Tuesday, May 20, 2014

The Trooper

The storm blew in from the West
and out through the veranda door
so quickly, a white knot of thunder
in the already black night

that I forgot about the oil lamp
that I was reading by on the terrace 
when all Hell broke loose , fat raindrops 
carpet bombing my peaceful evening.

Somehow it survived the rain and gusts,
burning wildly from side to side
never surrendering until the last drop of oil
was gone, empty in the now silent, wet darkness.

Every Writer's Child

For some it's the squeak of an old hinge which sets them off
everytime someone enters or exits the kitchen

or perhaps how the toilet paper roll was hung,
adding to an already dubious, rump-filled fate.

Of course, those odd creatures who see even more backsides,
politicians, will make just about anyone's blood boil.

I tote no special immunity to any of these chafes
but there's something worse still if you ask me

*and you haven't*

to watch helplessly as a brave book is consumed
by an uncaring soul who just wants to beat it's secrets from it,

clutched in both hands, a mad grin, eyes positively flashing,
ripping through hundreds of pages, months...years of

some poor author's life devoured in a matter of hours,
left limp and lifeless on a chair somewhere thereafter.