That Kind of Storm

Photo by Peggy Goetz

The rain

pelts the window glass

like thousands of tiny fists

in impotent fury

The sound

does not soothe or

amuse me

as it did earlier when the rain

pinged upon car hoods

with the sloppy rhythm of popping corn

or

rat-a-tatted

like little bird feet tapdancing

on the roof

This storm

sounds serious

The wind

howls like a feral ghost dog

in the night

and sends my own dog,

a cocky Maltese,

under the bed quivering

Me,

I make a strong cup of tea

It's a teakettle kind of storm

The nagging beep

of the microwave just won't do

I want to listen

to the whistle, brave

and persistent

I hold

the china mug between my palms

It warms my hands

and wards off the demons. 

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Wednesday With Peggy

For the Birds

Count my feathers and judge me
Then pluck out several more
because I fall short
Don't you know that I make this home
for you?
I use scraps of myself for your comfort
I am mostly scrap
Whatever good there is in me
is in my function, not my form
I am a trifle
I can't even escape this place
where the sun is wrong-
bright but not warm-
and night comes, not gently,
but with a thunderous cloud of sudden darkness
It is a wonder
that I sing at all
but I suppose instinct
overcomes intellect
and you are easily entertained
by meaningless cheer.





submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Weds. With Peggy, Point of View and Place