Storm Chaser
Sometimes I’m a storm chaser.
I race toward surging, dancing funnels,
furious, winding cyclones in blistering spin.
It is then that someone else writes my poems.
It is then that I am a stranger to my words,
and when I return to them, they are anomalous.
Sometimes I’m a storm chaser,
seeking mindless thrills and spills,
seeking violence in the skies
over tired, banal flatlands.
I’m just another apprentice of survival.
My wailing songs of innocence
never attain experience.
Sometimes I’m a storm chaser.
I ride this twisting rollercoaster nonstop.
I squint into the piercing, raging raindrops,
all the crashing, smashing, maniacal hail,
all the swirling, churning, dim mantle of doom.
I prayerfully gamble my lot.
These reckless ways have nearly cost me my life.
These wagers with mortality have a predictable end.
Headlong and blindly pummeled, frantic with fright.
Headlong and blindly stumbling, I vanish from sight.
Beyond the explosive horizon, the course is unknowable.
Within the column of torment, life is not survivable.
Is it passable?
I turn to the ancient bards, seeking their wisdom.
Their scrolls are full of memorable passages.
Leafing through them, I find many useful pearls:
Accept the gale forces as you do the stillness.
Learn the limitations and connectedness of your soul.
You will pass this way freshly again and again.
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