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M Solav Mar 22
There is a god for every thing
There is a god for every thought
There is a god for every spring
There is a god for every drought

I walk amidst their creeping shadows
Swim in the deeps, crawl in the shallows

There is a boat for every sea
And there's a buoy for drowning men

But there ain’t
One god.

There is a crown on every being
There is a staff in every hand
It doesn’t matter what you have seen
It only matters now where you stand

I walk amidst their flickering shadows
Bask in the breeze, dance in tornadoes

There are birds for every wind
And there are wings for broken men

But there ain't
One god.
Written on January 23th, 2022.

— Copyright © M. Solav —
This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact for usage requests. Thank you.
Darel Rex Finley Dec 2021
Tornado sirens’ firin’
Gives your runnin’ shoes the news
That stay’n inside is such a slide
To be fit you pay your dues

Feel the ground a-poundin’
’Neath those skies of green so mean
Inclement weather lives forever
But you will quit, like a machine

Slanted rain’s a pain
Soaks you to your skin so thin
In this world, so brave unfurled
Only bright for those who win

You get no bornin’ warnin’
Of the times to come so glum
’Tis a mission for magician
Strike with lightning, then succumb
Thomas Steyer Jul 2021
may we have some nicer weather please?
At least some sunnier days than these!
It's been so cold and unbelievably wet,
it's horrid enough to get upset.
It's a bit like April but in reverse,
instead of better it's getting worse.
Can't make any plans to go outside
for a short walk or bicycle ride.
Whenever I get ready to leave the house,
heaven looks like I'm in for a douse.
Sometimes I go out in spite
and realize I'm not watertight.
Then I get drenched to the bone,
it even destroys my mobile phone.
Worse yet after it's been warm,
the sky rips open a nasty thunderstorm.
That's the part when danger lurks
with thunder lightning and the works.
Because holding up an umbrella
can sometimes torch a poor fella.
But wait, before I get into hail,
earthly tempests like heavy gale,
tornados, hurricanes and the likes.
It's definitely not worth it, yikes!
Instead of giving myself a permanent frown,
I put the kettle on and try piping down.
Zack Ripley Nov 2020
Anger. Anxiety. Depression. Fear.
Imagine these feelings
Are a natural disaster.
What would they be?
Would they be an earthquake?
Making it feel hard to stay upright?
Do they create rifts
that drive you apart from loved ones?
Are they a tsunami?
Building up until one day, they burst, drowning you?
Or are they a tornado?
Just destroying everything in its path?
If you can find a way to explain what it feels like
When you're angry, anxious, depressed, or afraid,
it can be a good start to managing it.
K Balachandran Aug 2020
My eyes slyly asked yours for a breeze
But your lips quickly gifted a tornado.
Uprooted, with you  I flew across like a bird,
To an island where your sharpend  nails,
Etched murals on love going sweetly violent,
On every inch, making the pain pleasurable,
All over the canvas of my down turned body.
Rakshitha Kumar Jun 2020
There's a hoard of chaos all around me
You seem like the eye of a tornado
Chaos surrounds you,
even when your soul has that calmness of the eye
Getting close to the tornado now
A sea of dust, destruction, and death surrounds me
The chaos in my soul can only be brought to dust
once I reach the eye
A price to pay for a deep dive inside your soul.
There are many perspectives to this poem and every reader perceives this in a different way. An optimistic look at this would be an attraction or a sense of curiosity towards a calm soul.
However, if you think about it carefully you find that the eye of a tornado is the origin of the destruction. The most unexpected events or people can cause catastrophic destruction in your life.
Jonathan Moya May 2020
I never thought brick dreams could tumble in the wind.
My wife collects our scattered memories in a undersized bin
like a child on the tide line collecting beach glass and seashells.
She listen for the sound of blood amidst the dying wind
mistaking rustling pages for her breath cycling in and out,
her pulse beating on the surface of paper, cloth and wood.
She searches for artifacts that match/mismatch my cancer-
the progeny the tornado left scattered in the brick and wallboard.

I listen to the wind and rain ping on my ward’s windows
unaware of her scavenging, unable to sleep in the harsh light
that doesn’t erode the pain or the glitter of memory,
the constant Kabuki of nurses, doctor and blood drawers,
the chant of machines that make me mistake
the sterile for the sacred, the soundtrack for the profound.
I see my wife in the mud, inches from my eyes,
putting away the jagged, clear granules of our life.
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