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Alto Cumulus

Poetry By: willetgrome
Poetry



A storm is brewing..


Submitted:Nov 22, 2012    Reads: 55    Comments: 16    Likes: 8   


A tender smile behind teary eyes,

that is the face of humankind;

the folly of the conscious mind,

is weeping.

Casualties of the sufferance that besets the

harbour of our sentience even in pacific times.

There is no bastion from the tempest of our perfectly

impefect hearts;

no inlet beyond the maelstrom of nature's tenuous

balanicing act.

Most have seen this terrific effect,

in the vacuums that stage their epic battles betwixt

rising and falling currents;

ascendant to crown the mighty alto cumulus.

that spits fire to restore the consonance,

lest the steam should boil over to apocalyptic consequence.

We stand in awe, so afeard,

though remiss, would we be,

to dissuade the joy that surely follows,

in perfect unity;

powerless as always to stem the tide

or deny the allure of its terrible recompense.

A tender smile behind teary eyes,

that is the face of humankind.

So much by our hands would we like to pretend,

is the guilt of another,

the sins of the past;

belying full well that crimes against The Species

are crimes of The Species;

all our hands painted red.

Fitting though that the sand should be

the preferred placement for our heads,

better that than to face the unpleasant reality

of how powerless our present stead

to halt the progession of our bestial tread,

or hapless to rescind,

the inexorable renewal of violent contravention.

There is ne'ery a conduit of time into which humanity

can confluence without opposition,

just as there is scarcely a course for air that births no weather,

or passage for water that yields no resurrecting spray

in the calamity of its fall over rocks;

mountains upheaved by anything less the monstrous confliction.

Life is dynamic, and the dynamic is frictional,

the casualty of existence is the naivety we must relinquish,

to dispel delusion from the earnest truth,

that life has a long-standing debt to carnage.

The Enola Gay was a lightning bolt from an alto cumulus,

effervescing under the pressure of two rising updrafts,

that released a critical mass to restore the consonance.

We ululate so plaintive-

Why!?

Why!?

Why does this destruction so become us?

Yet, what other line are the bios to be towed by?

Peace is a stagnant pool with no outlet, no crashing waves or churning maelstrom

to stir up life's inertia.

A tender smile behind teary eyes?

That is the face of a sentient mind

first discovering an awful burden,

that the burgeoning fruit of life

is conflict.

JKM





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