Poem Storm Systems

 earlier draft revised for clarity

Storm Systems

I am in the cramped framed house my past father's cancer built .

I stand in one corner, while the broken skies, still numb from flashes

carry the radio’s blues falling on Alabama, all those heavenly ruptures.
I can hear the preacher say, Find Jesus in the pain,
remembering the silver marks of the good farmer

in the land of Uz, whose oxen plowed through

a hard summer storm, who stood firm. Still, my father

is in bed again, the ghost bed, the robes of the forgotten.

Outside, the sons of man asked God to reset

the grandfather clock, you see, here’s what happened:

walking from supper's burnt okra to the field with lost brothers,

three speak again, There is none like you on the face of the earth. 

For now in that abandoned barn, the clock lies broken.

In the house, the great mahogany gloom of the piano, 

spills the dark day light onto the ceiling

in wild fits. I don’t ask why the trees break into fire

each winter, or why the clocks seem unteachable.

Outside, in the field with no corners, I don’t ask why

we walk or why the mirrors of wet red clay streak

with flashing Azure. I don't ask if the why my brother.

The hints of wet horses and Dogwoods

don’t tell me I don't ask why my Grandfather.

I see no signs of angels with burn sores,

no electric, elemental smell in the mist, and no light
points to those trees that will soon be struck.

I wont ask why I am alone in the field, the lighting can't tell me.

Waking, tomorrow, we will all pray again from different places.
The wrong time will turn the radio dial, as it plays
Lili Marlene again, burnt cornbread and soup in the kitchen.
She’ll sing, “There'll be bluebirds over the white cliffs,”

mocking the empty plates, which are all that I’ll have—

those and the lightning bugs. Why must they be beautiful?

Surviving Storm Systems

I am in the cramped frame house my father’s cancer built. I stand in one corner

by the sick bed, while the broken skies, still numb from three flashes,

let loose the radio’s blues, falling on Alabama, from their heavenly ruptures.
I can almost hear the preacher say, Find Jesus in the pain,while remembering

the silver marks of the good farmer in the land of Uz, whose oxen plowed

through a hard summer storm, who stood firm. My father is in bed 
again, the ghost bed, the robes of the forgotten.

Walking through a Barn frame of burnt ocher, those three sons of men
try to wind back the Grandfather clock with a simple have mercy. 

In the field with no corners, the flashing mirrors of wet red clay streaked
with a hint of horse and Dogwood trees don't answer. I see no signs of angels
with burn sores, no electric, elemental smell in the mist. No more light points
at these three watches, two are lapsed from broken wires, while one still ticks.

I am in the frame house, again, as the mahogany gloom of the piano, spills dark 
day light onto the ceiling in wild fits. Long gone, father, can't answer my questions.
I will never know, why the trees broke into summer fire, or how to repair a clock. 
I only know this morning, One man and two prayed in the kitchen corner. Tomorrow

one boy will pray from a different corner, his alone. The wrong time

will turn the radio dial to Lili Marlene. Burnt cornbread, and soup in the kitchen.

She’ll sing, “There'll be blue birds over the white cliffs of,”mocking empty plates,

which is all that I’ll have— 

those and these lightning bugs.

Why must they be so beautiful?