Friday, December 3, 2010

The Chaser's Night Before Christmas


(with apologies to Clement Clark Moore)

'Twas the night before Christmas at the SPC,
Mets read the models, to see if they'd agree.
The stockings were hung, by the radar with care,
In hopes a better forecast would be in there.

Storm chasers were all nestled, all snug in their beds,
With visions of supercells dancing in their heads.
I, the lead forecaster, said there'd be no storms,
The conditions weren't right for them to form.

I had just laid down for a long, Winter's nap,
When all of a sudden, lightning hit with a SNAP!
And out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter,
I leaped from my bed, to see what had shattered!

Looked out of the window, and what did I see?
A tornado. A big one: I think, EF-3!
I ran to the office, to sound the alert,
Praying like thunder that no one would get hurt.

The chasers ran to their cars, lightbars aglow,
Along with their computers, cameras in tow.
When, to my wondering eyes, who should appear?
But Santa Claus and his eight tiny reindeer!

He did not look happy. He was soaking wet.
Hail bounced off of his head. BOY, was he upset!
He screamed and he hollered, used my name in vain,
Said I would never work in this town again.

"Now, Burney. Now, Carter. Now, Jackson and Norris!
Bontempo and Miller, is it headed for us?
You need to save Christmas. I NEED A REPORT.
On, Adams! On, Talbot! Give your best effort!

Which way is it heading? I have got to know!
Kendra booted the live feed on ChaserTV,
It was watched by one million, four hundred and three.

The tornado roared through some big empty fields.
Chasers and spotters all kept their windshields.
The storm would be discussed on Storm Track the next day,
On why things had gotten together that way.

Santa gave everyone extra presents that year,
For saving lives, he gave them new cars AND new gear.
He forgave me, and as he drove out of sight,
He said, "That's the last time I'll storm chase at night!!!"


(c) 2010, Karla Dorman (12/3)

Thursday, December 2, 2010

The Devil's Manifesto

... everybody talks about the baby, the
holy child, whose birth they celebrate
each Christmas. But we want to keep
him there, an innocent, wrapped up
like a present in swaddling clothes ---

weak and ineffective. Little God. For
the wages of sin is ugly. The cross
means suffering and pain. The blood
means death but no one must EVER
know about the life. It would be best

if we could keep him young forever ---
don't let him grow up to die only to rise
again as the King of kings and Lord of
lords. They'll bow to a Babe but not to
the Only Begotten of the Father, the

Hope for all mankind Who stepped
down from Heaven, Whose Name is
above all names. We'll confuse the
Holy Days until they don't know what
to believe: this is your assignment ....

(c) 2009, Karla Dorman (12/11)

link to me reading the poem:


There is an image I want to use, one that inspired these lines, but I'm waiting for the photographer's permission to use it.

It looked like something out of the Bible,
the part where
God gets mad. The way the sky knotted

overhead, twisting and turning ((almost
like a noose???)).
The Wild, Wild West was about to get a

whole lot wilder. Lightning spit every
which way and
the wind raised its voice: I know right.

Where. You. Live. That's just great.
Not what I
wanted to hear. The Apocalypse was

fixin' to break and it was too. Damn.
LATE!!!! to seek
shelter: nowheretorun! Nowheretohide!!

All of the King's horses and all of the
King's men would
not be able to put me together again ----

that's if they even f o u n d me. The
storm came out,
all guns blazing ---- and that was when

up. :/

(c) 2010, Karla Dorman (12/1)


Thanks for the memories, of
color so bright it shocked the
eyes and pleasured senses

and camera lens. Winter has
claimed you as his own, but
he doesn't have the best part

of you: you saved that for me
and I am honored. As much
as I hate goodbyes, it won't

be long until we see each
other again. Will be right
here, waiting, for your return.

(c) 2010, Karla Dorman (12/1)

Friday, November 19, 2010

Bataan Death March

'Death March' (c) Lt Henry G. Lee, A Soldier's Poet

So you are dead. The easy words contain
No sense of loss, no sorrow, no despair.
Thus hunger, thirst, fatigue, combine to drain
All feeling from our hearts. The endless glare,
The brutal heat, anesthetize the mind.
I can not mourn you now. I lift my load,
The suffering column moves. I leave behind
Only another corpse, beside the road.

My response, in reading these powerful, brutal lines ... thank you, Uncle Duke, and all who serve(d).

I cannot imagine what it was like to be
Marched until you couldn't take. One.
More. Step. What were your last
Thoughts as you stared into the gun
Pointed at your head? Was it fear?
Or resignation? Did you pray?

And if you weren't shot where you fell:
You kept on. One foot in front of the
Other on the road to Hell. Held captive
For one thousand, two hundred twenty
Four days before you were liberated just
In time for your Mother's birthday.

You were one of the lucky ones. Will never
Know what you endured. You kept it deep
Inside, in a secret place, that none should
Touch, all the way to your grave. I weep,
For your story wasn't told. How many
More paid a terrible price and the words

Remain silent? Mark mine: I will never forget
What you did for my freedom ---- can't ignore
Your sacrifice. I honor you this Veteran's Day
And always. A 'thank you' is not enough for
Righting the wrongs done to those who
Served. I'll make sure your voices are heard ...

(c) 2010, Karla Dorman (11/8)

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Porch Chaser

... When distant thunder reveilles the
clouds to assemble in formation;
when lightning marches them by in
review; when rain and hail gather
forces with wind, there I am, camera
in hand, embe dded with the troops.

When meteorologists call for a threat
of storms; when radars ramp up to
alert level red; when the reporter in
me leaps at the chance to record
events as they happen, there I am,
camera in hand, ready to catch it all.

No car (have cane, will travel). No
paying for gas; no afternoon stops at
greasy spoons or overnights at roach
motels; always a chance for a bust in
the forecast: no matter. There I'll be,
camera in hand. Call me Porch Chaser.

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman (12/3)

Noted In Passing (For J.Allen's Obituary Challenge)

Karla Dorman, Poet Extraordinaire,
(also known as StormSpinner) spun
her last storm 4 October, 2058.

When she was good,
she was very, very good.
And when she was bad,
She was still read.

That's all she wanted,
to leave her mark on the world,
judging by the numerous
volumes she left behind.

Internment was at the National Cemetary,
paying homage to her military service;
her pen was donated to the Smithsonian,
as were copies of her media appearances.

She never let fame and fortune get to her
head; she donated to her church and to
many charities she believed in: those that
helped the poor, animals, and Veterans.

She is survived by her twin sister and
many authors at the first place who loved
and accepted her poetry, Authors Den.

(c) 2008, Karla Dorman (1/27)