The Eye of the Storm
Thundering gray waves explode on the shore.
An endless army advances, retreats,
Explodes, Furious.
The roars of the warriors deafen,
Spending themselves on the dark cold beach.
Snarling ashen clouds spew
Wind and rain battalions
Against all that stands.
Sand for bullets
Shrieking hordes descend
Lightning.
Crack. The spine of a tree shatters.
Splinters.
Ghostly outline of the Chapel Bell
Motionless in the din.
Ancient, rusted, frozen clapper.
Forever joined and silent
Firm amidst the fury and violence.
In the warm afternoon sun the boy and girl kneel in the sand
Building a sandcastle beyond the reach
Of gentle rolling waves caressing the golden shore.
Peals of laughter rise on the summer breeze.
Beyond, the sapphire bay shimmers
Under the warm tropical sun.
Suddenly a wave, larger, more powerful,
Rolls out of the sea and up the beach.
The boy and girl run, squealing.
The yellow plastic pail, caught in the water is
Drawn away, unseen into the sea.
The boy and girl return to their work.
Looking.
A tear forms.
Then dries in the gathering breeze.
Rain beats down.
Thunder on the rooftop.
Sheets of wind-driven water
Like nails into the sodden ground
Advance in ranks along the boulevard.
Relentlessly. The water rises.
Swallows the bank.
Over the roadway into the yard.
Deeper and deeper.
A tree limb captured, a lawn chair
Swept toward the bay.
Screech.
The ancient oak sways.
Dancing in the storm.
Water rises up, cold, dark
Above the stone steps
Worn smooth from years of foot treads,
Immovable under the scourge
Of the advancing flood.
Splash.
Two kids land in the sparkling blue water
Shrieking joyfully as they play.
The inflated ball bounces high out of the pool
Off the tiled deck and out of sight,
Then fetched back and put into play again.
Splashing and squealing the children go.
With a sudden scream one is pulled under.
In all the noise no one notices
Until he explodes back out of the water
Exacting his revenge as
The golden sun drops behind the oak trees.
With a sigh
I turn from the window.
Crack.
Lightning strikes
Rending tree limbs
Exploding. Burning shrapnel splinters
Through the broken glass.
Sheer curtains ignite. Fire spreads.
Through the kitchen
Up the stairs. Flames devouring
Consuming all that was there, is there.
Memories, history turns to ash.
Through the flames the chimney stands.
All else falls aside.
Stone piled up one on one
Reaching toward the sky.
Stubbornly standing still in the battle’s din.
The log pops in an explosion of sparks
Lifted up, dancing on the fall breeze,
into the night sky.
The sun has set on the autumn leaves.
The children snuggle under blankets
Around the campfire grandpa made.
There to sing songs and toast treats
Warm. Cozy in each others arms.
With a snap another log breaks
Sending burning cinders toward their feet
But quickly swept aside.
Then another song is sung, a story told
Around the campfire grandpa made.
Eyes closed, silently, I sigh
As I put down the album.
Older, tired, bruised and broken.
Still standing.
I never knew
We live in the eye of the storm.
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