Wednesday, February 19, 2014



This poem was recently published in Southernmost Point Guest House (Pretend Genius Press)


I carry a mountain of cloud on my shoulders,
patches of fog drizzle along strands of my hair,
I open the window and rain tumbles onto my head,
thunder hangs its coat behind the door.

The weather forecaster speaks like Sylvia Plath,
tongueful of words hailstone-sharp,
clipped as the north wind that fells elms.
My mind has visibility greater than ten miles.

Indigo nimbus, cumulonimbus, violet storms
shatter the bee box under the bed,
wings, limp from damp, swarm
headlong onto the floor, buzzing.

Photo courtesy of Peter Moore

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