A Cento by Beverly Stock.
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The thunder’s booms are very loud,
With quicker motion, folks ply the rake.
Ready to burst the pitch-black cloud,
And all a bigger haycock* make. (1)
The wind begins to rock the grass
With threatening howls and low,
Wind flings a menace at the earth,
A blustery autumn gigolo.
The leaves undo themselves from trees.
Lining paths along the road;
The wind scoops them so casually,
And scatters them where we rode. (2)
My mind has rumbling thunderstorms,
That brood for many hours:
Until they drench me with words,
My thoughts are drooping flowers.
Yet come, all dark thunderstorms,
For when you rain those words,
My thoughts somehow transform (3)
Into the best rhymes ever heard.
My “Found” poem incorporates my liberal edits and additions to poetry in the public domain of John Clare, Emily Dickinson, and William Henry Davies, all about thunder.
*a conical heap of hay
(1) John Clare, “The Thunder Mutters”
(2) Emily Dickinson, “A Thunderstorm” (3) William Henry Davies, “Thunderstorms”
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