Thursday, March 17, 2011

storms


on grey rainy days,
I'm washed back,
swept down into,
my younger years,
standing in my Grandmother's house,
in her living room,
in the quiet shadows,
of an evening,
looking at a painting on her wall,
a clipper ship,
cutting dark blue waves of the sea,
gulls above the masts,
and perched on the deck,
navigating the black skies,
pushed and pulled,
there was a loneliness,
but a strength of aloneness,
plunging through the churning waters,
to the shore,
a courage to be,
amidst the fear,
amidst the risk,
and merciless storms,

her house is gone now,
the painting too,
I kept it in my mind,
so when my storms come,
I close my eyes to see it.

4 comments:

Old Ollie said...

I remember your grandma running her car until all the snow melted off her windshield.

That is one way to handle a storm.

Fisheye Lens said...

A dexterous demonstration that, in this Age of Anxiety par excellence, one can take solace in a solipsistic and emboldening self-awareness of being. I need to read this book -- perhaps the positing of a "God Above God" would pull me closer to some form of understanding and recognition.

The best kind of verse -- aesthetic ambiance embedded with a powerful set of ideas.

Harry Nicholson said...

There is a longing in this, and a soft melancholy.
We ache to know the name of the clipper - but that is not the point . . .

Juice Box said...

You always inspire me to keep writing. One day I want to write about the clipper and the storms inside of me.