Thunderstorm

 

His majesty is not amused.

Long before breakfast,

His stomach rumbles,

Calling out loudly

For servants to come

And tend to what he wants.

Ψ

His majesty is not amused.

His feet hit the ground

With a thud that shakes

The earth and makes

The plaster fall

On those who wait below.

Ψ

His majesty is not amused.

He calls his troops

To fire the cannons,

Sending missiles

Hurtling to the ground

And rumbling through the town.

Ψ

His majesty is not amused.

Fire flashes from his eyes,

He kicks aside whatever lies

Along his path.

With heavy strides,

He clambers down the stairs.

Ψ

His majesty is not amused.

Frightened servants

Scatter from his wrath

Forgetting that the water

In his bath is running

Overflowing, raining down.

© 2013 Pamela Stead Jones