Concerning the Nature of Storms

By Ron Van Sant

Storms that fill the night with clamor

As Thor the Thunderer does rush to fight

Long sparks fly as shield blocks hammer

Cutting brightly through the cloudy night.

This is the nature of storms

My Oma to me told,

As passed on down in the Eddas

 Stories from days of old.

I feared the sound, that battle din

That as a child broke my sleep

Would the gods of heroes win?

Would giants leave the world to weep?

Storms and battles do not last,

To me my Oma said

The world is always better off

Once the storm has fled.

Would my Oma tell me a lie ?

Even Gods can’t always prevail

As anger itself rang through the sky

Bringing, thunder wind, and hail.

Oma explains that storms bring hail

 And rain and also snow

All the elements nature needs

 To make the flowers grow.

Frost Giants are made from the tears of man

It is from our sadness that they spring forth

From their icy realm they plan

In cold borne anger they attack from the north

This is why, my Oma said,

The storms are always loud

This is why, she also said,

 Water comes from cloud

Thor leads the fallen hero army,

 A mighty battle train

To answer the giants infamy,

He smashes them to rain

Blow by blow, the giants fall

 Our the tears to return earth

To water trees and flowers all

Bringing Joy and mirth

From every evil, some good prevails

Though it invades your dreams

This storm will end, despite your wails

Rain helps crops and fill the streams

Thus my Oma held me tightly

Till the heavenly battle was won

And the storm ended brightly

 With the coming of the dawn.



The Smith




RW Van Sant


Tink tank

The hammer falls in riotous blows

From sore muscles and weary hands

On iron sheets full of promise


Tink tank

Hammer dents it shapes and molds

The iron bends to the smiths design

Forming a useful shape


Tank tick

The rough shape is smoothed out

Dimpled iron yields to custom

To make a recognizable tool


Tick, tick, tick

The tool is refined to make it acceptable

Polished and filed to appeal to its user

To make a useful tool.


The smith inspects his work

It has the right structure

It has the right shape

But does it have a future?





By Ron Van Sant

Rebellious hands clasping illegal pens,

Frantic swirls forming outlawed shapes,

Ornate designs make alias names,

A silent attempt to be remembered.

Bit by bit, hidden in plain sight,

The forsaken artist leaves his mark,

A message only the initiated can read,

A desperate attempt to be remembered.

Desecrating the desks society gave his parents,

The artist struggles against the grooves,

Of the mark his father once carved into the wood,

A vain attempt to be remembered.