Storm

Storm

In the calm damp of morning,
every color shines deeper,
and everyone is cradling
some bit of cloud,
some cried-out memory
of last night’s storm

like all the roaring
and all the screaming
was only sky
asking to be held.

Now, the green things we step on
fill their tiny laps,
nuzzle tiny jewels,
and the wounds in bark
open themselves
to clutch little pools.

I keep asking
the world to hold me
together or break me apart,
so I can hold this—
the sky of us
too heavy to sail,
the sky of us
recasting as rain.
Maybe we all

have to fall,
through high limbs
and down to the low,
to the broken places
and thorny things,
who have known
every kind of weather,
know how to hold 
the howling, know
how to wrap themselves
around a storm. 
How do we wrap
our selves
around this storm?

Photo by Nick Nice on Unsplash

The Prompt

I wrote this poem after a severe thunderstorm swept through my area early this week. In the past few days, still more storms have blown in, one after the other, with little respite. The roads are flooded, the basement is a wading pool, school is cancelled, and there are more possible tornados twirling in the forecast. I am lucky to live in a sturdy house relatively high on a hill, but this is a stressful and potentially dangerous time for people in low lying areas or those who don’t have windowless spaces to retreat to.

The meteorological storms around me feel like an echo of sociopolitical storms, of all the hurts and wounds in this world and of the (sometimes very powerful) humans who make a habit of turning their wounds into weapons. But of course storms could be a metaphor for any number of other things, too. This is how poetry reveals us to ourselves. We begin with raindrops on leaves and then . . . ? Anything could happen. Any meaning or story or connection or feeling could emerge. Maybe this is also how life reveals us to ourselves—less through the experiences we have and more through the meanings we make of them. Through the ways we live into, through, and beyond them. The ways we carry them with us or learn to transform them into something else.

If you would like a prompt to play with today, then I offer you thunderstorms or any aspect of them. What’s the last thunderstorm that you experienced? What’s the most memorable storm? If you’re outside and hear a crack of thunder, how does your body respond? What do you do? Do you pause to marvel at lightning, or do you run for cover? Has your response been constant across your life, or has it changed?

If thunderstorms aren’t a frequent reality in your life (or hey, even if they are), consider pulling up a youtube video of lightning or an audio track of a storm. Let the sounds wash over you. Notice how your body responds. Notice if memories or associations rise to the surface.

What in your life or in the wider world is like lightning? Like thunder? Like wind or hail or rain or like a thick, black cloud? Like an umbrella? Like the smell of wet earth after the storm has passed?

I look forward to reading any poems, fragments, or thoughts that emerge from your musings! Thank you for being here.

And speaking of places to be . . . don’t forget about the upcoming poetry open mic and reading on Sunday, April 13 at 12:00 PDT/3:00 EDT.

Jonathan Potter

,

X. P. Callahan

,

Keith Aron

, and

Tara Connor

will kick things off by reading some of their own beautiful poetry, and then we’ll open the floor to anyone else who would like to share a poem of their own. Send me an email or a DM if you’d like the Zoom link. I’d love to see you there.