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)