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Jonah Bader

The Ubiquitous Storm

The believer clings to God,
The miser grasps his money,
The hermit grips his solitude,
The drunkard holds his whiskey.
For each his own struggle,
For each his own rock, his respective remedy,

When the storm rolls in

The boat pitches in the roiling waters.
It trembles at the tempest’s rage,
It kowtows, cowers, counts the seconds.
The harbor is ravaged.
Dwarfed before the behemoth,
The boat holds fast to its moorings,
Tied to the dock,
Chained to the dock,
By a knotted, sinewy strand of rope.

Have you ever tried
To sever the rope?
Do you drift into the miasmal mist
Or do you spot a dry, lovely rock?

[TABLE OF CONTENTS, LHS CLASS OF 2012 EDITION]