The Storm

First there was a storm

of cops and batons,

streetsweeping with

menace with shotgun

but God was not in the storm

(brass and blue and wry

whisking out the rye

and brown and whiskey)

and then there was a hymn

of wind pushed up and down

the empty throats of lift

shafts in the in-

complete highrise

but God was not (him)

in the hymn

(their moan tuned on-

ly by chance—no-

one knows the math

to make this an act of God)

and then there were


fat crowds of fat tourists

craning their heads, crow-

ing delights

at this cathedral of man

and of course God was

not in the people

(who came only after the

storm cleaned the sidewalk

where they did shat their

flotsam and dropped their


and there was an all-

seeing eye around the

neck of each

(drawn to the storm like

worms to a rain,

like birds to worms)

a Leica eye, a Nikon


but God was not (as

most people think)

in the panoptic Canon

then when the streets

were dark

and empty

there was (from the door-

way shadow,

where he'd watched all along)

a streetsweeper

who bristle whispered

tsk tsk

tsk tsk

and God was

NewMyths.Com is one of only a few online magazines that continues to pay writers, poets and artists for their contributions.
If you have enjoyed this resource and would like to support
NewMyths.Com, please consider donating a little something.

---   ---
Published By NewMyths.Com - A quarterly ezine by a community of writers, poets and artist. © all rights reserved.
NewMyths.Com is owned and operated by New Myths Publishing and founder, publisher, writer, Scott T. Barnes