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I am a writer and a photographer.  Last week I captured the image, below, of an approaching storm, sensing nature’s power and the human inability to contain it.  The photo reminded me of a poem I wrote a couple of years ago about “The Angry Word.”   The poem, below the photo, contains both feelings and a measure of truth, especially the ending.  There are similarities between the unintended consequences of a powerful storm…and an “angry word.”

The Storm, by Wilson Wyatt Jr., Copyright 2011 (Click on image for full size)

The Angry Word

It usually starts from someone’s sharp tongue.                                                                               Perhaps it’s a transgression, self-righteous or just-plain-mean,                                                             Whether by intention or callous disregard.

I know, I know…I don’t have to accept it.                                                                                            “Fend it off. Don’t let it in,” some would say.                                                                                            Not so easy, Dr. Dyer.

The prickly seed settles in my brain.                                                                                                     Nestling deep, obscured from light,                                                                                                             It marinates in my blood.

It nourishes and grows.                                                                                                                         Invisible to sight, immeasurable in weight,                                                                                               It seethes and hibernates.

Without warning, it disconnects.                                                                                                         Gathering force, migrating through darkness,                                                                                         It vibrates and rumbles on.

The angry word is born.                                                                                                                       Beating its breast, unbridled and bellowing,                                                                                             It leaves my mouth, unable to be restrained.

There’s no capturing it, no retreat.                                                                                                                It does its telepathic havoc and then moves on,                                                                                     Leaving the licking of injured remains                                                                                                       To the uncertainty of forgiveness and humility.

 – WWWyatt