“Creative Storm Watch,” “Tornado Warning,” and “The Cultivar”
Photo by Josep Castells on Unsplash
Creative Storm Watch
My hands crackle with electricity
And when it happens
my wrists start humming
Somewhere between
my eyes and nose tingles
And the neurons
direct that sensation
(Anticipation before
lightning strikes)
Send it with
zinging resonance
through bone
Ionization
builds before
the strike,
Polarity
builds between
fingers
Energy arcs across
my palms
dancing
My knuckles flex
with charged potential
In the moment’s fullness
the tension breaks
Discharging a force
that can’t be contained
Blue Energy
from fingertips to page
The Creative force,
electrical storm
Supersonic crash
Something’s transformed
Creative Storm Watch
My hands crackle with electricity
And when it happens
my wrists start humming
Somewhere between
my eyes and nose tingles
And the neurons
direct that sensation
(Anticipation before
lightning strikes)
Send it with
zinging resonance
through bone
Ionization
builds before
the strike,
Polarity
builds between
fingers
Energy arcs across
my palms
dancing
My knuckles flex
with charged potential
In the moment’s fullness
the tension breaks
Discharging a force
that can’t be contained
Blue Energy
from fingertips to page
The Creative force,
electrical storm
Supersonic crash
Something’s transformed
Tornado Warning
When the tornado sirens wail
I feel it in my spine, my stomach.
But we, the danger-loving fools,
run outside (instead of finding that room with no windows)
bare-footed and wild, looking up for the signs we know.
Neon tree line vivid against roiling purple thunderheads
lit from within with lightning, billowing lanterns.
And the wind comes colder—
‘Well, that’s a thunderboomer’.
Secret electric giddiness.
But if the light is sick and
Yellow
Grey
Green
And the wind Switches
Wrongly and goes
Still
And you see it—the
Funnel
Cloud
Turning
It’s comin’!
And the hair on our arms stands up, the ground feels like danger.
When the curls rise slowly around my head,
we got to run inside, ‘run inside quick!’
before the lightning
discharges and
strikes me dead.
The weather radio screeches, galvanizing and familiar,
walking the thrill-line between fear and excitement.
The robo-voice speaks haltingly:
THE NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE IN... TULSA, OKLAHOMA
HAS ISSUED A TORNADO. WARNING. FOR...
(we wait)
BENTON COUNTY, ARKANSAS... SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY
We check the radar, the radio, the local TV weatherman, everything,
and hide (in the room with no windows)
filled with essentials: bottled water, photo albums, stuffed animals, pets,
Us.
We are condensed. Essential. Protective.
We wait.
Listening, thinking too many what-ifs…
Black-out. The old oaks bend too far.
Will they make it again?
Will it hit us? Or will it pass us by?
Tornado Warning
When the tornado sirens wail
I feel it in my spine, my stomach.
But we, the danger-loving fools,
run outside (instead of finding that room with no windows)
bare-footed and wild, looking up for the signs we know.
Neon tree line vivid against roiling purple thunderheads
lit from within with lightning, billowing lanterns.
And the wind comes colder—
‘Well, that’s a thunderboomer’.
Secret electric giddiness.
But if the light is sick and
Yellow
Grey
Green
And the wind Switches
Wrongly and goes
Still
And you see it—the
Funnel
Cloud
Turning
It’s comin’!
And the hair on our arms stands up, the ground feels like danger.
When the curls rise slowly around my head,
we got to run inside, ‘run inside quick!’
before the lightning
discharges and
strikes me dead.
The weather radio screeches, galvanizing and familiar,
walking the thrill-line between fear and excitement.
The robo-voice speaks haltingly:
THE NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE IN... TULSA, OKLAHOMA
HAS ISSUED A TORNADO. WARNING. FOR...
(we wait)
BENTON COUNTY, ARKANSAS... SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY
We check the radar, the radio, the local TV weatherman, everything,
and hide (in the room with no windows)
filled with essentials: bottled water, photo albums, stuffed animals, pets,
Us.
We are condensed. Essential. Protective.
We wait.
Listening, thinking too many what-ifs…
Black-out. The old oaks bend too far.
Will they make it again?
Will it hit us? Or will it pass us by?
The Cultivar
We tend the sowing the growing the harvest
Everyday distilled through fractured light
cast through prisms and wine bottle shards
dug up from the earth our hands have tilled
We wash them and hang them on willow trees
We work with rainbows at our backs and
sow long-lined rows of seeds: a vineyard
Concord chardonnay and sable black
unruly vines twisting away from their lines
and here and there sunflowers jump up
and wildflowers tumble through the rows
Blackbirds call and ravens crow gathering
An apple tree and a pomegranate
with pineapples below and agave
growing alongside prickly pears
A vineyard transformed into an oasis
Bees and bears bumble along lulled by
the mockingbird and lyre bird’s songs
Step through the thorns and put down your spade
Breathe deep into the kingdom you’ve made
Stretch out your hand and grab a new fruit
Its honeyed fire spreads from root to tooth
About the Author
Ashley Williamson
Ashley Williamson is an American poet living in the inspiring English Lake District. She is currently working on her Undergraduate of Creative Writing at Oxford University. When not writing, she works as an industrial radiographer for a small family business in the aerospace industry. She wanders the Lake District, rock collecting and painting. Her poetry is featured in Wingless Dreamer, Sad Girls Lit Mag, Cathexis Northwest Press, La Piccioletta Barca, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, and The Festival Review.