this one a lot. It makes me yearn for New Mexico storms.
( 1 comment — Leave a comment )