Spoiler
I wrote this poem about Hurricane Irene that hit the east coast this past weekend. I'm not the best poet out there, so don't expect much out of this. Tear it apart if you want, I won't take it personally.
A storm tore through the night,
its winds pounding against houses up and down the east coast--
rain following close behind, flooding streets
water reaching almost as tall as I.
Its path was clear, no mountains to stop
the thunderous devestation as it traveled farther.
Despite the leaves and branches that litter my lawn
and my neighbor's pond overflowing, the worst of Irene passed us by.
The hurricane picked up speed in the night and
tore through New York--the city that never sleeps
slept that night, hiding from the storm, trying to secure
the lifestyle it lives.
The sea was the real enemy--
throwing waves around, swallowing the land.
The wind did its part as well, bending trees
and powerlines alike,
leaving thousands without power
and the number is still growing.
Irene, I thank you,
for bringing my family together (we all rode out the storm together)
and trapping me in my house. Without you I would not
have been able to write this. You may have stolen power from others,
but you kept mine alive and well,
at least until two days after you left.
Yet how dare you do so much?
How dare you damage so much property, leave some people
with barely anything left.
How dare you set a tornado loose in the area
you already ripped apart? Do you not have any
feelings of regret?
I have mixed feelings about you, Irene--
loving and hating you all the same.
So could you please fizzle out and stop your path
from hitting others less fortunate than I?
Isabelle was destructive enough,
no need to try and out do her.
