Tornado Watch (1)

To the nature spirits in memory of Findhorn and Roc (2)

Around the kitchen table we discuss
What to do, where to go, when the animals signal
That an aberrant act of nature is on its way.
Never why, for what is the point?

All the hard work of a lifetime
Lost in mere seconds, security, sense of order.
Perhaps the cast iron bathtub remains
Remindful that purification might be on purpose

Who knows? They can track them
And tell us on the Weather Channel
But only your cat or dog knows the true direction
Of a tornado's intent, their wilderness intact.

No wonder the South still holds onto God
God only knows who will come next to His Court
Spinning tales of earthly woe and deliverance
The wilful and the weak alike at His Mercy

The Wizard of Oz lies at the end of a twister's tail
Waiting to impart mysteries to ponytailed girls
He has lured into his funnel to the sky
But even he appears not to be aware of why

Of course, science knows why but not whyfor
Knows the makeup, the costume
But not the exact play of the monster missive,
Another spiral message from the old gods

Perhaps they watch from above down through
Their tunnel telescope into our kitchen sinks
Amazed at the waste and corruption we slough
Off in the name of advancing civilization

And in fine celestial anger without recourse
To the New God who lead us this way into the desert
They turn round the dial to ten or so
And their cosmic backs on the consequences

Like in the old movies of Zeus and Jason
Juno and Medea and the warrior skeletons
Come to life to fight battles out of time
Humans are a helpless lot against such Games

When their spaceships land in our backyards
We cannot speak with eachother out of ancient awe
We have this certain feeling they walk amongst us still
Assessing our secret wishes to serve, our selfishness

We can only watch tornadoes safely in our dreams
Or on video, hoping we won't be online next
Or maybe we can cater to unseen elementals
Catching their drift as they play next us in the moonlight

And like our ancestors before the Fall
Place dishes of fresh white milk out for the faeries
Dress our boys in pretty blouses to confuse the pixies
And prick up our ears when elves are mentioned

Whatever we do, life is a risky turn of affairs
In the lands where tornadoes hover and spin
Seeking out human sacrifices

1 This poem was written days after experiencing an excruciating dream about tornadoes and several conversations with Southern friends accustomed to living with them.
2 The Findhorn Community (my home for several years) in Northeast Scotland was founded and is still dedicated to cooperating with the inner or hidden as well as the outer forces of Nature. Roc is the name of the scientist-mystic who had deep experiences with the nature spirits and inspired the Founders and all later residents and visitors.


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