the clouds – a cinquain
the clouds
gather, scatter,
moonlight rimmed, limned, and trimmed,
outlined beneath a midnight sky,
the clouds.
mossy steps – a cinquain
moss grows
where shadows play
with rising clammy damp
footworn slick stone steps amass more
moss growth.
Broken Promise
The night lies still and silent;
even the dogs are quiet.
The clouds are thin and broken.
The early rain will not be repeated
tonight, though the air is warm
and thick with the promise
of more rain to come.
But not tonight, not tonight.
No wind
There is no wind.
The stifling air
hangs humid and heavy,
breathing is made harder,
is made to be work,
and the trees lounge around
like the layabouts they are,
not stirring nor swaying.
And all sound seems muffled
like even the air wants not to work,
wants not to stir but wants to stay
still, too calm, too warm, too humid,
no energy left but only to exist,
to persist, when even persistence
saps whatever energy there may be.
And so we persevere as well
expending as little energy as we can
so that we can endure
the stifling air
that hangs heavy and humid
when there is
no wind.
Storm Catcher – an unrhymed set of sonnets
North Toronto
I cannot recall if there was a time
when I did not watch the passing of storms,
see the rain front come over rolling hills,
feel the sudden blast of heavy showers,
blinded by lightning, deafened by thunder,
buffeted by blasts of wind cast aside.
It was always best to watch from within,
sheltering from the storm’s foulest beatings
yet feel the building shaking and rumbling,
windows clattering from blustering gusts,
panes rattling as over large raindrops struck,
spread, trickled, smeared, trailed down the outside glass.
And so to catch the storm’s sharp opening
go from stock still pines to wild whirling whorls.
Kolapore Uplands
There was the one time when we were caught out.
Just finished trimming back the overgrowth
along some forest trails, clearing out overhangs
and trailing roots that trip the unwary.
We were returning to the far field paths
that took us to our tract of woodland tracks,
but stopped in awe of a wall of grey cloud
glowering high above placid pastures.
We set our tools aside beneath one bush,
retreated a bit into the forest,
and huddled safe beneath some shorter trees
to wait out the storm, then go safely home.
And when it hit FLASHING, with massive BOOMS,
Nature burst – FLASH CRACK BANG – all around us.
Wolf River Canoeing
One summer, when we paddled our canoes
around the Wolf and Pickerel Rivers,
the sky turned dark and we heard the distant
roll and roar of thunder, a fair warning
to withdraw to the safety of the shore,
bank the canoes, retreat into the woods.
The storm hit like a bomb, what had been calm
went to sudden violence, walls of rain,
river standing waves threatened the canoes.
We rushed down to pull them further ashore
when lightning struck the water somewhere near
and I felt the spark pass between my legs.
Huddled, blanketed, we ate trail mix and
sheltered until the storm wore itself out.
Denpasar
Last night we quiet sat, when unforeseen
the rain came, starting sudden hard and fast.
I stood in the doorway and watched, to catch
the storm in full flight fury, wind thrashing,
streets flooding as unwary travellers
fled the onslaught, encased as best they could.
The lightning flashed across the sky, sometimes
followed by thunder, counting the seconds
from flash to rumble, knowing that the source
lay some distance away, nowhere close by,
clouded flash followed by muted grumble,
as the night swallowed the storm’s might and rage.
Yet the morning dawned clear, hot, humid, and
we wait till once more Nature rants and raves.
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