Rage and Rest

In good times, the creek has a gentle flow.

But when a storm kicks up and starts to blow

    there are no promises floating in water or written in sand.

The shallow stream becomes a night time foe.

Water rises round homes and lands, just everywhere

     and blocks roads and paths in a tear.

The creek, a raging river now, throws curses cross the land.

People lose their bearings in this heart-break scare.

Hard to grasp how this little creek,

     was days ago so sweetly meek.

But now a monster that destroys with plans

     to carry off what those have worked for week by week.

He’s like the creek you know,

     except in public it never shows.

Alone at home, he’s raised his voice and hand

    and make me feel afraid and low.

In good times, he’s got a gentle way,

     but when things go wrong, a person has to pay.

Anger comes, but then dismissed as servant on demand. 

And he changes to be like the creek on a quiet summer’s day.

When times are hard and tough,

     without a moment’s notice, his touch becomes so very rough.

And then, love, attraction and promises in words or gestures do expand

     but soon are lost, forgotten, ignored in voice and actions, very gruff.

Yet the creek retreats and dries.

The shallow water lies

     ready for toes, a foot, a hand, nothing planned,

     and welcomes pleasure that a vixen nature does belie.

There is a difference between man and stream.

The flood, the storm are oft predicted by a weather team.

This man slips into a rage

     without warning, not to be assuaged as an ugly dream.

Yet, he’s like the creek, in so many  other ways, you know

     pleasing in sun, yet his tides of doubt, of hate I never could outgrow

     nor should I, cuz … of his behavior I am no fan.

I leave tomorrow, for peace … for peace I go.