Dorman Stubbs

stormy weather
what he paints
what fills his eyes
his soul

what he holds
what he grips
what he fills his fist with

with his brush
dipped in water
turning muddy

pallet of colors
he wipes
with brush hairs

stormy weather
what he wipes
what he whips
onto canvas
what he wants to last

swirling clouds
and stormy seas

he likes his weather gray
he likes gray days
as much as I

in the out-of-doors
when the weather’s raging
when the storm’s coming

he likes the blow of it
the whip of it

he likes the weather
churning, turning up
what’s in his soul

like soup upon the stove
his grammy was fixing
mixing in, mixing up

until every bit, every piece
was done and ready
to dish up


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
5:45 p.m. 01.02.08