Winnipeg was hit hard with a storm last night. When I went to go pick up some candy from a nearby gas station, I disconcertingly noticed that a lake had formed on the road, and that the sewer was trying rather desperately to swallow what it could swallow. Very few things can swallow a lake in one sitting. The sewer couldn't even keep up. This was biblical I tell you. Biblical.
During the deluge, I wrote a poem entitled, "The Temblor In The Sky," while my brother passed the time with some Van Morrison.
"Flashes of luminescence above the stirred city,
the incessant rumble of grumpy clouds, and the
velocity of gloaming thoughts: all effortlessly
arise from the unified field of consciousness,
all arise from tension-less vastness.
Creation is so great at the feet of the storm.
Every guttural quake and opalescent appearance of
stark light seizes the being, and then, when the drizzle
is solitary, liberates it.
Just now I can see the silhouette of a nameless bird.
Does it know of the creation "so great"?
Does it joyously welcome this all-encompassing deluge?
I think only the thunder knows.
There is knowing there in the wild, gargantuan cry."
And then there is the gnostic poem, "Thunder, Perfect Mind," and the trope that conjures up images of a storm's omniscience...
"I am hearing all can reach;
I am speech undecipherable.
I am the name of the sound and
the sound of the name.
I am the sign of the letter
and the designation of the division.
I...light...great power...will not move the name...
to the one who created me."
Sunday awaits me.
Thunder, Perfect Mind.
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