"The Beauty of Storms" and "Crows" - last two poems for National Poetry Month

Poem 29 April 29
The Beauty of Storms


Out here in the great plains,
heat driven thunderstorms
can blow up in minutes
when warm moist air cools.
From a distance, they mushroom
high into the sky,
benign and beautiful
and sometimes reflect the setting sun.
But up close
they can be angry monsters,
furious and vengeful.
Wind driven rain becomes drop-less sheets,
nearby lightning blasts leave
the smell of ozone in the
cold air, and crackling thunder
claps applaud the production.
Up close those thunder claps
are the barks of a dangerous beast,
but in the distance are just a gentle rumble
of a sleepy giant.



Poem #30 April 30
Crows
I see crows around the city every so often,
nibbling on road kill or
sitting atop posts of varying heights,
when I’m paying attention.
They roost in large numbers overnight,
but I’ve not seen that.
Crows, they say, can live 20 years or more.
And crows, they say, can recognize human faces,
and carry a grudge, targeting a past
wrongdoer for retribution.
They are omnivores, scavengers,
and will cannibalize their own.
Crows are symbolic, shamanic,
and persistently present.
Edgar Allan Poe’s raven was a literary cousin
to Ted Hughes’ crow, both mythologic nibblers
of life’s leftovers.
They are thought to be the smartest bird
which is not saying all that much
although they have been known to use
twigs to root out larval snacks form
otherwise inaccessible places.
To Ovid, a crow meant rain.
In Sweden, ravens are the ghosts
of murdered men.
Native American mythologies from the
Northwest see crows as creator gods
or as a trickster, like Loki.
We go to great lengths to ascribe meaning
to crows and ravens which likely says
more about us than about ravens or crows.