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Rangboggle smig-smog Been tidyin out me bedroom cupboard and found loads of half finished stories and frustratingly, stories with a few pages missing and bits of really bad poetry and letters i wrote and never sent and letters i've received and hoarded for more than 40 years which made me teary and smiley at the same time.Anyhoo here's a poem i found what i did done wrote when i was all of 16 (can you tell?lol) The Storm. A crystal ping of rain cast from an angry sky begins the beat of Gods Bolero. Trees begin to quiver in bow string tense throbbing, thrumming. The storm is coming A distant flash lights the horizon. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven. A quiet rumble. A giants waking yawn. Pitter patter. Angels tears upon a window pane. A puff of wind picks and prods through leaves dappled in liquid life. Humming, strumming. The storm is coming God's press photographer takes another aerial snap. A picture of His creation. Counting out. One two three four five six seven. Applause! Or is it God calling the waiter? Someone turns the pressure up on Heavens shower head. Drumming, drumming The storm's a-coming The rat-tat-tat louder. Thrashing wind. Boiling cold rain. Flash! One. Burbling, whistling. Tap tap tap. Two. Crackling, slapping. Tap tap tap Three. BOOM!!! Crash the big base drum. Crescendo, cymbals. The whole sweating mass of orchestra Blowing, hitting, kicking. Filling every sense. No bystanders innocent or otherwise. We all provide accompaniment. FLASH! one. CRACK. Rain and wind. Life. Battering the doors, the windows. Insistant, demanding. People warm and fearless inside their walls cut off from all creation. This is not the way God planned it. Surely he hoped at least we'd participate. Dazzling light. One two three. God is shouting at us. Wake up!!! Wake up. Pounding rain cleaning washes away impurity. Cleaning up a sad few of man's pollutions. Dissolving, diluting. It's never enough these days. Not the way God planned it, not the way at all. Flicker. A million bulbs switched briefly on. One two three four five six seven eight Distant explosion Slackening rain. The storm is almost over. Like sex with a stranger there is no desire to linger passion spent. Such brief ecstasy. Flicker One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen. A hoarse whisper re-echoes preceding moments The storm is passing someone elses doorstep. Thrilling through anothers blood and soul. My disloyal love departed. |
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Ta v mooch Misty me mistress.I was quite pleased to find that even at 16 i wasn't inclined to the obvious cliches (well at least not too much lol)
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