Now, two very different poems prompted by a short tweet about the hailstorm we had a week or so ago.
Pierced by the grape-shot ice
of a late May hailstorm—
fury after unsuspecting calm—
the hostas’ green and chartreuse hearts
lay open, like stigmata-ed palms.
The sudden shift in temperature
should have been the clue
that all the shadowed days ahead
would open onto emptiness
as the door closed, soft, behind you.
And, on a completely silly note …
Hail the Hail!
The rake and hose still hang by the pail
all neat on their hooks by the mower.
And there they will stay for a week and a day
for the sky has begun now to shower.
“Get off of your duff!” says my wife, with a cuff
of her hand—powdered in Gold Medal flour.
“There’s work to be done! Nevermind there’s no sun.
Don’t sit on the couch and just cower.”
But then came the sound of the hail pounding down
and I knew I was safe in my bower—
my man cave and La-Z-Boy beckoned to me
while the hail went and knocked out the power.
OK - not great literature. But sometimes its just fun to play with words. And my guess is there can be some minor truth even in silliness.
More in June (maybe silly, maybe not) - but only if you tweet to #htspoetweet