Aug 2013
Meadow bowing down
To the King of the Winds
Praising Him for His almighty service
The birds sing His holy hymns
While the clear blue depth acts as His throne
The heat of the sun turns the pale faces
Of dancing cherubins to a light rosy tone
And the flowers grow magnificently
Far back behind the trees
Swaying ever so slightly, yet mostly still
A cold stream trickles past, tickling the landscape
Here the shade and light becomes a paradox
Where colors are displayed with such depth and beauty
And the leaves branching out as an umbrella
Save us from the approaching storm
The energy and tension building up
I can feel the electricity in the air
As if my heart were connected to a battery
But the ominous buckets approach with their angry growls
And I can see the grimace on its face
I've seen it on my face, in the mirror
I've seen the buckets of rain carried on and on
Further and further until their weight was too much to bear
Then pouring down as a well fed waterfall
The sky splits in a tremendous luminous display
While the air rips apart and collides together
The King of the Winds fills with rage
His wrath evident in the dismantling gusts
Destroying the protection that saved us before
The world is uneasy, the earth changing
The ferocity of desire, burning the tree
That was once steady, resilient
The sanctuary lays forever transformed
Even as the rupture of nature subsided
The beauty fades ever so slightly to my eye
But it is still present, is still familiar
I know this place but by a different view
The creek now rushes, pounding its banks
The colors are more sullen yet still rich and full of depth
And the leaves, protectorate of my heart, lay strewn about
In a tangled mess of fury and emotion
But the storm has left, gone for good
And beyond this home
The meadow still stands as it did before
As if completely untouched by the storm
But I know each individual flower
That still grows with mystical elegance
Has their own story to tell, but I cannot hear it
The flowers are silent as they grow
Their stories imprinted on their petals
And I read them best I can
But the mind can only capture so much
Of what the heart has to tell
To the King of the Winds
Praising Him for His almighty service
The birds sing His holy hymns
While the clear blue depth acts as His throne
The heat of the sun turns the pale faces
Of dancing cherubins to a light rosy tone
And the flowers grow magnificently
Far back behind the trees
Swaying ever so slightly, yet mostly still
A cold stream trickles past, tickling the landscape
Here the shade and light becomes a paradox
Where colors are displayed with such depth and beauty
And the leaves branching out as an umbrella
Save us from the approaching storm
The energy and tension building up
I can feel the electricity in the air
As if my heart were connected to a battery
But the ominous buckets approach with their angry growls
And I can see the grimace on its face
I've seen it on my face, in the mirror
I've seen the buckets of rain carried on and on
Further and further until their weight was too much to bear
Then pouring down as a well fed waterfall
The sky splits in a tremendous luminous display
While the air rips apart and collides together
The King of the Winds fills with rage
His wrath evident in the dismantling gusts
Destroying the protection that saved us before
The world is uneasy, the earth changing
The ferocity of desire, burning the tree
That was once steady, resilient
The sanctuary lays forever transformed
Even as the rupture of nature subsided
The beauty fades ever so slightly to my eye
But it is still present, is still familiar
I know this place but by a different view
The creek now rushes, pounding its banks
The colors are more sullen yet still rich and full of depth
And the leaves, protectorate of my heart, lay strewn about
In a tangled mess of fury and emotion
But the storm has left, gone for good
And beyond this home
The meadow still stands as it did before
As if completely untouched by the storm
But I know each individual flower
That still grows with mystical elegance
Has their own story to tell, but I cannot hear it
The flowers are silent as they grow
Their stories imprinted on their petals
And I read them best I can
But the mind can only capture so much
Of what the heart has to tell
I truly wish I could explain every bit of this poem to everyone who reads this. Every image, every metaphor, every line has its own meaning that would be impossible for you to know unless you really knew me. But, take from it what it gives you. I still like what I've written.
