Friday, July 20, 2012


Oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
as King Lear called you,
splitting trees in half,
knocking down power lines,
striking rooftops, sparking blazes,
terrifying fretful elders,
amazing the eyes of the young,
lo! the chaos you've unleashed
this pluvious afternoon!
making avenues impassible,
making bus-travel impossible,
causing general mayhem,
cleaving the oaks as a child
might snap a toothpick.

Not yet knowing the full scope
of your sudden destructive wrath,
I sat in the Stopped Clock
as you did your worst,
waiting out the storm
with lager and with chit-chat
about the news of the world,
the follies of politicians, 
the scandals of celebrities,
the quirks of the not-so-famous.

You did not quite manage to
"strike flat the thick rotundity
o' the world," but you did
cut down many a noble arbor,
and bring your steeple-drenching floods.
Worse than last August's hurricane
in my estimation, more fierce,
yet in this ferocity, one can perceive
the nobility of an untamed lion,
of the mad king on the heath.