~One Man's Dream~
Posted on 04/17/2004 7:45:52 AM PDT by Soaring Feather
No - never seen the colors. When I was little I was terrified of lightning. My dad MADE me watch an entire storm one night from the bay window in our kitchen to prove it wouldn't hurt me if I was inside. After that I was cured.
We have a place in the country here with and incredible view over the hills. When a storm is moving in, it's so much fin to just sit and watch as it makes it's way towards us and you feel the change in the breeze and the temperatures....
You never heard this feather? No kidding?
Two versions:
Lord willin' and the creek (pronounced crick) don't rise
and
Lord willin' and the saints don't rise.
Of course the first one and you'd drown, the second would be referencing the second coming. :-)
Now down in West Virginy we figured it meant we'd drown. I like your version too.
Well, I've seen lightning be green, yellow, blue, blue white, white, and oddly: pink.
No, don't know why it was that last color, probably junk in the air.
I was scared witless by the thunder, the lightning didn't bother me much.
Then I was older, and got stuck out in a storm because I forgot my house key.
*snicker*
Oh I have heard the adage, but not its source.
Ms. FEather, you amaze me. Beautiful!
Look here, Matt has translated the Polish poem Sam posted today. This is great, thanks Matt.
Yes, snippy isn't it a wonderful poem? I love it.
LOL. I couldn't imagine you not hearing it. I saw CG thoughts on the Creek, that would work too!
Thank you Star.
I just hope it likes you or maybe not. EEK.
Cool.
At first I thought while reading it that it was an older poem.
I got to the end and went, "COOL".
Give back Friday! I need Snippy to post on Friday!!
Thanks Matt. Sounds like a poem of a lost love.
If you have any poems you want to post this is the place to do it.
I wrote that this afternoon while sitting in my back yard - before the storm.
"I call the lightning and the thund*BOOM*"
Maybe not..
AS long as Snippy can still post tomorrow, I can spare her for two hours. :-)
Oh Matthew, I would love to have your work here or any artist from Poland or anywhere.
Stealing Time
You wait til you think
Every one is asleep- (is that REM sleep, stage 2, or stage 3?)
You have communed
with Netter and his nasties
most of the day
Erector spinae muscles are stiff; you
Sit on your last nerve
And in the darkness,
In the small, hollow hours (Do I know gastrulation well enough?!)
Biochemistry flowed through your brain
(Have I eaten today, or is gray matter switching to ketosis?
Is this profundity, or reactive hypoglycemia?)
You train your
focus for five minutes
on philosophy, raison d'être, raison du travail*
(some micrograph today looked like a raisin, steroid-associated mitochondria, you think)
You pause
In your writing,
Chuckling at having to resist
using abbreviations in
a poem.
This mottled madness is the meaning.
Dickens knew
this time.
You choose this
bridled schizophrenia
each day
and, each day, you
steal time.
Alison S. Hable
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