Winds Of Revolution

I've often praised the passive things,
I’ve loved the dove and peace she brings,
And Halcyon’s that tranquilize
And calm the waters with their wings.
But now I’d rather rhapsodize,
Re-echo with my hues and cries,
Those furious and stirring storms
That churn in chalky-purple skies.

I’d rather rave about those forms
That whip up when the weather warms,
That build above the torrid zones
And turbinate like massive swarms
And cornucopias of drones,
Those spinning, topsy-turvy cones,
That gather steam and twirl about
Like dervishes in ashen tones.

Those cyclone winds that twist and shout
Like riders on a round-about,
That really rattle, roll and shake,
And blow kontiki torches out
Like candles on a birthday cake,
That raise the roof and rudely wake
Complacent people with a jolt,
And make the apathetic quake.

That rouse up every drowsy dolt,
And rattle every latch and bolt,
And rusty lock on every door,
Those spinning winds that cause revolt.
That ballyhoo and scream and roar,
Like rabble-rousers come ashore,
And like rude rebels playing some
Hell-raising and outrageous score,

That sound what seems a kettle drum,
A rolling thunder tympanum,
And one tremendous trilling flute
That causes pandemonium.
Those whirling winds that howl and hoot
And while they wildly convolute,
Make massive waves and when they come
Shake our foundations at the root.