Here is a painting with a poem that I wrote a while ago and I struggled so much with it I quit writing poems. It was just too hard. Whine whine. I will try to get back on the horse and try to start writing again. Sorry for being away so long.
The Storm
The storm rose like a banshee
And began a frontal assault on the house,
It raged and screamed
a shiver past midnight, keeping
me lying on a razor
sweating fear
knotted in nerves,
It roared like Lucifer’s coal train
Pouring smoke and spitting thunder.
Tree branches scratched and dug
into the cedar shakes etching
wild psychotic scribbles.
the wind drove the rain
it rattled, flooded, and
sagged tired gutters with
bone jarring percussion,
like bowling balls
slamming down storm drains
Leaves and acorns peppered the windows
With the erratic din of ricocheting bullets
The metal roof vibrated, whining and whaling
like a demented tuning fork,
rain blew in horizontal bands
hammering the wavy glass
with the angry intensity of attacking hornets.
All through the night
We suffered a violent home invasion,
how long could this old weathered house survive
without raising its’ white flag
and falling to its knees in capitulation?
With the rising sun
The storm left through the back door
gently turning the knob
so as not to wake the baby.
Outside walking with the dogs
I surveyed the carnage,
The yard looked like God had pitched a temper tantrum
And dumped all his favorite toys on top of the house.
Then stomped and kicked them into every corner of the yard
everything smashed, crushed and obliterated.
Branches and leaves were plastered on every flat surface
Like a drunk’s decoupage
Everything had the trashed look of a frat house
the morning after
the homecoming kegger
Storm clouds blew from the south
and waved goodbye as they raced out
across to the northern ridge of the Appalachians,
Blue sky risked a peek between the speeding clouds,
The sun shed slivers of promise on the hills and valleys
And clouds hung in the hollows
floating like the cool mists of Avalon.
Hidden inside the storms of yesterday
There exists the bright glow of a new day.
The sparkle of raindrops on blades of grass
Nature’s twinkling stars
Lay there holding
a galaxy of tomorrow’s dreams.
Shaken and moved by the powerful imagery of both the poem and the painting. Glad you did not give up. My granddaughter, aged five loved the angry hornets.
Thanks Heather and I believe if a 5 year old gets anything out of a poem, good for our future generation.
Would like to see how you did those wonerful clouds.
One of these days in class remind me and I will show you.
Tus poemas te cuestan un esfuerzo, pero dejan tus entrañas y expresan tus sentimientos. No abandones por favor. Steve, tengo una pregunta para ti. Cuando escribes tus poemas, los haces inspirado por el paisaje, o por tu propia interpretación del paisaje en tu acuarela, o pintas la acuarela inspirada para ilustrar tu poesía. Las acuarelas y los poemas son tan buenos que no sé cuál está inspirado en cuál. Gracias, respetuosamente Mercedes.