On loan to another distribution center in Northern Kentucky, I was sent east, spending the latter half of Friday and most of Saturday in the mountains of West Virginia, where there is no such thing as a straight, flat highway. It was quite a workout navigating curves where rock walls were just outside the solid white line, threatening to scratch up the side of the relatively new trailer I was pulling.
My third and last delivery on a very humid afternoon was in Pineville. We were halfway through when the thunder started rumbling and in just a short period of time there were raindrops. The workers huddled under cover of the doorway and I just watched both the people and the storm from my vantage point in the trailer.
One gal who was helping seemed to be having a very emotional night and yes, she did have very bright blue eyes. Never did find out what the problem was, nor would I have asked—not really any of my business, of course—but it gave me some images to work with while waiting in the trailer.
Eventually, we had to finish even though the rain got worse—at one point there was even hail. But we did succeed and I was able to continue my winding way on back out of West Virginia to a wonderful weekend spent in my truck near Greyson, Kentucky.
Ah, the trucker life!
Pineville, West Virginia
Closer to heaven,
the thunder is just
a conversation in the mountains—
words pounding at rock
then rolling across the valley—
the rain that follows
a welcome surprise,
a chaser for a stifling heat.
I revel in the drench
of a cool wetness,
relieved from my salty sweat,
while distant lightning strikes
continue to rumble
through the trees,
and I drink in the blue
of a young girl’s eyes
as she sits in nearby grass,
oblivious to my gaze
and the tempest brewing,
already dripping with tears,
this old man caught up in her shade,
wondering at the source of her pain
until the drizzle is a downpour,
chasing all but the bravest
from enjoying this storm—
the thundering of silence
spoken by strangers amongst the pines
and the rain that must fall between.
| Copyright © 2022 by Maik Strosahl Michael E. Strosahl has focused on poetry for over twenty years, during which time he served a term as President of the Poetry Society of Indiana. He relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri, in 2018 and currently co-hosts a writers group there. |
Your creativity is inspiring. Like everything is grist for your muse's mill. The little details we use to make a poem or a story, and our fevered brains mash them up and spit them back out as art. Yours is excellent. Thank you!
ReplyDeleteOff the topic of your great writing, but did you know that while in little Pineville you had a brush with greatness? Curt Warner was a high school football star there, and despite being from a class of only 90 students he caught the eye of famous/infamous coach Joe Paterno and led Peen State to a national championship. In his first year in the NFL he led the AFC in rushing; despite being slowed by injuries, he went on to become an NFL star. Today he is best known for the efforts of the Curt Warner Autism Foundation.
ReplyDeleteWell thank you very much. I am glad you enjoyed the piece. You sound like a writer yourself, have you had anything published here?
ReplyDeleteA moving, evocative poem as is the backstory. I love the way your work is always rooted in the sensorium of solid reality and an honest emotional response to that reality.
ReplyDeleteGreat!
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