It is a discipline. To write when you don't feel like writing. To write like taking batting practice. You don't always hit the ball. Ya strike out a lot. Kids played baseball so it is a metaphor in my life. 100 useless strikes can lead to a game winning home run. So this may just be a strike out.
White Sunlight
When the white sunlight
hits the hail,
scatters
it amongst the wall clouds
at the flank,
ping
ponging
off each other:
pinballs
chased by lightening.
In that engulfing gloom,
the bruised sky
full of broken veins
of light,
spills over,
pools,
into violently spinning air.
The fat finger of death
curls its way to dirt...
Mesmerized,
frozen in a hell like stance
by the power flashes,
I strained to glimpse that "finger of God".
Across the prairie
on internet waves
Doppler radar
pinging velocity
mountains no barrier
divide no hindrance
separation of East/West
dry line/ warm front
reaches to satellite space.
The neutral zone
inert,
a vacuum,
a silence
that is you.
No wind shear,
no super cells,
the dew point
inadequate
to produce.
The barrenness
of self,
cold and adrift
in space
where nothingness exists...
Rachel crying in the wilderness…
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