I aspire to poetry.
Mostly
I achieve only
rhythm and rhyme
or worse, doggerel.

But every once in an age,
collaborating muses
mix mystery and miracle
with muscle.
Mere words
take on that glorious role,
the voice of a roll of thunder.

This is the poet’s calling:

To,
with sulfuric snap of lightning bolts
on the dark horizon of storm,
warn of a small-cloud-fist,
fast approaching.
To
remind the word-weary-world
there be meaning
in the whirl of the wind.
To
rumble the split air
with flashes of light,
streaks of beauty.
To
keep a journal of life’s
inevitable tempests.