Sub-Tropical Depression

The spiral bands swirled inland
as the storm approached from the coast,
breaching the dune line
and the ever flat coastal plains,
moving into tall pines
and heading northwest toward my heart.

She is only a tropical depression,
no tempest of strength, but
she is laden with tears and emotion
incoming from emotional oceans
and dispelling any odd notions
that this passing would be uneventful.

She sat quietly offshore, in stealth,
while soaking in the energy of heated words
words of intolerance, hatred and ignorance
thrown as bolts from a pulpit
a loveless pul-pity-party
where they wish to pick who wins and who will lose.

Under high pressure, pushed westward
by man’s exaltations and interpretations of God’s will,
she began to move, exploding with anger.
She lashed out at the friends
and lashed out at her son
and she lashed and lashed
and she blew the Lord’s message
right over their heads.

She forgot to love and observe love
and feel love and share love
unless she had controlled the love
through a confession on her son’s deathbed.
God will forgive you, it is not too late,
she was compelled to say, driven.
With all around, she had to pray.
She had a mission to make her boy right.

Before her impact could be known,
into town she had blown and brought
books and music to save a soul
thoughts and motivations to fill a hole
in the sinner that was her boy
who dared share his love with men
and condemn himself to the hell in her mind.

She sat stationary, swirling in place,
the anger lashing around her core
an eye of earnest evangelical energy
that eventually spun itself down
against the unremitting reinforcement of reality.

Those she condemned were kindly souls.
They loved her son and loved themselves
beyond the reach of her tormented judgments.
Eventually her fury died down and she apologized,
moving on toward another fate.
Will she ever love her son again?

Copyright 2004 by Ron Hudson

Categories: poetry HIV/AIDS LGBTQ intolerance religion