The wind outside blew like a three day nor’easter,
A storm with some punch tearing up the beach,
Waves breaking on homes built haphazard on shore,
What a stupid place to build a house,
Within reach of the ocean’s tendrils.
My home had been weathered,
Through many a storm driven sea,
Shaking and rattling on its pilings,
Though I wasn’t afraid of floating away,
No, I wasn’t scared, not once, not me.
In a pigs eye,
Each and every pound of a wave,
The house shook, threatened,
To become just so much flotsam,
With each shake, I practically on myself, pee,
But let’s be honest, if I die, I will do so with glee.
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I wish you well Ed…
Your name has become an old friend…
I hope you hang on in there…
Best wishes,
Diana…🍃
Love ya!
Jane
As for withstanding storms on the beach that your poem describes quite well. You seem to follow the that hurricane party crowd. The one that, when a storm breaks onto the shore add a category 5 finds that no amount of alcohol can keep them from the grounding or being swept away like debris and the mounting wind.
Ron
Regis. 🌳🌲🙏👽🍁