Fitful gusts
Occasional thunderstorms
Sunless cannonades
Refreshing breezes
Little gusts
Interesting seedpods
Violent lusts
Emotional whirlwinds, mistrust
Strong misgivings
7/6/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2019
The Storm
Frank Halliwell
The sultry day was near its end,
The cloying heat distressed.
The cool of evening getting near,
But still the air oppressed.
A mounting shadow from the west
Conceals the distant hills.
No breath of air disturbs the leaves,
The atmosphere is still.
The thunderhead obscures the light,
-A tower in the sky.
It roils and boils up high above,
'Tis plain a storm is nigh.
Then suddenly a burst of wind-
A breath of frigid air,
From deep within the giant cloud
The signal to beware!
A sudden flash, a crash of sound
Thor's hammer fills the night
The flares of lightning make the sky
A latticework of light.
Then lashing rain borne by the wind
That swirls the compass round.
The loud drum roll of thunder that
Now fills the world with sound.
Until at last it moves away,
Still grumbling as it fades.
The lights still flash within the cloud,
And distant cannonades.
But all the world has been reborn,
The air smells fresh at last.
The garden now can grow anew,
Now that the storm has passed.
o0o
"I shall be telling this with a sigh"
Robert Frost
My thoughts they roil like waters dark
in the abyss of blackest night
with memories of mother’s book marks
of Longfellow read by lamp light.
She called in the room around me
the patter of other small feet,
her gentle voice fetched angels
Oh, rhymes how they astounded me
like lullabies soft and so sweet.
All fearsome shadows, she’d dispel
Maxine, my queen read Tennyson
and the Charge of the Light Brigade
a little girl dreamt of caissons
roll and thunderous cannonades.
To be so brave the small child mused
mother’s small, precious, heroine
what would it take to stand so strong
without father, and not confused
What words where the linchpin
to right mother’s tell tale wrong.
Such sad inspiration*.. mother
but a champion you were born.
You’re adored before all others
yet, tears bring memories forlorn.
So, dreams stream on of Mother Goose
three kittens and their mittens.
My visions of your fleeting smile
return almost every night,
and your spirit comforts, lightens
sights, if only for a little while.
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