You may have heard, it’s pouring down here in Galveston. Keeping dry and safe though, so all is well.

You may have heard, it’s pouring down here in Galveston. Keeping dry and safe though, so all is well.
A Storm is rolling in this morning.
The heat of August is killing me.
Another double post. Got yesterday’s poem written in my notebook but didn’t have the chance to share it. So here is that poem first, followed by today’s.
Sometimes we have an utterly irrational emotion overcome us. It’s a humbling experience because we know it’s irrational and it doesn’t change a thing. In fact, the knowing serves to exacerbate the problem by creating a feeling of helplessness. Art, poetry, writing, these are the tools of release and catharsis and they work wonders.
My dog has had an absolutely wonderful day today and only needs one thing to make it complete. Pretty sure he’s going to get it.
First potential tropical storm coming our way since we moved to the island. Naturally it’s the weekend we’ve got family coming down to visit. Oh well. Should be an interesting experience and one I intend to make the best of and have some fun.
With the storm that came in last night, a lot of people around here, myself included, are thinking back to Hurricane Harvey. Storms break. We don’t.
I’ve never seen the ocean so gray or hungry as before a storm. We’re supposed to be getting a week of rain starting today. It certainly looks like rain. Still a few brave tourists on the beach taking photographs. Seeing the waves rise up behind this family as they took a group photo, the promised storm gathering on the horizon, inspired this morning’s work.
Had a thunderstorm roll in last night. It was pretty neat.
The irony of this poem is not lost on me considering how late it is in being shared. The storm has struck and we are now in it, braced or not. Time to dance in the rain.
My bride and I went to An Evening with Margaret Atwood the other night, which began with her reading some of her poetry. After listening, I took away permission to ask more blatant questions in my own poetry. I’ve made an effort to steer away from that sort of thing overtly, but Atwood reminded me of one critical rule of creative writing: if it works then it works. Sometimes you don’t know if it does or not until you’ve done it. So, which type of calm do you pursue in your life?