Us.
Grey gathers overhead.
the first drops, drip.
Our very own private hurricane.
Ravenous gales rush the kitchen
A twister kicks and smashes like a skinheaded yob
through our living room
The eye of the storm sits quietly on our bed.
I run for cover under a table,
but you dance, waltz, foxtrot, jive with the storm.
Exhausted, eventually, it leaves.
It always does.
And after, we pick up the pieces,
wooden splinters stabbing our palms
glass shards embedding in our knees
rats and stagnant filthy water squelch underfoot.
You smile and say its great
You feel alive
I nod, damp and sore.
7 comments:
Nice one D'Oub, no one else thought of a tornado!Ilove that the 'twister kicks like a skinhead' while 'the eye of the storm sits quietly on our bed' but best of all is 'but you dance, waltz, foxtrot, jive with the storm' Such a great image and such wry humour for a disaster.This poem is no disaster though.I really like it.Deadly! Tanks ye!
Oh, I loved this - first, because it's very good writing and second because it rings so many bells for me! I'm the smiler.
Lovely, gets better with each reading.
This is a great poem! I'm with TFE on the 'twister...' bit. Such a whirling carousel of images left me out of breath almost. Kudos!
Lots of really memorable images. I think your skinhead made his way into my interpretation of the same pic.
Tornado! That's great thinking! Enjoyed reading this, especially as there's a raging storm outside here, giving even more atmosphere to your wonderful poem.
I love your use of metaphor here linking children to storms. Your imagery whirls that photograph into our lives.
That is a fantastic, atmosphere packed poem. I love it.
Post a Comment