Frederich H Borsch

The Storm

There were gusts at first, a kind of huffing.
Coming from the east it might’ve blown past,
but soon the waves darkened, and lashing about
and around our slight craft, began washing
over the gunwales and pitching the mast,
wearing us out, in heart-wrenching dips and swaths.

And there, lofting his gaping mouth again,
was that beast, Leviathan, the monster
from the depths of all our fears, made for sport,
you say, but for us terror-struck the end
would come, while astern whom we call master
slept, his legs athwart, on that damn cushion of his.

He rests, while we like drunken sailors lurch
and in panic sicken it is chaos
that triumphs over all our good and games,
of chance and the hoping on in the search
through many maybes for what’s not lost
with all our names to the grim and grinning one.

Bailing madly, at it and him we shout,
 “Don’t you care that we perish? Rouse yourself,
if you are he who you say you are – Lord!”
who now, rising up to face our doubt,
with his word commands both sea and wind well
and, all restored, asks what other fears he might spell.

Frederick Borsch

 
Home | Books | Commentary | Biography | Contact | Links
COPYRIGHT 1988-2006 BY FREDERICK HOUK BORSCH All rights reserved.