The Hand Poem by John DeBona

It was a clear hot day in South Central Texas.
Many years separate the actual happening and memories that linger like forgotten dreams. I was young, idealistic, and hopeful. I couldnt stand being inside the house, too many unexplained noises and voices. I stepped outside onto the front porch, and my sight was drawn upward, pulled like tightening thread from an unseen hand in the sky.
From the north, a fast moving band of mammatus clouds came billowing forth, swallowing the sky as they stretched forth. The darkness and depth and movement, spoke in a language unknown. It drew me in. I felt as if I were in the spirit, I could feel the darkening change of static, the depth of the clouds, and the hand behind them.
One with it, I stood in awe, daring not to move or breath, lest the conciousness that I had been made aware of strike me. Evolutions of wrath, majesty, power and love.
If it had not begun to rain, I may have burst into flames and withered to ash.

_________________
They never broke my will, because my heart was strong.
They would justify, condemnation, by invitation, but I will survive.
Judas Priest