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Find new, previously unpublished works by our site’s founder, Portia Graf. Read original poetry, prose, short stories, novel excerpts, and more, only available here.

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The Oncoming Storm

I love the smell of nighttime,

the musky aroma of dew, staled since the morning

and the soothing blue cast over the world.

The shade deepens with the Earth's rotations

into splotchy hues on the contrasting clouds.

A silent crack splits the hidden atmosphere,

and I catch a glimpse of the gods' golden perch.


Colors fade to black and navy with twilight.

The crickets coo to the stars from the weeds.

The chill of the moon tickles my skin,

until consumed by the darkness.

A sniffle nearly kills my only light source,

And a cough shakes my home's foundations,

And the tears fall.


Once, I told him,

I said when it rains, think of me,

For when the sky breaks open,

Tainted by the sickly gray haze,

with tears staining my cheeks,

and flooding my eyes,

I think of you.


The fractured light of the candle echoes

Along the fracturing glass surface of the table.

As the grass is washed clean,

And the water blurs my vision,

I think of you.


The sky thinks of you too.

It washes you out of the flowers and weeds,

and feeds the soils with the pain of heartbreak.

It drowns what is temporary in sorrowful droplets,

then reveals the permanent light of the stars.


It sooths my nose as I lay back,

with the chilled air between my bare toes

and a fabric barrier on my spine.

I wash him out of the flowers and weeds,

I feed the soils with what pain is left in me,

and I fall prey to the fire's beckoning glow.

Under the stars' shimmer, I loose myself

to the comforting arms of the darkness.
(Portia Graf 2015)

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