The Storm - Matthew 8

Written by Michael Popovici |
Published on:

The boat,

            smooth sea,

                        tight sail,

                                    the bow slices the



Men at ease with their Leader,

                                                their Friend.

As ripples sing lullabies to their Man.

                                    Fingers of breeze massage His eyes.

Asleep, now, in the debris of broken nets

                                                and smells

and scales of long-gone fish.


All’s well, far from the shore,

            dark and damp enshroud the men.

                        In hush, swift they go,

a moment uncaring

of future’s import.

Ventures to come through voyages’ mist.

                                                                        Blind, they travel, to dangers unknown.

“Listen!’ says one.

            The distance stirs

                        with thunderous breaths



expelled in long agonizing screech.


Wind-filled seas assault,

            shatter wood,

                        spitting shards.

The roar and waves, boiling foam,

                                                tangle cords in shears of cloth.

                                                            The sea, severe, spurns order and sense.


Startle and shock,

            in all but One,

grip the flesh;

                        tear the human claws

from holds held dear.

                                                Death begins its birth, desperate its despair.


Screams mix with terrifying roar.

            The storm’s rages rise

            to meet men’s fearsome cries,

                        “Where’s our good One

                                    Who sent us to this watery hell?”


Terror-filled, a soul looks down, wondering if it’s real.

            The sight of their Man

                        sleeping through the

                                    horror, violence and hopeless distress.


“He’s here! He’s here!

            Help wake the sad slumber,

oblivious to this dark hour,

                        where death’s cold embrace soon

                                    drags us to dwell

                                                in blacken, nameless void!”


Harsh, they grab His coarse cloth

            to shake awake

            the One who must have

            made a horrible mistake.


Eyes open, He hears their

            insane, hopeless pleas,

            “Save us, save us,

            or we, all, will certainly die!”


Wiping the sleep and fish scales

            from His face,

One elbow props up the perplexing sigh,

            He looks to them and stares

                        and looks once more.


“What’s happening!?”

 Men’s brains question and burn,

            as they wait for

            something profound and

                                    even profane.


To their worldly moment,

            soon lost in time, He asks,

                        “Why do you fear?”

           “Why?” demands He, for answers already known.


To their hearts and spirits, He speaks,

            “Your faith from heaven is lost,


so sadly forgotten in Me!”


“Who are you men?

            What of the sea?

No matter, sinking or sailing,

            Your true self, your purpose

                        belong to Me.”

Copyright ©

Form of Poetry

Free verse

Author: Michael Popovici
Michael served in Vietnam. After the war, he graduated from Cornell University, became a lab manager, married, and raised 6 children. He attended seminary and worked in corporate America. Michael became a criminal defense private investigator. He bounty hunted to generate revenue while building his practice. His work includes stories drawn from his and other’s life’s journeys.


Please Login to Comment
No comments have been posted. Be the first.

Hire a Writer