It's Still Life

 
Just Suppose

That hurricane. It’s real.
Lost in a traveller’s roam.
What if,
it was alive

with a face etched haze-white,
a beard stretched
like the wind’s tail, and hair
tangled like spun-sugar.

And what if
that hurricane
was a child,
a livid anger and

wayward rejection.
With a look.
A slap.
It would spit and fume.

That hurricane would
just as soon knock you on your
flat arse
than acknowledge your presence.

I knew a guy like that.
He was also a hurricane.

AprPAD Day 15: Metaphor, and #napowrimo Something bad with a human side.

It’s National Poetry Writing Month, which explains the surge in activity. I’m following three different sites generating daily prompts. Writers’ Digest Poetic Asides, the National Poetry Writing Month website (NaPoWriMo) and my old friend, Walt, over at Gnomes. All of these pieces are drafts.