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Re: Thunder (26092 Gwen)

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  • Alan
    Dear Gwen A little anecdote to share with you: Flying out of Changi(Singapore)we were always careful to skirt around those evil,anvil shaped Cbs. A DC3 is
    Message 1 of 10 , Feb 2, 2006
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      Dear Gwen

      A little anecdote to share with you:

      Flying out of Changi(Singapore)we were always careful to skirt around
      those evil,anvil shaped Cbs.
      A DC3 is tough but you know when not to push your luck.
      Now I was a V.I.P. pilot (White overalls and silk scarves) and to
      reach this standard we were continually monitored and tested by know-
      alls from UK and other countries.
      One such group of gentlemen (I refrain from mentioning their place
      of origin)berated us for fighting shy of this type of cloud and
      proceeded to demonstrate the folly of skirting around them and
      decide to fly through regardless.
      Their aircraft was a B25 Mitchell (The type which crashed into the
      Empire State building circa 1945) and the last we heard from them
      was a cry over the radio of: "effing hell, let's get out of this
      s**t"
      Somewhere on one of the many islands of the south China seas, there
      may be a pile of scrap aluminium and a couple of engines but I
      imagine the sharks will have long ago disposed of the occupants.

      There's a moral there:Keep clear of the anvil for the blacksmith
      might miss with his hammer.

      As always

      Wings
      --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, Gwen Ames <poetry4u@...> wrote:
      >
      > THUNDER
      >
      > The cumulonimbus come
      > like wild buffalos stampeding,
      > resounding against the ears of corn in the field
      > against her ears drums.
      >
      > She is palpated by the vibrations
      > and tired from cloudbursts, gales,
      > and thunder, thunder,
      > everywhere—
      >
      > It shows in his eyes and her mama's tears.
      > She feels it in his fist and her mama's words.
      > It has sown itself under the marks on her arms
      > and in the ache of wounds claimed by HIV.
      >
      > Unpredictability is the only promise offered
      > in her life,
      > other than ceaseless needs
      > for more men...
      > more money…
      > more want…
      > want peace…
      > more needs wanting more.
      >
      > In a frantic roar the saturated clouds break loose.
      > Light, cool rain tap dances on her scorched skin.
      > Steam soars upward like a runaway kite
      > and suddenly she is not afraid.
      >
      > In the harbor of the lull she hears the buzz of bees again,
      > becomes a nude cloud sunning low in the field;
      > the taste of wild raw corn in her teeth;
      > and for a short time she feels planted.
      >
      > (c) Gwen Ames, 2006
      >
    • Gwen Ames
      Alan, I do not under any circumstance understand your anecdote. Should I? Gwen Alan wrote: Dear Gwen A little anecdote to share with
      Message 2 of 10 , Feb 2, 2006
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        Alan,
         
        I do not under any circumstance understand your anecdote. Should I?
         
        Gwen

        Alan <wings081@...> wrote:

        Dear Gwen

        A little anecdote to share with you:

        Flying out of Changi(Singapore)we were always careful to skirt around
        those evil,anvil shaped Cbs.
        A DC3 is tough but you know when not to push your luck.
        Now I was a V.I.P. pilot (White overalls and silk scarves) and to
        reach this standard we were continually monitored and tested by know-
        alls from UK and other countries.
        One such group of gentlemen (I refrain from mentioning their place
        of origin)berated us for fighting shy of this type of cloud and
        proceeded to demonstrate the folly of skirting around them and
        decide to fly through regardless.
        Their aircraft was a B25 Mitchell (The type which crashed into the
        Empire State building circa 1945) and the last we heard from them
        was a cry over the radio of: "effing hell, let's get out of this
        s**t"
        Somewhere on one of the many islands of the south China seas, there
        may be a pile of scrap aluminium and a couple of engines but I
        imagine the sharks will have long ago disposed of the occupants.

        There's a moral there:Keep clear of the anvil for the blacksmith
        might miss with his hammer.

        As always

        Wings
        --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, Gwen Ames <poetry4u@...> wrote:
        >
        >   THUNDER
        >   
        >   The cumulonimbus come
        >   like wild buffalos stampeding,
        >   resounding against the ears of corn in the field
        >   against her ears drums.
        >   
        >   She is palpated by the vibrations
        >   and tired from cloudbursts, gales,
        >   and thunder, thunder,
        >   everywhere—
        >   
        >   It shows in his eyes and her mama's tears.
        >   She feels it in his fist and her mama's words.
        >   It has sown itself under the marks on her arms
        >   and in the ache of wounds claimed by HIV.
        >   
        >   Unpredictability is the only promise offered
        >   in her life,
        >   other than ceaseless needs
        >   for more men...
        >   more money…
        >   more want…
        >   want peace…
        >   more needs wanting more.
        >   
        >   In a frantic roar the saturated clouds break loose.
        >   Light, cool rain tap dances on her scorched skin.
        >   Steam soars upward like a runaway kite
        >   and suddenly she is not afraid.
        >   
        >   In the harbor of the lull she hears the buzz of bees again,
        >   becomes a nude cloud sunning low in the field;
        >   the taste of wild raw corn in her teeth;
        >   and for a short time she feels planted.
        >   
        >                                               (c) Gwen Ames, 2006
        >





      • Alan
        Dear Gwen I m sorry if you found my last post obtuse but when you mentioned cumulonimbus clouds in your poem, it brought back memories.Some good, some not so
        Message 3 of 10 , Feb 2, 2006
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          Dear Gwen

          I'm sorry if you found my last post obtuse but when you mentioned
          cumulonimbus clouds in your poem, it brought back memories.Some
          good, some not so good.These clouds can build up rapidly and reach
          up to the tropopause which is the boundary between the troposphere
          and the stratosphere.At this level (36-40 thousand feet) the tops of
          the clouds spread out to form the typical anvil shape.
          Any clever clogs attempting to have a little fun by flying into the
          heart of these clouds will be tossed around like a rag doll. I know
          for I was mad enough to try it once and consider myself lucky to be
          here to tell the tale.Incidentally I was carrying no passengers on
          that occasion but my wireless operator,who had been a P.O.W. of Nazi
          Germany swore he'd never fly with me again.He maintained he saw the
          wing rivets popping and having survived the trauma of a Nazi Stalag
          he didn't want to push his luck any further.
          These days with weather radar warning, planes are able to stay well
          clear of the brutes.Trust me, you don't want to go there.

          Hope that clears up your query.

          As always

          Wings
          --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, Gwen Ames <poetry4u@...> wrote:
          >
          > Alan,
          >
          > I do not under any circumstance understand your anecdote. Should
          I?
          >
          > Gwen
          >
          > Alan <wings081@...> wrote:
          >
          > Dear Gwen
          >
          > A little anecdote to share with you:
          >
          > Flying out of Changi(Singapore)we were always careful to skirt
          around
          > those evil,anvil shaped Cbs.
          > A DC3 is tough but you know when not to push your luck.
          > Now I was a V.I.P. pilot (White overalls and silk scarves) and to
          > reach this standard we were continually monitored and tested by
          know-
          > alls from UK and other countries.
          > One such group of gentlemen (I refrain from mentioning their place
          > of origin)berated us for fighting shy of this type of cloud and
          > proceeded to demonstrate the folly of skirting around them and
          > decide to fly through regardless.
          > Their aircraft was a B25 Mitchell (The type which crashed into the
          > Empire State building circa 1945) and the last we heard from them
          > was a cry over the radio of: "effing hell, let's get out of this
          > s**t"
          > Somewhere on one of the many islands of the south China seas,
          there
          > may be a pile of scrap aluminium and a couple of engines but I
          > imagine the sharks will have long ago disposed of the occupants.
          >
          > There's a moral there:Keep clear of the anvil for the blacksmith
          > might miss with his hammer.
          >
          > As always
          >
          > Wings
          > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, Gwen Ames <poetry4u@> wrote:
          > >
          > > THUNDER
          > >
          > > The cumulonimbus come
          > > like wild buffalos stampeding,
          > > resounding against the ears of corn in the field
          > > against her ears drums.
          > >
          > > She is palpated by the vibrations
          > > and tired from cloudbursts, gales,
          > > and thunder, thunder,
          > > everywhere—
          > >
          > > It shows in his eyes and her mama's tears.
          > > She feels it in his fist and her mama's words.
          > > It has sown itself under the marks on her arms
          > > and in the ache of wounds claimed by HIV.
          > >
          > > Unpredictability is the only promise offered
          > > in her life,
          > > other than ceaseless needs
          > > for more men...
          > > more money…
          > > more want…
          > > want peace…
          > > more needs wanting more.
          > >
          > > In a frantic roar the saturated clouds break loose.
          > > Light, cool rain tap dances on her scorched skin.
          > > Steam soars upward like a runaway kite
          > > and suddenly she is not afraid.
          > >
          > > In the harbor of the lull she hears the buzz of bees again,
          > > becomes a nude cloud sunning low in the field;
          > > the taste of wild raw corn in her teeth;
          > > and for a short time she feels planted.
          > >
          > > (c) Gwen Ames, 2006
          > >
          >
          >
          >
          >
          >
          >
          > Learn more about ticket2wite at http://ticket2write.tripod.com
          >
          >
          >
          > SPONSORED LINKS
          > Creative writing Professional writer Creative writing
          course Creative writing program Writing book Writing a book
          >
          > ---------------------------------
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          >
          >
          > Visit your group "ticket2write" on the web.
          >
          > To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:
          > ticket2write-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com
          >
          > Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms of
          Service.
          >
          >
          > ---------------------------------
          >
        • Gwen Ames
          Alan, So was cumulonimbus a correct geographical description of inner turbulence? Or are they too high up? Gwen Alan wrote: Dear Gwen
          Message 4 of 10 , Feb 2, 2006
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            Alan,
             
            So was cumulonimbus a correct geographical description of inner turbulence? Or are they too high up?
             
            Gwen

            Alan <wings081@...> wrote:


            Dear Gwen

            I'm sorry if you found my last post obtuse but when you mentioned
            cumulonimbus clouds in your poem, it brought back memories.Some
            good, some not so good.These clouds can build up rapidly and reach
            up to the tropopause which is the boundary between the troposphere
            and the stratosphere.At this level (36-40 thousand feet) the tops of
            the clouds spread out to form the typical anvil shape.
            Any clever clogs attempting to have a little fun by flying into the
            heart of these clouds will be tossed around like a rag doll. I know
            for I was mad enough to try it once and consider myself lucky to be
            here to tell the tale.Incidentally I was carrying no passengers on
            that occasion but my wireless operator,who had been a P.O.W. of Nazi
            Germany swore he'd never fly with me again.He maintained he saw the
            wing rivets popping and having survived the trauma of a Nazi Stalag
            he didn't want to push his luck any further.
            These days with weather radar warning, planes are able to stay well
            clear of the brutes.Trust me, you don't want to go there.

            Hope that clears up your query.

            As always

            Wings
            --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, Gwen Ames <poetry4u@...> wrote:
            >
            > Alan,
            >   
            >   I do not under any circumstance understand your anecdote. Should
            I?
            >   
            >   Gwen
            >
            > Alan <wings081@...> wrote:
            >  
            > Dear Gwen
            >
            > A little anecdote to share with you:
            >
            > Flying out of Changi(Singapore)we were always careful to skirt
            around
            > those evil,anvil shaped Cbs.
            > A DC3 is tough but you know when not to push your luck.
            > Now I was a V.I.P. pilot (White overalls and silk scarves) and to
            > reach this standard we were continually monitored and tested by
            know-
            > alls from UK and other countries.
            > One such group of gentlemen (I refrain from mentioning their place
            > of origin)berated us for fighting shy of this type of cloud and
            > proceeded to demonstrate the folly of skirting around them and
            > decide to fly through regardless.
            > Their aircraft was a B25 Mitchell (The type which crashed into the
            > Empire State building circa 1945) and the last we heard from them
            > was a cry over the radio of: "effing hell, let's get out of this
            > s**t"
            > Somewhere on one of the many islands of the south China seas,
            there
            > may be a pile of scrap aluminium and a couple of engines but I
            > imagine the sharks will have long ago disposed of the occupants.
            >
            > There's a moral there:Keep clear of the anvil for the blacksmith
            > might miss with his hammer.
            >
            > As always
            >
            > Wings
            > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, Gwen Ames <poetry4u@> wrote:
            > >
            > >   THUNDER
            > >   
            > >   The cumulonimbus come
            > >   like wild buffalos stampeding,
            > >   resounding against the ears of corn in the field
            > >   against her ears drums.
            > >   
            > >   She is palpated by the vibrations
            > >   and tired from cloudbursts, gales,
            > >   and thunder, thunder,
            > >   everywhere—
            > >   
            > >   It shows in his eyes and her mama's tears.
            > >   She feels it in his fist and her mama's words.
            > >   It has sown itself under the marks on her arms
            > >   and in the ache of wounds claimed by HIV.
            > >   
            > >   Unpredictability is the only promise offered
            > >   in her life,
            > >   other than ceaseless needs
            > >   for more men...
            > >   more money…
            > >   more want…
            > >   want peace…
            > >   more needs wanting more.
            > >   
            > >   In a frantic roar the saturated clouds break loose.
            > >   Light, cool rain tap dances on her scorched skin.
            > >   Steam soars upward like a runaway kite
            > >   and suddenly she is not afraid.
            > >   
            > >   In the harbor of the lull she hears the buzz of bees again,
            > >   becomes a nude cloud sunning low in the field;
            > >   the taste of wild raw corn in her teeth;
            > >   and for a short time she feels planted.
            > >   
            > >                                               (c) Gwen Ames, 2006
            > >
            >
            >
            >
            >
            >
            >
            > Learn more about ticket2wite at http://ticket2write.tripod.com
            >
            >
            >
            >   SPONSORED LINKS
            >         Creative writing   Professional writer   Creative writing
            course     Creative writing program   Writing book   Writing a book
            >    
            > ---------------------------------
            >   YAHOO! GROUPS LINKS
            >
            >    
            >     Visit your group "ticket2write" on the web.
            >    
            >     To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:
            >  ticket2write-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com
            >    
            >     Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms of
            Service.
            >
            >    
            > ---------------------------------
            >





          • Alan
            Inner turbulence Yes indeed. Cbs have updrafts in excess of 50knots. Even those fair weather cumulus can develop into a Cb with powerful thunderstorms
            Message 5 of 10 , Feb 3, 2006
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              "Inner turbulence" Yes indeed.
              Cbs have updrafts in excess of 50knots.
              Even those fair weather cumulus can develop into a Cb with powerful
              thunderstorms called supercells which have rotating updrafts lasting
              several hours. Their base is usually between 2,000 and 5000 ft but
              can extend to ground level.
              They can be a single cloud or stretch out in a line known as a line
              squall.
              I have flown from Kuching in Borneo to Singapore and met with a line
              squall around the half way point. That is when a navigator is
              invaluable to work out your critical point and point of no return.

              Forget geographical. Meteorlogical you need to treat Cbs with the
              greatest respect.

              as always

              Wings


              --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, Gwen Ames <poetry4u@...> wrote:
              >
              > Alan,
              >
              > So was cumulonimbus a correct geographical description of inner
              turbulence? Or are they too high up?
              >
              > Gwen
              >
              > Alan <wings081@...> wrote:
              >
              >
              > Dear Gwen
              >
              > I'm sorry if you found my last post obtuse but when you mentioned
              > cumulonimbus clouds in your poem, it brought back memories.Some
              > good, some not so good.These clouds can build up rapidly and reach
              > up to the tropopause which is the boundary between the troposphere
              > and the stratosphere.At this level (36-40 thousand feet) the tops
              of
              > the clouds spread out to form the typical anvil shape.
              > Any clever clogs attempting to have a little fun by flying into
              the
              > heart of these clouds will be tossed around like a rag doll. I
              know
              > for I was mad enough to try it once and consider myself lucky to
              be
              > here to tell the tale.Incidentally I was carrying no passengers on
              > that occasion but my wireless operator,who had been a P.O.W. of
              Nazi
              > Germany swore he'd never fly with me again.He maintained he saw
              the
              > wing rivets popping and having survived the trauma of a Nazi
              Stalag
              > he didn't want to push his luck any further.
              > These days with weather radar warning, planes are able to stay
              well
              > clear of the brutes.Trust me, you don't want to go there.
              >
              > Hope that clears up your query.
              >
              > As always
              >
              > Wings
              > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, Gwen Ames <poetry4u@> wrote:
              > >
              > > Alan,
              > >
              > > I do not under any circumstance understand your anecdote.
              Should
              > I?
              > >
              > > Gwen
              > >
              > > Alan <wings081@> wrote:
              > >
              > > Dear Gwen
              > >
              > > A little anecdote to share with you:
              > >
              > > Flying out of Changi(Singapore)we were always careful to skirt
              > around
              > > those evil,anvil shaped Cbs.
              > > A DC3 is tough but you know when not to push your luck.
              > > Now I was a V.I.P. pilot (White overalls and silk scarves) and
              to
              > > reach this standard we were continually monitored and tested by
              > know-
              > > alls from UK and other countries.
              > > One such group of gentlemen (I refrain from mentioning their
              place
              > > of origin)berated us for fighting shy of this type of cloud and
              > > proceeded to demonstrate the folly of skirting around them and
              > > decide to fly through regardless.
              > > Their aircraft was a B25 Mitchell (The type which crashed into
              the
              > > Empire State building circa 1945) and the last we heard from
              them
              > > was a cry over the radio of: "effing hell, let's get out of this
              > > s**t"
              > > Somewhere on one of the many islands of the south China seas,
              > there
              > > may be a pile of scrap aluminium and a couple of engines but I
              > > imagine the sharks will have long ago disposed of the occupants.
              > >
              > > There's a moral there:Keep clear of the anvil for the blacksmith
              > > might miss with his hammer.
              > >
              > > As always
              > >
              > > Wings
              > > --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, Gwen Ames <poetry4u@> wrote:
              > > >
              > > > THUNDER
              > > >
              > > > The cumulonimbus come
              > > > like wild buffalos stampeding,
              > > > resounding against the ears of corn in the field
              > > > against her ears drums.
              > > >
              > > > She is palpated by the vibrations
              > > > and tired from cloudbursts, gales,
              > > > and thunder, thunder,
              > > > everywhere—
              > > >
              > > > It shows in his eyes and her mama's tears.
              > > > She feels it in his fist and her mama's words.
              > > > It has sown itself under the marks on her arms
              > > > and in the ache of wounds claimed by HIV.
              > > >
              > > > Unpredictability is the only promise offered
              > > > in her life,
              > > > other than ceaseless needs
              > > > for more men...
              > > > more money…
              > > > more want…
              > > > want peace…
              > > > more needs wanting more.
              > > >
              > > > In a frantic roar the saturated clouds break loose.
              > > > Light, cool rain tap dances on her scorched skin.
              > > > Steam soars upward like a runaway kite
              > > > and suddenly she is not afraid.
              > > >
              > > > In the harbor of the lull she hears the buzz of bees again,
              > > > becomes a nude cloud sunning low in the field;
              > > > the taste of wild raw corn in her teeth;
              > > > and for a short time she feels planted.
              > > >
              > > > (c) Gwen Ames,
              2006
              > > >
              > >
              > >
              > >
              > >
              > >
              > >
              > > Learn more about ticket2wite at http://ticket2write.tripod.com
              > >
              > >
              > >
              > > SPONSORED LINKS
              > > Creative writing Professional writer Creative
              writing
              > course Creative writing program Writing book Writing a
              book
              > >
              > > ---------------------------------
              > > YAHOO! GROUPS LINKS
              > >
              > >
              > > Visit your group "ticket2write" on the web.
              > >
              > > To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:
              > > ticket2write-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com
              > >
              > > Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms of
              > Service.
              > >
              > >
              > > ---------------------------------
              > >
              >
              >
              >
              >
              >
              >
              > Learn more about ticket2wite at http://ticket2write.tripod.com
              >
              >
              >
              > ---------------------------------
              > YAHOO! GROUPS LINKS
              >
              >
              > Visit your group "ticket2write" on the web.
              >
              > To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:
              > ticket2write-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com
              >
              > Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms of
              Service.
              >
              >
              > ---------------------------------
              >
            • David Roth
              Hi Gwen, an interesting piece on a difficult topic. There are a few places where I think your wording, for me at least, is a tad tedious. In the second
              Message 6 of 10 , Feb 3, 2006
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                Message
                Hi Gwen,  an interesting piece on a difficult topic.  There are a few places where I think your wording, for me at least, is a tad tedious.  In the second stanza, 'palpated' seems a bit much, and perhaps 'shaken' or even 'numbed' reads better, in my thinking.  :ater in this same stanza, I thought 'tired of cloudcursts' reads more smoothly than does 'tired from'.  As always, this is your work, and you are the final judge of what says it best for you.  Just my two cents worth.  Nice piece.
                 
                Dave
                 
                 

                "And sometimes, if I listen very closely, I can hear voices…"

                from Sometimes I Hear Voices

                my new book

                available at LuLu.com

                 

                -----Original Message-----
                From: ticket2write@yahoogroups.com [mailto:ticket2write@yahoogroups.com] On Behalf Of Gwen Ames
                Sent: Thursday, February 02, 2006 1:07 AM
                To: ticket2write@yahoogroups.com
                Subject: [ticket2write] Thunder

                THUNDER
                 
                The cumulonimbus come
                like wild buffalos stampeding,
                resounding against the ears of corn in the field
                against her ears drums.
                 
                She is palpated by the vibrations
                and tired from cloudbursts, gales,
                and thunder, thunder,
                everywhere—
                 
                It shows in his eyes and her mama’s tears.
                She feels it in his fist and her mama’s words.
                It has sown itself under the marks on her arms
                and in the ache of wounds claimed by HIV.
                 
                Unpredictability is the only promise offered
                in her life,
                other than ceaseless needs
                for more men...
                more money…
                more want…
                want peace…
                more needs wanting more.
                 
                In a frantic roar the saturated clouds break loose.
                Light, cool rain tap dances on her scorched skin.
                Steam soars upward like a runaway kite
                and suddenly she is not afraid.
                 
                In the harbor of the lull she hears the buzz of bees again,
                becomes a nude cloud sunning low in the field;
                the taste of wild raw corn in her teeth;
                and for a short time she feels planted.
                 
                                                            (c) Gwen Ames, 2006

                --
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                Checked by AVG Free Edition.
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              • Carol
                In response, a poem..... Storm Cloud Ozone runs through veins beneath strip mined skin. Brown hair greasy and matted clings to a shrunken skull. Grey eyes
                Message 7 of 10 , Feb 3, 2006
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                  In response, a poem.....

                  Storm Cloud

                  Ozone runs through veins
                  beneath strip mined skin.
                  Brown hair greasy and
                  matted clings to
                  a shrunken skull.

                  Grey eyes hollowed from
                  the pursuit of dragon's breath.
                  Across the field
                  roars the storm,
                  purple and low,
                  dragging its belly
                  across the ripening corn.

                  She turns her nose towards
                  the rain soaked wind.
                  Grinding her teeth in agony
                  against the need for thunder,
                  a hunger for rain, and
                  the relentless taste
                  of death
                  in her throat

                  CJ Carpenter
                  2/3/06


                  --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, Gwen Ames <poetry4u@...> wrote:
                  >
                  > THUNDER
                  >
                  > The cumulonimbus come
                  > like wild buffalos stampeding,
                  > resounding against the ears of corn in the field
                  > against her ears drums.
                  >
                  > She is palpated by the vibrations
                  > and tired from cloudbursts, gales,
                  > and thunder, thunder,
                  > everywhere—
                  >
                  > It shows in his eyes and her mama's tears.
                  > She feels it in his fist and her mama's words.
                  > It has sown itself under the marks on her arms
                  > and in the ache of wounds claimed by HIV.
                  >
                  > Unpredictability is the only promise offered
                  > in her life,
                  > other than ceaseless needs
                  > for more men...
                  > more money…
                  > more want…
                  > want peace…
                  > more needs wanting more.
                  >
                  > In a frantic roar the saturated clouds break loose.
                  > Light, cool rain tap dances on her scorched skin.
                  > Steam soars upward like a runaway kite
                  > and suddenly she is not afraid.
                  >
                  > In the harbor of the lull she hears the buzz of bees again,
                  > becomes a nude cloud sunning low in the field;
                  > the taste of wild raw corn in her teeth;
                  > and for a short time she feels planted.
                  >
                  > (c) Gwen Ames, 2006
                  >
                • Gwen Ames
                  David, Thank you so much for your targeted, insightful analysis of my poem. As you will know, I write a lot of social pieces (the social worker in me). I think
                  Message 8 of 10 , Feb 3, 2006
                  • 0 Attachment
                    David,
                     
                    Thank you so much for your targeted, insightful analysis of my poem. As you will know, I write a lot of social pieces (the social worker in me). I think you were right on the 'vibrations' line but on the 'tired' line I was trying to imply a 'tired from trials and tribulations' sort of thing and did not think 'of' would be the same? But I did take out the 'and' in front of 'thunder, thunder' See how it reads for you now.
                     
                    Gwen
                     
                     
                    THUNDER
                     
                    The cumulonimbus come
                    like wild buffalos stampeding,
                    resounding against the ears of corn in the field
                    against her ears drums.
                    She is pained by the vibrations
                    and tired from cloudbursts, gales,
                    thunder, thunder,
                    everywhere—
                     
                    It shows in his eyes and her mama’s tears.
                    She feels it in his fist and her mama’s words.
                    It has sown itself under the marks on her arms
                    and in the ache of wounds claimed by HIV.
                     
                    Unpredictability is the only promise offered
                    in her life,
                    other than ceaseless needs
                    for more men...
                    more money…
                    more want…
                    want peace…
                    more needs wanting more.
                     
                    In a frantic roar the saturated clouds break loose.
                    Light, cool rain tap dances on her scorched skin.
                    Steam soars upward like a runaway kite
                    and suddenly she is not afraid.
                     
                    In the harbor of the lull she hears the buzz of bees again,
                    becomes a nude cloud sunning low in the field;
                    the taste of wild raw corn in her teeth;
                    and for a short time she feels planted.


                    David Roth <davidjroth2002@...> wrote:
                    Hi Gwen,  an interesting piece on a difficult topic.  There are a few places where I think your wording, for me at least, is a tad tedious.  In the second stanza, 'palpated' seems a bit much, and perhaps 'shaken' or even 'numbed' reads better, in my thinking.  :ater in this same stanza, I thought 'tired of cloudcursts' reads more smoothly than does 'tired from'.  As always, this is your work, and you are the final judge of what says it best for you.  Just my two cents worth.  Nice piece.
                     
                    Dave
                     
                     
                    "And sometimes, if I listen very closely, I can hear voices…"
                    “from Sometimes I Hear Voices”
                    my new book
                    available at LuLu.com
                     
                    -----Original Message-----
                    From: ticket2write@yahoogroups.com [mailto:ticket2write@yahoogroups.com] On Behalf Of Gwen Ames
                    Sent: Thursday, February 02, 2006 1:07 AM
                    To: ticket2write@yahoogroups.com
                    Subject: [ticket2write] Thunder

                    THUNDER
                     
                    The cumulonimbus come
                    like wild buffalos stampeding,
                    resounding against the ears of corn in the field
                    against her ears drums.
                     
                    She is palpated by the vibrations
                    and tired from cloudbursts, gales,
                    and thunder, thunder,
                    everywhere—
                     
                    It shows in his eyes and her mama’s tears.
                    She feels it in his fist and her mama’s words.
                    It has sown itself under the marks on her arms
                    and in the ache of wounds claimed by HIV.
                     
                    Unpredictability is the only promise offered
                    in her life,
                    other than ceaseless needs
                    for more men...
                    more money…
                    more want…
                    want peace…
                    more needs wanting more.
                     
                    In a frantic roar the saturated clouds break loose.
                    Light, cool rain tap dances on her scorched skin.
                    Steam soars upward like a runaway kite
                    and suddenly she is not afraid.
                     
                    In the harbor of the lull she hears the buzz of bees again,
                    becomes a nude cloud sunning low in the field;
                    the taste of wild raw corn in her teeth;
                    and for a short time she feels planted.
                     
                                                                (c) Gwen Ames, 2006

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                  • David Roth
                    Whoa - good stuff here, Carol. You had me right from the opening two lines. Dave And sometimes, if I listen very closely, I can hear voices… “from
                    Message 9 of 10 , Feb 4, 2006
                    • 0 Attachment
                      Message
                      Whoa - good stuff here, Carol.  You had me right from the opening two lines.
                       
                      Dave
                       
                       

                      "And sometimes, if I listen very closely, I can hear voices…"

                      from Sometimes I Hear Voices

                      my new book

                      available at LuLu.com

                       

                      -----Original Message-----
                      From: ticket2write@yahoogroups.com [mailto:ticket2write@yahoogroups.com] On Behalf Of Carol
                      Sent: Friday, February 03, 2006 7:20 PM
                      To: ticket2write@yahoogroups.com
                      Subject: [ticket2write] Re: Thunder (Gwen)

                      In response, a poem.....

                      Storm Cloud

                      Ozone runs through veins
                      beneath strip mined skin.
                      Brown hair greasy and
                      matted clings to
                      a shrunken skull.

                      Grey eyes hollowed from
                      the pursuit of dragon's breath.
                      Across the field
                      roars the storm,
                      purple and low,
                      dragging its belly
                      across the ripening corn.

                      She turns her nose towards
                      the rain soaked wind.
                      Grinding her teeth in agony
                      against the need for thunder,
                      a hunger for rain, and
                      the relentless taste
                      of death
                      in her throat

                      CJ Carpenter
                      2/3/06


                      --- In ticket2write@yahoogroups.com, Gwen Ames <poetry4u@...> wrote:
                      >
                      >   THUNDER
                      >   
                      >   The cumulonimbus come
                      >   like wild buffalos stampeding,
                      >   resounding against the ears of corn in the field
                      >   against her ears drums.
                      >   
                      >   She is palpated by the vibrations
                      >   and tired from cloudbursts, gales,
                      >   and thunder, thunder,
                      >   everywhere—
                      >   
                      >   It shows in his eyes and her mama's tears.
                      >   She feels it in his fist and her mama's words.
                      >   It has sown itself under the marks on her arms
                      >   and in the ache of wounds claimed by HIV.
                      >   
                      >   Unpredictability is the only promise offered
                      >   in her life,
                      >   other than ceaseless needs
                      >   for more men...
                      >   more money…
                      >   more want…
                      >   want peace…
                      >   more needs wanting more.
                      >   
                      >   In a frantic roar the saturated clouds break loose.
                      >   Light, cool rain tap dances on her scorched skin.
                      >   Steam soars upward like a runaway kite
                      >   and suddenly she is not afraid.
                      >   
                      >   In the harbor of the lull she hears the buzz of bees again,
                      >   becomes a nude cloud sunning low in the field;
                      >   the taste of wild raw corn in her teeth;
                      >   and for a short time she feels planted.
                      >   
                      >                                               (c) Gwen Ames, 2006
                      >





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                      Checked by AVG Free Edition.
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