Monday, August 8, 2011



I sit and sing, daft diener admiring
the perfect anatomy of this storm.
No bass bay of its thunder can be too loud,
no glissando of lightning too bright,
too piercing, no brooding cloud too black.
It snarls and rains fiercer
the louder I laugh,
a madwoman drinking rain
from her wineglass,
wearing rain for a burqa.

The salt sweet falling
that tastes of  you
I drink deepest;
life on the tongue, seablue
in the mouth, gold in the glass,
my storm that wraps me
in wet winding thrash
after dust dead drought.
Behind the clouds’ cowl there is
no mask, only the godpaint

that sweats off, runs a blue scribed
tatoo over white thighs,
inks seeking lips
as fluttering cottonwoods ripple
and quake in the tease of
the sensate air’s caress, 
as I, as I am played
trembling under the harpist's hand
that barely brushes, thrumming
the breaths of the cooling sky.

Misted skin is parchment for
the scripture of the storm.
Flesh renders meaning where rain
has blurred wet words.
The void  never seen is filled
past holding, charged sudden
bolts shot from sky
ground out in bone,
a silver plastique
ignition of white

rainfire, earth made whole
soaked within and without at last,
lifting her dulcet summer perfume
as the grass gives up its dead
in a honey bath of runoff
that choruses the soul
of each blade and shriveled leaf
requited in wet turning, while far
star fish swimming in clouds
leap and splash.

In the morning, the iron air is cleansed
with the autumn smell of grassfires
lit by the sky’s rocket match.

August 2011 

Image: Lightning over Oklahoma City, photo taken from Chopper 4,
August 6, 2011 Copyright © All rights reserved.


  1. Wow.
    "glissando of lightning"
    "the scripture of the storm"
    "the iron air is cleansed"

  2. mmm...i love watching storms...their power and i get the mad woman...the parchment...the tattoos traversing thighs for lips after a drought...hmmm...smiles...trembling under harpist hand...the fire by skyrockets match is nice as well...enjoyable hedge...glad your drought is over...hehe

  3. Misted skin is parchment for
    the scripture of the storm.
    (My fave lines)

    I hope this is a convocation, not an evocation -- a real receipt, not a rain dance. Of course, how could it not be the former, so tangible the communion of this parched, forever-unrequieted speaker/ land, greeting a pour so ripened, so lover-ly, the kiss is skies-wide? Maybe it's a fleeting liaison -- many more encounters are required to come close to receipt, much less surfeit. Give the heavens a smooch like this and they'll be back, fer sure. Read scripture like this in the pagan revival tent in the center of the desert, who know, maybe Moby will stroll in for such baptism. -Brendan

  4. I can hear it and even smell the fury of this storm of yours. Impressive write.

  5. *blush*

    Er, excuse me...I'll just, um, come back later?

    The opening stanza is pure brilliant Hedgewitch. What a joy, take that as you will. And it has "glissando" in it. Glissando, glissando, glissando. Not only is it a fine word, it is the perfect word to express this.

  6. love storms - sounds like yours are better ;)

  7. PS--your okra looks very well indeed (on the side bar). You must be tending it carefully in the rotten heat.

  8. "a madwoman drinking rain from her wineglass, wearing rain for a burqua". This is poetry writing at its very finest, hedge. I am in awe.

  9. That's cookin' up a storm with words, and no mistake...

  10. We're hoping for some of that "iron air" cleansing this afternoon. We need rain BAD.

    This was just beautiful, hedgewitch. It evokes all the senses...

  11. Thanks my friends. It was a good storm.

    @B: Not sure if my revival tent is ample for the Great White one, but a dolphin would always be welcome.

  12. Oh dear... I... Well... You really should lock that door when you poet like that, people will see you!

    Whew, between the music, the beer and this piece... I think I need a walk. Feeling a little heat at the moment. This is why I'm glad you are a friend, you make me remember that dormant and dark side I often ignore.

    Yep, I... er... yeah. Gotta go, see ya bye!

  13. My parents and my younger brother were born in Oklahoma City. I lived there off and on as a child. This took me back to the baking heat of summer broken by torrential storms in a way that burrowed deep into the soil of my younger self. I think on your magnificent poem as I did about the storms that rolled through when we lived in a tiny one room cabin on stilts along the Illinois River. Cowering in the tornado shelter as a four year old awed, terrified, and yet still wanting to stand out in the middle of it, to be swept up in the thundering embrace of nature. A tremblingly fierce write! Oh, and thank you for diener, corpse servant, I never heard that in my life.

  14. I hope it was as good for your partner as it was for you. Nothing like two happy faces in the morning dew.

  15. @LV Thanks for the compliment. Glad to see someone shared the whole experience on that level. For you, we can put on a little My Dying Bride in the background, as well as thunder.

    @Anna The Illinois River is a wild and beautiful thing--we took many canoe trips on it years ago. I came here in my twenties with the background of plenty of dramatic thunderstorms blowing into Chicago off Lake Michigan, but the storms here are a whole different beast. I too have a hard time going into storm shelters or hiding in closets from them, though I know it's necessary--I'd also rather be out there watching a force we so seldom get to see unveiled. And I'm happy I am actually able to give you a word in return for the many you've gifted me.

  16. now this was just all storm and wild sensuality...loved it hedge!!

  17. "Love is worth nothing without something tender." -- that line will stay with me, hedgewitch. It goes against the popular belief that love is everything. I really enjoyed this.


"We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, out of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry." ~William Butler Yeats