Treasure Island

Chris Tusa

(01.01,72 / New Orleans, Louisiana)

Fear of Weather


Once a favorite conversation piece,
now something more like a disease.

A weathervane sings, a wind chime clangs.
It’s December, only a slight silver breeze,

but already I’m imagining the tangled
metal of cars, birds falling from the trees.

My therapist says fear is normal,
that it’s simply a matter of degrees,

the brain has an internal mechanism,
she says, a switch that flicks on and off with ease.

I imagine a kind of silver machine
in my brain, humming like a hive of bees,

fear hopping from synapse to synapse
like some sort of electric, Post-modern flea.

Each day I swallow my grief like a pill,
ignore my therapist’s advice, my wife’s pleas.

I wait for the sky to fall, longing for the days
when wind was only wind, trees only trees.

Submitted: Saturday, June 11, 2005

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  • Eric Paul Shaffer (1/26/2006 6:13:00 PM)

    I always enjoy your work, but I must pause here a moment and say that the final two lines of this poem are excellent. I would delet one word for rhythm, but even that doesn't matter. Excellent work. Not usually a fan of rhyme, I find that in these lines the jangle of rhyme at the end of each verse adds to the impression of the narrator's mental anguish. Again, excellent. (Report) Reply

  • Nagamuthu Osho (8/9/2005 6:40:00 AM)

    Hail! Savant Poet!

    The beautiful and wonderful imaginary verses flowing, following to give worth to the conscious. The theme to the sub conscious mind and for the sloth, disgrace mind.
    The awakening of the verile spirit is emphasised.
    The tempo of the musical notes, like the weather is an eternal metaphor.
    The mind kept in the wind of desire will flicker and will wilt, when compared to the lamp kept in the wind.
    When the lamp is kept in the cave, the lamp emits light with bright and without flickering, like the mind without desire, remains, refrains calm.
    God Bless you, (Report) Reply

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