29 October 2023

By Philip Kuepper

I.

Silent shrieks of lightning
shot awake the clouds
that grumbled about
having their sleep interrupted.
They clapped loudly
to frighten away the shrieking,
which only encouraged the shrieks,
causing the storm to explode with fury,
with a pouring of rain so intense
it flattened the wheat,
wreaked havoc on the garden’s
bounty of lettuce, beans, peas,
lashed the siding of the house,
like a whip a galley rower’s back.
Hail played insane Satanic music
on the hood, roof and bed of a pick-up,
and roared against the roof of the house,
like the wheels of a bullet train.
Afterwards, the depths
of quiet were fathomless.
We swam in them,
until we reached the surface,
to inhale the fresh, sweet
air in the aftermath
of a summer storm, sudden,
violent, past.

II.

Oars are like silent
shrieks of lightning
cutting the clouds of water,
boats, embodied
claps of thunder,
causing pour forth
the rain of a race,
a pouring forth until
the shelter of the finish line
is reached, all hands safe.

(8 October 2023)