dry storm (and small care)

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces


I am in mind
of a dry storm

portents swirl
like . . .

like biting grains
of sand
sent skyward

is gone
but not
the need
to breathe

a singing wind
my boundaries

a rattled shove
to open

I take my stance

on the floor

will my voice
to –
in opposition –

I am a man
an element
so raw

my shouted cry
is a hush . . .

a whisper

a plea

for what
to pray
in a time
of portent . . .

who can know

who can say

and who
will care
at the close
of day

will care
when they close
this day


Poem #240 for The Waste Land Project. The first poem for (the final) Section 5 – What The Thunder Said.

12 thoughts on “dry storm (and small care)

  1. Oh the pain, the poignancy, the relevance as befits the current world trauma. You said yourself it / poetry can mean anything. Today I read a truly beautiful poem, again and again. This, many of your poems speaks to my heart

    Liked by 1 person

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