By: Chuck Orloski
(13 March 2017)
I am Jack, Jack BeNimble to avoid a fall into deep snow drift. Or am I actually Jack, Jack BeQuick to get out of the candlestick storm alive? Stella blows upon red chapped cheeks. No one in town now worries that I am a Russian spy, and alone, I out myself – I am Jack Dmitri Hohlakkov! I transgress the barren Taylor Colliery land; a once smelly “Brownfield” engineering project, where my Dedushka’s coal mining days are given back to to me. The burning coal slag, sulfur stench horror – my once anthracite wasteland never more.
The whole of the Lord’s prayer is white and on the tip of my tongue. I beg for Storm Stella to forever cover me, because I fear T.S. Eliot was wrong and “April” will never be the cruelest month anymore. A wind gust hacks legs out from under me. In vain, I look for sunlight but all there is-is, that really is… “is” white ground and gray sky. Inspired, an irreverent artist could paint my footsteps in piss yellow snow.
I want to describe Stella’s beauty to my ill wife, Carol, but I fear such would make her very jealous. Oh the way Carol saw me looking at First Lady Trump when Russian New Years Eve never came! A white rabbit launched from out of dead pine needles – it violated the abandoned START deals. The hare had several identities and it wandered carefully away from Facebook sight.
I was just about to put my Byelorussia (Orthodox) faith back together, when a terrifying black box (U.F.O.) appeared in the northern sky. It pulsated, it beckoned, it cried out to me, “all there ever was (and is) and will be, is black and white!” The black box whispered, “Foolish humans will always treasure most what 1% terrestrials have and they cannot have.” Is that so, I thought? I never liked the White’s ‘Best & Brightest’ killing of blacks and yellows during Vietnam War! The black box understood, it hovered, pretended to be The Messiah, and it watched what I would do next. So brave and in a tender Milky Way manner, Storm Stella coaxed me along to a safe place I’d grown accustom to call home.
Tonight, should auld acquaintance with lost blizzard-lovers, alias-Jack BeNimble/Jack BeQuick and Storm Stella be ne’er forgotten and redacted by the Trump administration?
Author’s Note: Poetry is known to describe places, things, and unique happenings. Although the above poem described my actual (hometown) weather conditions, March 13, 2017, the incident never really happened except in my imagination. Please consider a real mysterious story (linked below) that recently happened at a Texas military town?