Skip to main content

The Nature of It...

The tornado that touched down in Missouri last night struck a town that I’m quite familiar with… Joplin. I live just forty-five minutes south and have several friends and relatives that live there.
With that in mind, I began to write...


The storm screeched its merriment over my eyes as the hail beat on its drum and the lightening flashed its grin northward. The wind exited center stage with its opus incomplete. Wait. Wait. Wait.

Her aria commenced again upstage, her lungs unfastening their violent breath down upon strangers, people known to me by their proximity to bereavement, by their plea for help, rising with a collective voice! Nature called down her trumpet, my kind, their neglect. Peering inward, hunger infects the air and soil as rage compresses flesh, weaves bone into dust and points skyward and calls it murder; sacrificial blood.

It’s the eartH’s prayer that brings me to mourn, not some divine plan, save for the one of my kind's caustic use, a raging death contraption rumbling over the loam with self-fulfilled calculation. Oh! Monstrous storm! My knees wobble their frailty beneath your raging hold, the news of death comes screaming in ahead of your full aggravation, train cars of coal and beam derailing their swift rebellion.

Amid the thunder and lightening and the pounding rain I thought, there’ll be enough blame to go around soon enough. Come to think of it; the images above seem familiar, reminding me of the devastation of war...


© 2011 by mark prime



Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

sdrawkcaB nruT (Turn Backwards)

I have been witness to the four pillars and see no reason to carry death there. Doesn’t the world know that life moves for more than just the sons of Abraham? O! I see the stunned throats floating by in the dusk to their stiff-limbed sleep as metal rains down over the Jordan’s western prophet, children dying there. I am here, waiting, breathing in the dusk under the shadow of the patriarch, asking, can we again build the shrine inside the soul and leave our flesh to time? © 2008 mrp/thepoetryman
32 comments
read the poem

Waiting for It

Why do they stay there, between war and peace? Sky’s tapestry doles out guns, bombs and rocks while flesh and bone swim away from the ache yet live on as the food for the murder of peace. Why do we hide from the truth as if it were an ogre while death makes a home inside their living and war dispatches a raven to their door, smirking with the teeth of empire? Why do we wait, stooped for another wink? The sky’s drapery has tossed down ample clues, peace is breathing in harmony with war. (Road-maps are useless to blind leaders.) Why do they hold there, hunched in the gloom? Hatred’s bird cackling with bereavement needs end. Are we not rightly dishonored when we fill its trough with blood? © 2007 mrp/thepoetryman
12 comments
read the poem

Laughter's Grip

They asked me to wait. To wait for God to come laughing, wait on His voice to destroy the golden temples of man, hold my tongue until His powerful breath was upon me, and from His loving casualties I’d at last know the Savior. They asked me to wait. To wait for God to come laughing, wait for His followers to die away their persuasive babble and the murder of Islam to breach the walls of the earth as the many damned souls drowned under holy laughter. “O! The Lord God is looming! On his way with God’s wrath! We are to take up swords and send evil howling back to die their well deserved and slow death! Their faces popped and spattered these words as they fell back, caught in His fiery presence, twisting their tongues into drivel and thrashing their minds in the glory of an Eden unlike any other. And then the snake planted his venom through the laughter of their gyrating madness. Tears emptied their pockets, spirits came crashing , and the anointed rapture of their making grew tire...
23 comments
read the poem