After the storm

After the storm is like the world
After a fist fight.
Shocked
And stumbling
Taking stock of wounds,
Fractured ribs, limbs
Thunder claps, like shouts
That recede into low rumbles,
Like ghosts of screams
That still ring ears,
Hang silent
In midair.
Candle flames lick
The walls of rooms
Light abandoned.
Steam disappears
In ascent from
The bending asphalt.
Rivulets of rain carve new paths
In Mars-red mud.

 

 

7 responses to “After the storm”

  1. Since I live where storms are not very frequent…I always think of them as clearing the air and bring freshness…but I do like your portrayal of the storm aftermath.

    1. Yes! Here in the south storms often make the weather more intense…more humidity, more heat. So different than the place where I grew up. Still beautiful.

  2. Great poem, JB! Hope this finds you well. Have a nice day in Cola.

    1. Thanks for reading, and for your sweet words and support.

  3. Jenny, you’ve got it! That weird light following a storm is always other-worldly. And I’m almost always sorry to see the storm go. It’s wildness, chaos, tumble me and get me going…and I’m loathe to give it up.

    1. Cheryl, thanks. Other-worldliness and wildness. Such perfect descriptors. Here’s to the summer storms…as long as they power stays on!

      1. You go that right. Like that electricity.

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