Tommy poem – hurricane

Sestina- French form. One poem

Hurricane

by Thomas Page

Calm birds go berserk, palmettos swaying

Gently until the sky darkens sharply

With the howl of the Sahel’s wet season

Rushing over the Atlantic islands

With an eye spinning on itself until

It veers towards the Americas. Having

 

No indication of what it is having

The windows breaking, the firm walls swaying

With the roar of the wind over until

The house lets go of the ground sharply

Leaving the foundation like an island

Found in concrete. There is a new season

 

Of the process each year. There’s a season

When people say, “We are not having

Another bad one like that” well, on islands

It storms along the coast again swaying

And grinding against some small town sharply

Pulling out historic sights, water until

 

The towns are now reefs. The people until

Their houses fly away in their season

Of misfortune. They’ll be sobbing sharply

On the T. V. “All that we own having

No business being in the sea” swaying

With the current becoming small islands.

 

The Florida Keys themselves, as small islands,

Stand no chance of weathering it until

It magically turns to elsewhere swaying

Their palmettos and flooding their season

Homes in the summer. They’re having

News reports about the storm that sharply

 

Worded warnings will turn the trend sharply

Away from storm parties on these islands

Or by the coast of mainland. They’re having

Margaritas and chips, yucking until

The storm waltzes by the glass door the season

Ruined by tragedy. The house swaying

 

From its stilts holding on barely until

It’s in the hungry sea. Every season

It’s the same with all the tree’s leaves swaying.