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Feb 2015 · 1.4k
Elephant
Just home from work
and I'm still not quite here.

When it was morning,
I walked out on Tracy's simmering mood
and into her thick June sky.

The elephant's trunk hangs from a cloud
In sepia, it seems
there can be no explanation, but a dream
Scale out of whack -- no longer confined, no turning back.

In color,
smooth rampage just born
The trunk flails and takes aim.
Storms through the corn.
Coming for me to reconcile the blame.

I'm still not quite here.

In the afternoon,
as Tracy's sky dims to deathly grey and ghostly white,
I ran back to her worried eyes and reflected them back.
And directly, the stampede consumed my regret.
One of the first pictures of a tornado I ever saw was of the F5 tornado that struck the small Minnesota town of Tracy in June 1968.  You can see this picture on my blog -- http://15038g62.blogspot.com/2011/09/elephant.html

The other picture on this page was a picture of this storm I had never seen before...and when I did, this poem quickly took shape.
Oct 2014 · 523
Sickle
Sickle of wind
Meeting the wheat
Coming to cut me down...
cut me down to size.

A river will flow from my eyes
swift enough to sweep clean,
not deep enough to drown
the loss I'll come to realize.
Aug 2014 · 1.4k
Myth of the Mound
I learned the myth of the mound was blowing away
from the TV's urgent plea.
Humidity transformed into a sickly, green hue.
I need to see what is coming, but the cedars block the view.
The rapidly increasing darkness and howl means the monster broke free.
Sirens rise to take a stand, join the fray.

Mom's at the store, dad's day at the Capitol just began.
Alone. . . across the street to join the neighbors downstairs.
Inflow yanks at my feet, begging me to slip, and my eyes have to know.
Looking backward, I keep moving forward...it follows...I might be too slow!
Bathed in different light -- the dying sun, exploding blue arcs, headlights in the air.
The door latches, then leaves, along with everything else of where I just ran.
I put this together after reading a point-of-view witness account of the F5 tornado that struck Topeka, KS in June 1966.  A legend in Topeka held that the city was immune from tornadoes due to a large Indian burial mound on the southwest side of town.  Bill Curtis was a reporter for a television station in Topeka at the time and implored viewers "For God's sake, take cover!" as the tornado moved into town.

A version of this poem with the pictures that serve as the basis for the stanzas can be found at: http://15038g62.blogspot.com/2011/12/myth-of-mound.html
Jun 2014 · 1.2k
Finger of God
Black and white photo of horror in color
From a safe distance of many years
I luridly recall your details.

At the airport, I see your fearsome construction
I marvel at how it came together
And struggle to understand how and why, because
I couldn’t help then and I failed to help now.
Regret draws me closer.

Trespassing through a farm, stealing the earth
Late for work and malicious at birth
A hungry wind with a green sky calling card.
Darkening danger almost on top of us,
as dad watches from the garage
and we play in the front yard.
“Open the windows. . . get in the car!”

Only a few seconds to gain enough distance.

Our school, our home, our hands and voices
Couldn’t hold on or offer enough resistance
against the finger of God.

I couldn’t help then and what am I doing now?
Regret sweeps me away.
F5 tornadoes are sometimes referred to as the "Finger of God".  This emerged from research I did of the F5 tornado that struck Ruskin Heights (near Kansas City) in 1957.  I usually write these based on images of those storms -- to see that version, go to http://15038g62.blogspot.com/2011/09/finger-of-god.html
May 2014 · 373
St. John
St. John, I saw you each morning.
Taken for granted as this Sunday sun rises
Throwing a long shadow away from Bird St. on a day like any other, otherwise.
Barely aware of birds nervously fluttering across leafy branches in warning.

St. John, I still see you, but you're fading away.
As I rushed in from Dillons,
I took one last look toward the swirling gray.
and saw you enveloped by an angry exhale at the end of this day...
no longer like any other.


St. John, we find you inside us
and we won't let you go.
The shadows of so many lives cast upon your living walls.
We were born here,
we came in sick,
and some of us left well,
while others left with you
as you served your last full measure of devotion.

Your restoration is now our mission and the wheels are in motion.
I wrote this after volunteering Joplin, Mo two months after the devastating tornado that struck there.  That day I was working on bringing down the remains of a home...the groceries, from Dillons, still on the kitchen table.  The house was located just a few blocks away from St. John's hospital.  We brought down the house the following morning, but my trips to Joplin after this were to help, in a very small way, rebuild and restore.  It's an honor and privilege to volunteer there...and I encourage anyone and everyone to help out there.
#RebuildJoplin
May 2014 · 270
Aftermath
I used to dream of spring
and a lifetime of long June days
I watched you walk away into the warm, whistling wind
Singing with your voice, "So long".

I should have stopped you in your tracks,
by the tracks long lost.
I should have realized and spoken these words...
"Take all my tomorrows and give me one more hour tonight."

I've been walking for so long,
but I've never gotten too far.
Impeded by spring's warm, whistling wind
which caught and carried our life away.

As I gaze into your face -- brilliant, blue, and fair.
Words catch and choke as I ask myself again.
How many more steps till I can stop drawing this spring air?
Written from the perspective of a survivor of the 1953 Flint tornado.  On the 50th anniversary of the storm, he recounted the story of the hours leading up to the storm when he dropped his fiance off at work, where she perished in the storm.
Mar 2014 · 1.4k
Tuscaloosa 04272011/2210UTC
You tore my beliefs from their foundation
I lay, cut and broken, looking at a calm blue sky
While thunder threatens a repeat and rain soaks my skin.
I’m too shocked to realize this is not my imagination.
The fierce wind took my breath and I can’t get it back no matter how hard I try.
Words stumble over my tongue and don’t make it over the din.

I sensed something brewing, yet went forward with blind eyes
The anger rising like heat waves from the concrete.
The sadness leaching from the pavement, fueling the air.
It never ceases to amaze me, the fact that I’m surprised.
My thoughts, flailing about like a child’s tantrum, never complete.

Suddenly, it's upon me, and I walk into its lair.

Welcome inside the bear’s cage.
You won’t see me coming in the wrapping rain.
I’m going to tear you apart until there’s nothing more.
Everything you ever wanted, exploding in the windy rage...
           till nothing remains.
                       Choke the inflow,
                                    transition to a new tower,
                                                          ­       repeat as before.
When I saw the tornado that hit Tuscaloosa live on TV, I knew it was going to be bad.  When that was confirmed the next morning, I took off work, threw a chain saw and tools in a car and headed down.  I had no idea what I was getting into.

There are several perspectives in this poem.
Stanza 1 is from the perspective of one of the people I met when I was down there.
Stanza 2 is the from my own perspective wondering why I couldn't get myself together to be of more help and lingering aspects of failing in meteorology school.
Stanza 3 is from the perspective of the tornado.

I should have been of more help when I was there, but now channel that into volunteering in Joplin.

— The End —