Hey this is a poem. I sometimes write them. Read it. Tell me what you think.
Crouch, as best you can, on the balls of your feet – heels touching, head down, and hands covering ears.
– The National Parks Service on Lightning Safety
It is not light we need, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, the earthquake.
– Fredrick Douglass
There is a moment enthroned
deep in my memory,
crowned with boundless exhilaration,
shrouded in fear’s regalia.
Huddled on the shoulders of
great grizzled peaks,
man and mountain together
watch the still and gathering dark.
Green and purple clouds brood there,
with wispy beards and brows
shaking fists and clenched teeth,
their hot gaze smothering.
Stillness, a sudden cold breath.
Time translucent, in razor-bright slivers.
life throbbing in my ears.
A breath becomes a scream,
the gibbering fury of a fanatical legion.
Their chants howl through the aspens,
their tears of rage slash down in wavering sheets.
Icy bullets flense flesh and rock,
cold and stinging and derisive.
Mad laughter echoes between lonely peaks;
dry boulders clattering in a manic maw.
The sky speaks.
Light and sound and blinding flash,
the ground shying
from the bite of inscrutable rhetoric.
Rocks tumble in stricken,
clattering torrents which harmonize
the roaring wind, the hissing rain,
the screaming lightning.
All around is rampant light
and a smell like spring and sparks.
The air tastes like victory,
as clear as inspiration.
That moment is catharsis and bubbling awe,
And complete insignificance.
Spine buzzing and bone drenched.