The Sun Storm
While I was visiting my daughter in Toronto recently we composed a sad poem from refrigerator magnets with “happy” words on them. When I got back to Chatham, I started to work on my own poem and found that I enjoy putting disparate words together to see what they will become. It’s like magic as the story is revealed right before your eyes. This is the result of my first solo effort.
The sun storm’s cool
as frantic rain and delirious beauty rip the summer sky,
and ugly shadows recall purple winds of spring’s mad sea.
Tiny fingers soar over the misty mean
playing daring music beneath black dreams,
urging time to worship the golden moon.
A garden symphony doth wax and drool
while here me lies in languid sleep,
whispering for life in a mother’s scream.