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Rte 25, Newtown, CT, 2022

Updated: Sep 11, 2022

Ghostly Tornados

But where shall wisdom be found?

and where is the place of understanding

Job 28:12

Another sunny Labor Day weekend,

a new baby In the family, last year’s

health scare a dusky memory

as we slow down on Main Street, pass


little changed here a decade down

the road, always the same

handfuls of dirt tossed in my dry mouth

an ache so deep I can’t grip the steering

wheel, too weak to brake before

such overwhelming sadness gets shoved

aside, year after year, kicked

to the asphalt by a dust storm of rage

hopping the curb and careening through


pedestrians screaming like kindergartners

until I spot the sign for Upper Stepney,

founded 1720, ghostly tornados receding

in the rearview mirror as we speed off

toward the coast, blue skies, red umbrellas,

white sails on the horizon, Addie handing me

a cold drink to wash the grit from my teeth,

her sweet as rain kids, the tide, rushing

into my anguished embrace.

–SL, New Paltz, NY, September 2022

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Sep 11, 2022

I am glad that you ended with something positive and life-affirming. Dealing with such an awful incomprehensible event in a poem is difficult at best; I admire and applaud your effort.

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