THE CHASER'S NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

(with apologies to Clement Clark Moore)

'Twas the night before Christmas at the SPC,
Mets read the models, to see if they'd agree.
The stockings were hung, by the radar with care,
In hopes a better forecast would be in there.

Storm chasers were all nestled, all snug in their beds,
With visions of supercells dancing in their heads.
I, the lead forecaster, said there'd be no storms,
The conditions weren't right for them to form.

I had just laid down for a long, Winter's nap,
When all of a sudden, lightning hit with a SNAP!
And out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter,
I leaped from my bed, to see what had shattered!

Looked out of the window, and what did I see?
A tornado. A big one: I think, EF-3!
I ran to the office, to sound the alert,
Praying like thunder that no one would get hurt.

The chasers ran to their cars, lightbars aglow,
Along with their computers, cameras in tow.
When, to my wondering eyes, who should appear?
But Santa Claus and his eight tiny reindeer!

He did not look happy. He was soaking wet.
Hail bounced off of his head. BOY, was he upset!
He screamed and he hollered, used my name in vain,
Said I would never work in this town again.

"Now, Burney. Now, Carter. Now, Jackson and Norris!
Bontempo and Miller, is it headed for us?
You need to save Christmas. I NEED A REPORT.
On, Adams! On, Talbot! Give your best effort!

Which way is it heading? I have got to know!
WHICH WAY IS THAT TORNADO GOING TO GO???"
Kendra booted the live feed on ChaserTV,
It was watched by one million, four hundred and three.

The tornado roared through some big empty fields.
Chasers and spotters all kept their windshields.
The storm would be discussed on Storm Track the next day,
On why things had gotten together that way.

Santa gave everyone extra presents that year,
For saving lives, he gave them new cars AND new gear.
He forgave me, and as he drove out of sight,
He said, "That's the last time I'll storm chase at night!!!"

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

(c) 2010, Karla Dorman (12/3)

The Devil's Manifesto

... everybody talks about the baby, the
holy child, whose birth they celebrate
each Christmas. But we want to keep
him there, an innocent, wrapped up
like a present in swaddling clothes ---

weak and ineffective. Little God. For
the wages of sin is ugly. The cross
means suffering and pain. The blood
means death but no one must EVER
know about the life. It would be best

if we could keep him young forever ---
don't let him grow up to die only to rise
again as the King of kings and Lord of
lords. They'll bow to a Babe but not to
the Only Begotten of the Father, the

Hope for all mankind Who stepped
down from Heaven, Whose Name is
above all names. We'll confuse the
Holy Days until they don't know what
to believe: this is your assignment ....

(c) 2009, Karla Dorman (12/11)

link to me reading the poem: www.youtube.com/watch?v=PMaXAiGiYvc

Apocalypse

There is an image I want to use, one that inspired these lines, but I'm waiting for the photographer's permission to use it.

It looked like something out of the Bible, the part where God gets mad. The way the sky knotted overhead, twisting and turning ((almost like a noose???)). The Wild, Wild West was about to get a whole lot wilder. Lightning spit every which way and the wind raised its voice: I know right. Where. You. Live. That's just great. Not what I wanted to hear. The Apocalypse was fixin' to break and it was too. Damn. LATE!!!! to seek shelter: nowheretorun! Nowheretohide!! All of the King's horses and all of the King's men would not be able to put me together again ---- that's if they even f o u n d me. The storm came out, all guns blazing ---- and that was when I woke up. :/ (c) 2010, Karla Dorman (12/1)

Memories

Thanks for the memories, of
color so bright it shocked the
eyes and pleasured senses

and camera lens. Winter has
claimed you as his own, but
he doesn't have the best part

of you: you saved that for me
and I am honored. As much
as I hate goodbyes, it won't

be long until we see each
other again. Will be right
here, waiting, for your return.

(c) 2010, Karla Dorman (12/1)

Bataan Death March

'Death March' (c) Lt Henry G. Lee, A Soldier's Poet So you are dead. The easy words contain No sense of loss, no sorrow, no despair. Thus hunger, thirst, fatigue, combine to drain All feeling from our hearts. The endless glare, The brutal heat, anesthetize the mind. I can not mourn you now. I lift my load, The suffering column moves. I leave behind Only another corpse, beside the road. My response, in reading these powerful, brutal lines ... thank you, Uncle Duke, and all who serve(d).

I cannot imagine what it was like to be Marched until you couldn't take. One. More. Step. What were your last Thoughts as you stared into the gun Pointed at your head? Was it fear? Or resignation? Did you pray? And if you weren't shot where you fell: You kept on. One foot in front of the Other on the road to Hell. Held captive For one thousand, two hundred twenty Four days before you were liberated just In time for your Mother's birthday. You were one of the lucky ones. Will never Know what you endured. You kept it deep Inside, in a secret place, that none should Touch, all the way to your grave. I weep, For your story wasn't told. How many More paid a terrible price and the words Remain silent? Mark mine: I will never forget What you did for my freedom ---- can't ignore Your sacrifice. I honor you this Veteran's Day And always. A 'thank you' is not enough for Righting the wrongs done to those who Served. I'll make sure your voices are heard ... (c) 2010, Karla Dorman (11/8)

Porch Chaser

... When distant thunder reveilles the
clouds to assemble in formation;
when lightning marches them by in
review; when rain and hail gather
forces with wind, there I am, camera
in hand, embe dded with the troops.

When meteorologists call for a threat
of storms; when radars ramp up to
alert level red; when the reporter in
me leaps at the chance to record
events as they happen, there I am,
camera in hand, ready to catch it all.

No car (have cane, will travel). No
paying for gas; no afternoon stops at
greasy spoons or overnights at roach
motels; always a chance for a bust in
the forecast: no matter. There I'll be,
camera in hand. Call me Porch Chaser.

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman (12/3)

Noted In Passing (For J.Allen's Obituary Challenge)

Karla Dorman, Poet Extraordinaire,
(also known as StormSpinner) spun
her last storm 4 October, 2058.

When she was good,
she was very, very good.
And when she was bad,
She was still read.

That's all she wanted,
to leave her mark on the world,
judging by the numerous
volumes she left behind.

Internment was at the National Cemetary,
paying homage to her military service;
her pen was donated to the Smithsonian,
as were copies of her media appearances.

She never let fame and fortune get to her
head; she donated to her church and to
many charities she believed in: those that
helped the poor, animals, and Veterans.

She is survived by her twin sister and
many authors at the first place who loved
and accepted her poetry, Authors Den.

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman (1/27)

How I Became The StormSpinner

Who knew I would become the
StormSpinner. Bad clouds used
to thunder me out of bed with their
vivid flashes of lightning prophesying
my imminent doom.

Wanted to be a meteorologist
but fear of storms drove me down
the basement every time it rained---
some brave weatherman I'd turn out to
be. Forecast: Panic!!

One blizzard, two indirect strikes
from lightning, three (or was it four?)
floods and remnants of a Category Five
Camille later, joined the service, moved to:
Tornado Alley.

And it's lived up to its name: six,
now. All have been weak, but when
the roof goes, does strength matter??
Once it's gone, puppy's gone. Don't have to
chase: the storms find me.

A day of disaster was my salvation:
from ashy, tear-stained skies, poetry
began to fall: no shelter to hide within.
All I had: four walls of words and pictures
to help me survive.

Have been spinning storms, since. I
stall their forward progress one stanza,
one image at a time: attempting to give the
extended to end the terror, once and for all---
you're reading it now.

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman (8/27)

I Will Praise Him In The Storm

When skies turn dark and
my world turns to grey, I
will not be afraid.

I will celebrate as I watch
Him autograph the clouds
with a silver pen of light.

I will tremble as He shakes
my world with a booming
laugh of thunder.

I will bow down before Him
as He kisses my cheek
with a gentle breeze.

No need to fear as I lift
my hands in thanksgiving ---
I will praise Him in the storm.

(c) Karla Dorman (10/14)

Little god

i was a god once.
well, that was before i was expelled from the high kingdom.
father, too serious.
godplaying was fine, but i also wanted to have fun.

i was a god once.
father said, "YOU HAVE THE WHOLE UNIVERSE AT YOUR COMMAND.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?"
godplaying was fine, i just wanted to make friends WITH man.

i was a god once.
father said, "GODS HAVE ALWAYS PLAYED HAVOC IN HUMAN LIVES.
THAT HAS ALWAYS BEEN.
IT IS UP TO YOU TO CHOOSE WHO WILL DIE AND WHO SURVIVES."

i was a god once.
father wanted me to enjoy displaying my power.
i was getting bored.
why couldn't i just lay in the field and smell the flowers?

i was a god once.
i didn't like creating disasters, causing chaos.
father got SO sore.
i loved beauty and made the aurora borealis.

i was a god once.
father roared, "YOU WILL CREATE STORMS. YOU WILL LIKE DOING SO."
i've heard it before.
heard it again when after the storm, i made a rainbow.

i was a god once.
father said, "I DON'T KNOW WHAT I AM GOING TO DO WITH YOU!
YOU'RE MAKING ME MAD!
JUST ONE MORE SLIP UP...ONE MORE MISTAKE...AND BOY, YOU ARE THROUGH!"

i was a god once.
i really tried to behave, to get my heart into it.
again, i was bored.
godplaying wasn't my thing--i was truly a misfit.

i was a god once.
father said, "ISN'T THIS FUN? DECIDING WHO LIVES OR DIES?"
i couldn't tell him.
he would really freak if he knew that his little god cries.

i was a god once.
father's first son was a failure. i couldn't let him down.
i really felt bad.
i couldn't fail father, he was a god of great renown.

i was a god once.
it all came to a head the day i created that storm.
i made a mistake.
i can't help it if all the lightning i'd made was deformed.

i was a god once.
i was fired when i scorched father with a lightning bolt.
so brother was hired.
and father? he says he'll never forgive me for that jolt.

i was a god. ONCE. :-)

(C) Copy written, 2004, by Karla Dorman.

The Storm In My Head

Looking forward (no, i'm not) (yes,
i a m) to Storm Season, 2010 --- two
opportunities to get out (die) (will
you just shut. Up?!?) i n the wind

and rain and confront my fear once
and for all. If I could just tell these
two arguing in my head to s h u s h,
that is. One wants to go (no i don't

no i don't) (will you just be quiet
and let her tell her story?) and the
other one doesn't (see, i told you)
(i'm not going to tell you again ---).

Time I take the bull (tornado?) (oh,
my word, will you stop with the
negative attitudes?!?) by the horns
and tell it it has no power over me.

Have let it run over me for far too
long. (yeah, she's gonna go out
and meet the bear, shake its hand.)
(no, i'm not.) (see? having second

thoughts already, aren't you, aren't
you?) Alright, that's enough. I'm
going to do this, whether they're
ready to or not. Not going to waste

the rest of my life hiding every time
it thunders. (yeah, but ---) I'll do all
I can to stay safe. (yeah but -----
what if things go wrong??) (what if

they don't? think of all she'll have
to write about! she's made up her
mind. nothing you can say. might
as well sit back and enjoy the ride.)

Couldn't have said it better myself.
Thank you. (how come i always do
what she wants to do??) (because
she's the boss. THAT'S how come.)

(c) 2009, Karla Dorman (12/9)

Survivor's Guilt

I walk the ruined landscape of
survivor's guilt --- wishing the
storms away from here didn't
bring them on someone else,

did it? I look at the destruction
as it bursts open on TV: I feel
the pain in their eyes, sense
the weariness in their backs

as they pick up the sticks of
their lives to carry on until the
next storm comes. They are
much stronger than I could

ever be, more forgiving. Know
it's not my fault but somehow
feel responsible in some way.
My heart breaks anew ---- for

I've been where they are. Did
not lose everything I had, but
when the roof goes, so do the
feelings of safety and security.

(c) 2010, Karla Dorman (4/25)

Four Lines About Lightning

Elusive
Energy,
Effective
Executioner

(c) 2010, Karla Dorman (7/6)

Groundhog, Dazed

All snug in his burrow, the Groundhog: was
sound asleep until the !! BIG HAND !! of the
Inner Circle reached in and hoisted him up
into the artificial sun made by media spots ---

Tell us, O-Wise-and-Wonderful-Prognosticator
-of-all-things-mysterious: D o you see your
shadow? Can you say if there will be six more
weeks of Winter? Fools --- believe what you

want. He won't divulge his secrets. Poor thing
can't see past his own nose or need for rest ---
Spring will get here soon enough. Always has.
You don't need a Groundhog to tell you that. ...

(c) 2008, Revised, 2010, Karla Dorman (2/2)

The Great White ... South?

... they kept coming. In waves.
One by two by thousands more,
these northern trespassers
parachuting from lead-colored
skies: they landed in the trees
and piled against the door ----
faster and faster they fell, until
we were overrun. Seasoned
weathermen were surprised at
the stealth of the attack: snow
was expected, but not this much,
especially for this part of Texas.
Over a foot ---- next morning was
picture-postcard perfect, unless
you had damage. Power lines
and trees downed everywhere.
Was one to remember, one for
the record books, the Big Dump
that did Dallas. And Fort Worth
---- two days later, it's gone, the
Great White South. Wouldn't
know there had been a war if I
hadn't said something or taken
photographs of the Invasion ...

(c) 2010, Karla Dorman (2/14)

First Storm Chase

Under skies, folded
in thirds and thirds
again by God's great
hand --- suddenly
humbled by His size
and Texas. How
big both are --- eyelids
skinned back in the
wind as I scan the
clouds for trouble ---
none this day. Don't think
they'll shut again,
these eyes that took in
her first storm chase ---
confronted fear and
watched the Master
paint beauty in the
expanse above. =]

(c) 2010, Karla Dorman (3/24, late)

Someone Else's Storm

Someone else's storm becomes
mine as I stare up into the crystal
perfection of azured skies --- my

heart breaks. Not because it's
nice here, and it is, but because
across areas of the Deep South,

others watch the roil of clouds
drop one tornado after another.
A high risk of more happening

before the day is over, continuing
through the night --- a chaser's
dream. Would much rather see

them in a large empty field instead
of in communities where people
live/work/play. The first images

from Yazoo City, Mississippi suck
tears from my eyes and prayers
from my soul --- here, the sun is

still shining, but for how long?
This is when I hate the weather,
when their storm becomes mine.

(c) 2010, Karla Dorman (4/24)

Need Storms. NOW.

A stormchaser needs storms. And
when there aren't any, she will make
one anywhere she can ---- even if
only in a shadow made by a tree.

Squint your eyes and tell me that
doesn't look like a tornado bearing
down. SDS isn't pretty ---- trust me.
Got me looking at nonexistant

rotation on the side of a building,
for Pete's ---- know the neighbors
are wondering about my sanity.
Fully expecting a knock at the door

from the friendly folk on the mental
health ward of the hospital. They
might give me a new jacket with
long sleeves and take me away ...

(c) 2010, Karla Dorman (7/19)

Whether Or Not, Weather

It all depended on the side
you were on, whether or
not you got weather. Here,

not much. East of us, too
much. The dryline moved
through just enough to

keep us clear. In other
communities, the sky fell
or blew away entirely. The

clouds were so massive,
they were seen from miles
away. You could see they

meant business. All we
had was a beautiful sunset
--- others not as fortunate.

(c) 2010, Karla Dorman (10/25)

Poem, 'Playing With My Food,' (c) 2010, Karla Dorman

Mom told me to stop playing
with my food. I kept making
towering Cu with them, with
backsheared anvils and
overshooting tops. Weather

was fixing to get bad. Then
it started hailing when I took
the ice out of my glass and
shot it at my annoying little
brother with my spoon. Did

not mean to pop Dad in the
eye --- that was when he
thundered, 'ENOUGH. Go
to your room.' I stomped
up the stairs, decided that

a bath was in order, if only
to watch the tornado in the
drain: 'IT'S AN F - 5!!!' Dad
issued the warning from
the kitchen: 'GO. TO. BED.'

Dried off, got under the
covers, began flicking the
lamp switch on and off ---
lightning, you know. That's
when the power went off:

Dad again. He took every
bulb from every light. Guess
I'll have to dream storms,
since it's dark. Some don't
appreciate meteorology ...

It's Been FAR Too Long ...

... since I updated this blog. I'm sorry ... will get back in the swing of things! Have more storm poems and images to share. Bear with me ...