Wind whips
the tips of trees
as the leaves
leap and swirl
dive and whirl
Scarlet corners brown and curl.
Grey sheets of rain batter the door
as fire crackles, safe from storm–warm
blackened wood smells of home,
yet even so,
my heart would roam.

Image result for fall storm


The sky has been waiting all day.
A thick whiteness and too-still air.
Humid streets pierced by white and red car lights,
Highways humming with efficiency
And pedestrians in black or khaki jackets.
Businessmen in business wear
All going about their business but the sky, was waiting.
There was a bright spot where the sun was hiding,
Rising and then falling as the whiteness faded
To a night that was not quite dark.
Although there were no stars,
Lights still split the roadway
But the sky was waiting.
Gradually the lights blinked out
Until all that was left
Was a spattering
Of what looked like stars, from high enough above.
It was as if the humans were,
In their ordered efficiency,
Trying to make up for the firmament’s odd, tranquil pause.
The sky was waiting.
I do not know what it was waiting for.
The first sign was when the wind began to blow.
It was as if she was warning us
Or perhaps heralding what was to come.
She was the hasty messenger,
The harried assistant,
Or the sudden angels.
The leaves swirled and branches bent.
In a yard someone’s basketball hoop was felled.
She tore at my hair and clothes,
Filling my lungs with the smell of the earth anticipating.
It was less than a minute’s notice for at last,
The sky was ready.
He had made it to the front of the line he was in,
I suppose,
Or finally had his on-hold cosmic telephone call answered.
The time was consummate.
The clouds were rent,
And a maraca of raindrops fell.

A Collection of Descriptive Poems

A swirl of whirling wind-wind
A freely blazing rage
The sudden stunning lightning
Roaring rhythm to the rain.

Dazzling dappled sunlight
Through golden-greenish leaves
As spinning spiraled breezes
Stir the song into the trees.

Nature races backwards
In orange and purple light;
Silent shadowed secrets
In the magic not-quite-night.

There is a music inside me…

There is a music inside me,
free of thought and language:
a voice that sings–
But lacking instrument,
this sparrow lacks her wings.

There is a magic inside me,
dancing like sparks from the fire:
a power that burns–
Though trapped by ignorance,
there’s still something in me that yearns.

There is a tempest inside me,
raging with wind and with fire:
turbulent mind-storm.
Thunder cracks, lonely and loud.
Jesus, get rid of this thorn!