They call them dragons,
winds such as Rashabbar the black
who darkly binds the unwary, or dust spewing Calima,
she who herds madness from outside-inward.
Then there is Bayamo, the tree killer,
Tebbard the sultry doctor, a fever-wind
that dispenses fire and delusion.
Chinooks and Mistrals scour and skive.
The Haboob hunts where hunters hide.
Those named winds; gales that chisel faces,
as if they were cliffs.
Squamish, Elephanta, the Williwaw,
swirling thieves that steal babe,
crib, wimple and shawl.
I have traveled through some,
and avoided most.
When, in tornado season, I occasionally
roam from my Ohio home,
I think of those dragon-winds,
and scan the sky
for signs of a scaly whipping tail,
or talons clawing some fluffy clouds
before blowing a Dutch barn to bits.
Categories:
skive, poetry,
Form: Free verse
The road least traveled sometimes seems hard
I’m almost there! As the junction nears.
A husband, father and grandfather too.
A road full of adventure and sometimes fears.
A glance over the shoulder, looking where I’ve been.
Sunny hillsides, green meadows and dark valleys a few.
Tripping over life’s rocks, sometimes the road occludes.
Been carried by friends and touched by mercy’s dew.
A patriarch of my family, the king of my realm.
A despot! Benevolent, shamefully malevolence thrived.
With each pilgrim step more lessons are learned,
The sculptures incessant chisel on me he will not skive.
The journey lingers, soon only two will traverse,
Children stop by the wayside, their own way to make.
Husband and wife, her hand enfolded in mine.
The sun will soon be setting, let’s see where the road will take.
Categories:
skive, adventure, age, life,
Form: Quatrain