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xaaraO Great and Powerful One,
Thou who art in direct control
of the eternally mysterious Canadian weather,
and those strange wet winds
that wander forth from the far reaches
of the Gulf of Mexico,
hear our plea today,
for Monday is the longest day of the week
and not a day on which school--
a dread task at its best--
is tolerable.
So, if it be in Thy Heart
please please please please
lead those who do your bidding here on Earth;
show them the light
show them the power and the glory, etc.,
and if it be in Thy Heart
to do these things,
have them also call a snow day.
Amen.
Ain't nothin' like covering all the bases. ;)
I had to write a poem for GW class, and I sat around for a long time, big with the not coming up with anything, before I hit upon the first line "When Chicago went up." Which, of course, makes little bordering on no sense. So I added "in flames" on the next line, and lo and behold, we have the Great Chicago Fire and one creepy-ass poem. Needs major editing, but for now:
October 8, 1871, 9:00 pm.
When Chicago went up
in flames that Sunday night, its buildings burning
blue-hot, firelight red-orange against low clouds,
screams and sirens in the streets, people
running, dodging licking flame that crept
and slashed along the sidewalk,
maybe someone just watched
calmly, chin in hand, as the corner market crumbled
into charcoal. Maybe he drew his jacket around
his shoulders, flinching away
from the sparks and flares as the school
across the street crackled, its windows
exploding, one by one.
Maybe later he took a stroll
between columns of fire, lit a cigarette
from the smoldering remains
of a carriage left behind
as its owner fled the encroaching inferno.
And then maybe he turned up his collar
to shield his neck, shoved his hands
deep into his pockets, wandered the now-deserted streets
seeking…something. Maybe he paused
at the intersection of Dearborn and Monroe,
watched, head cocked to one side,
as the post office and customs house
shuddered and buckled and burned and fell
gracefully, its fireproof iron seals charring
along with the rest, distilling to a heap
of ash and filings. Then at last maybe
he found himself at the river and waded
into its greasy current, his boots filling
with water and muck. And there maybe he huddled,
smoking his last cigarette, the waxing and waning light
of his lit tobacco floating before barely illuminated lips
as behind him, the city burned.
Thou who art in direct control
of the eternally mysterious Canadian weather,
and those strange wet winds
that wander forth from the far reaches
of the Gulf of Mexico,
hear our plea today,
for Monday is the longest day of the week
and not a day on which school--
a dread task at its best--
is tolerable.
So, if it be in Thy Heart
please please please please
lead those who do your bidding here on Earth;
show them the light
show them the power and the glory, etc.,
and if it be in Thy Heart
to do these things,
have them also call a snow day.
Amen.
Ain't nothin' like covering all the bases. ;)
I had to write a poem for GW class, and I sat around for a long time, big with the not coming up with anything, before I hit upon the first line "When Chicago went up." Which, of course, makes little bordering on no sense. So I added "in flames" on the next line, and lo and behold, we have the Great Chicago Fire and one creepy-ass poem. Needs major editing, but for now:
October 8, 1871, 9:00 pm.
When Chicago went up
in flames that Sunday night, its buildings burning
blue-hot, firelight red-orange against low clouds,
screams and sirens in the streets, people
running, dodging licking flame that crept
and slashed along the sidewalk,
maybe someone just watched
calmly, chin in hand, as the corner market crumbled
into charcoal. Maybe he drew his jacket around
his shoulders, flinching away
from the sparks and flares as the school
across the street crackled, its windows
exploding, one by one.
Maybe later he took a stroll
between columns of fire, lit a cigarette
from the smoldering remains
of a carriage left behind
as its owner fled the encroaching inferno.
And then maybe he turned up his collar
to shield his neck, shoved his hands
deep into his pockets, wandered the now-deserted streets
seeking…something. Maybe he paused
at the intersection of Dearborn and Monroe,
watched, head cocked to one side,
as the post office and customs house
shuddered and buckled and burned and fell
gracefully, its fireproof iron seals charring
along with the rest, distilling to a heap
of ash and filings. Then at last maybe
he found himself at the river and waded
into its greasy current, his boots filling
with water and muck. And there maybe he huddled,
smoking his last cigarette, the waxing and waning light
of his lit tobacco floating before barely illuminated lips
as behind him, the city burned.
