TEMPEST

I received a note from the poet this evening, asking me to post this work tomorrow. I decided to post it tonight, jumping the gun by a few hours, but making sure it got out there.

One of the three "capital T" poems, this work works on it's own...but there is a subtext to it that he has never shared with me, or with anyone to my knowledge. Perhaps in his memoirs...

TEMPEST

Take into your palm the merest scent of the rain
the taste of the clouds brought down to fill the sculpted rims
of earth laid open to catch the essence of life.
Grounded, pounded flat by the cold courage of ages past,
at last we find the run of the water makes meanders of our hearts.
Rivers of our souls.
Lakes of our illusions.
Oceans of our desperations
to sail upon when we are stale within our failing lives.
Knives honed on the waterglass of our saline runoff.
Kissing the idols of our Poseidons
from which rise our Aphrodites.
Which touch the clouds with their beauty
and bring the tears to wet again the sterile ground.
And we wait for the thundergods
to bring the storm. Hot on the heels of the cooling clouds
that weep upon as they reap from us our thankfulness.
And the lightning never fails to elicit
a sudden twinge of terror.
As the thunder rolls
and our souls fold in upon themselves in mirror mockery
of the opening leaves that drink the tempest's tears
and give us a taste of ambrosia.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.