tornado watch 1963.

this, is where Grandma pointed.

A spot on the orange butterfly wallpaper

where Papa splattered; his Tip Top

cigarette papers and the tin

of his half full Prince Albert

crimp cut, the last thing he held.

"Their Gods ridiculous and themselves

past shame" Milton wrote. Because

as you grow older

spots on walls can transform themselves

like little children getting over the

measles. Is there any greater

scatter of chickens into their

wire house than wind? Longer this

time than normal but their little

thin asses taking  position.

I'm grown now to compare the

diaphysis and epiphysis of all things:

The Blackened spirit that brings forth life.

The end of sorrow. How hippie and

with such impractical sadness the explanation

of the locomotive is. "This is where the

kitchen was. And in this spot, right here

next to the overturned cow, was where we

took our meals for 43 years". Even in

the hollow dark, the sadness wore on.

Reviews

[m.s.early]

You have captured the essence of nature and I know I'm not going to explain the depth of my thought (I'm a terrible reviewer).

Essence of nature? man vs. nature? nature vs. man?

The capacity of the human heart to love through loss, the inability of nature to care. Nature's unforgiving and terrible authority to provide it's incomprehensible enforcement of balance (our expense in horrid disregard). The immediateness of the human heart to feel.

The latter being what your write here demands. That we feel immediately. You force us to see what is impossible to capture in a newscast of the same event.

This to me is what poetry does for us... delves us deeper into our human condition through the imagination of the author vicariously. Love is the author of all emotions. We would not recognize hate if it weren't for the existence of love. We are born in love. Love births our hatred for death, our resentment for loss.

With each stem of shredded tobacco fallen below the butterfly pattern, there is a shred of love remembered. A shred of love enveloped by fond memories. That is the human element... shreds of love enveloped by memory and here you present it in its eternity.

[andre8664]

This is very great poem its the best one a have every read a love it lots great job and keep it up please go and read my 2 story and let your friends now to check it out please let me now wat you and your friends think good or bad

[writing mojo]

So much glued together here for the big picture ..its like what my mom says...we are living with a such small views of what moves..but if you look at life like god does from such an incredible height..the world seems so laid out like the patch work view from a airplane window in beginning of flight..im more rooting for the sparrow leaving the nest for the first time..this is so great dana

[rubie]

It occurred to me, as I went to your page to return the favor of a review, that i have read your poetry before, a long time ago, during a time i was more active on this site. I've returned now, as my muse has come back into my life, and seems to have taken up residence once again, at least for the time being.

But I digress....

I remember your poetry. Beautiful. Simple yet complex. And profoundly moving.

What a perfect metaphor. Time moves things around in our hearts, minds and lives, as do the forces of nature. Yet, aging is also another force of nature. How boring our lives would be if things always stayed in the same place. Sometimes, the moving around is for the better, but sometimes, as your piece suggests, it is devastating. We struggle to gain our footing, we struggle to recognize bits and pieces, and then we feel lost and disoriented.

Such a thought-provoking piece.

[W.k.kortas]

To piggy back on what the wise Ken says (with an admirable brevity which, sadly, I will not employ my ownself)...there are layers upon layers herein; the notion of tornadoes, woeful things in their own right and their own reality, but fraught with connotations and symbolism outside their physical attributes, and so the transformation of what was left of Grandpa into a thing outside of time, outside of history, layers upon layers. One of the limitations of so-so peotry that it acts a bit like a pyramid, narrowing into a point, a fixed notion of what it is and what it is saying. The truly outstanding stuff, the work that resides on the top shelf, is more akin to that pyramid flipped on its head, as it were, opening wider and wider vistas as it moves along. As the good Simm notes, "Gestalts talking about gestalts."

[emmajoy]

'This is where' a writer displays a series of deep emotions about folk stand-sitting afore a past that can't be set aside. Just there, across there .. are too many memories, as minute as strewn ash but - ultra vital cos they're precious remnants of Grandma and Grandpa and all - '.. as you grow older - spots on walls can transform - themselves - like little children getting over the - measles. ' YES! From reality and tragedy comes memories believed and - trusted.

[Ken Simm.]

Gestalts talking about gestalts. Your use of complex metaphor in your story poems is unsurpassed by any I can think of, in and out of here.

[Delmar Cooper]

We have then here in spades, great big winds that trump everything we stack or cobble together instantly.

[kmartell]

The greatness of past things, when young we saw differently.

[Corset]

Poor Grandma, to have had orange butterfly paper in the first place and in the second to have grandpa a permanent fixture of psychiatrist blob for wall adornment. Tornadoes are nothing to sneeze at, or pee in, or scoff at, those twisters are very dangerous as well as very messy.