The other day I was out taking pictures and found this little church. What grabbed my attention was the symmetry of the building and the pristine white of its walls. I began to wonder what kind of worship service might take place in a building like this one and let my imagination go wild. My poem Into the Storm is the picture I saw.
Into the Storm
In modest attire
the women
stand together.
Their long hair
is pinned up in buns
or spun in bouffants.
Dressed in black robes
the deacons all nod
in agreement.
The organist trembles
a backbeat of chords
that stomp on the floor.
The preacher
is the first one to gyrate
and twitch with emotion.
His prophetic words
swirl in the storm
of his throat.
Light shines
through the windows
as bright tongues of fire.
One woman
whose son is an addict
moans on the floor.
Another whose temper
lashes her children
asks for forgiveness.
The sermon plays on
like a vinyl LP
with a crackling groove.
Some fall to their knees
some raise up their hands
and roll back their eyes.
Before people leave
their amens and praises
bring things to order
Walking outside
thunder and lightning
appear out of nowhere.