Your Face

I saw your face in the clouds one day;
wise, thoughtful and smiling!

I saw you face from far away crossed by a jet’s vapor trail
so what can one say?

An angel, a blessing, a curse or despair?
I know full well that no one will remember or care.

I saw your face in the clouds that vanished into the air,
without a word to say!

© Nick Houvras. 2007

in West Bloomfield, MI, US.

Your Face

I saw your face in the clouds one day;
wise, thoughtful and smiling!

I saw you face from far away crossed by a jet’s vapor trail
so what can one say?

An angel, a blessing, a curse or despair?
I know full well that no one will remember or care.

I saw your face in the clouds that vanished into the air,
without a word to say!

© Nick Houvras

AUTUMN SKYSCAPE

Dawn comes in a flash of colour, the sky torn apart by yellow,
stark leafless trees stand out against the heavens which have thin wispy clouds that
hide the sun behind an ocean of colour that my eyes struggle to see.
Soon the brightness dies like a wilting flower and the clouds layer the sky in an
undulating landscape of gossamer;
it looks like an upside-down terrain of an alien planet –
the varied landscape of autumn.

© Nick Goth

ON ANGELS’ WINGS WE FLY

Up we go on gossamer wings made of crystal ice, higher and higher into the blue.
Summer radiance bathes us in its warm radiance as we roll and dive with the sun
shining warmly on our backs.
For this is what it is to be free, so much to enjoy in the sky, up through the
clouds to where the angels live, so high that even in the day the sky is almost
purple.
I know when I die I want to be an angel and to fly as high as I can on gossamer wings.

© Nick Goth

Monsters in the Sky

They were the most magnificent clouds I had ever seen.

Like the foam of a breaking wave, they tumbled across the sultry summer sky.
They were like a splatter of white paint against a stretch of lurid blue,
and, at the same time, resembling enormous swollen tongues, unfurling from
the heavens, and never once stopping.

As I sat in the mottled grey backseat of the bus to Bronte, I watched those
clouds. And the more I watched, the more I found myself slipping. Slipping,
so simply and so effortlessly, like a wet bar of soap. Away from myself,
away from the bus, even slipping away from reality; and then I slipped, for
the very last time, out of this world and into another.

At that moment, I would have done anything, anything in the world, to sink
into, no, to immerse myself in those large, thick pillows that looked so
crisp, so soft. Anything at all, for those great lolloping clouds.

Anything for those monsters. Those monsters in the sky.

© Natasha Lau. 2007.

Lines

1. Lung Ta

Lung Ta, wind horse,
symbol of speed,
left to endure
Tibetan clouds –
cloth to cold wind,
multi-colour,
cotton or silk tied to long strings…
their prayer flags woven in peace & compassion
to blow upwards as offerings to the Divine
on mountain tops between
Lhasa & Kathmandu…
like an infinite washing line.

2. Good Fortune

I never looked at us this way.
Bits of ourselves in suspension in-between
grass & gossip sky;
linen alive in Shetland blue,
serene, so white…
like talking sails
tied to our northern latitude –
from line to line, life entangled,
clipped to resist to the tsi-tsi
echoed in wind,
through riding songs.

© Nat Hall. 2007.

Taos Sky

Below its great white arm all day,
we gather and toil..
Light now fades,
its finger pointing home.
Time to be still,
tucked beneath its blue duvet,
One star to read by,
and then, sleep.

© Nancy Cohen/aka Nancy Koan/aka Arribella Pellicano 2009.

Westminster, Maryland U.S.

On the Sex of Clouds

The clouds glowered,
All gunmetal gray and threatening.
They lowered their booms
All might and fright.
Beyond the clouds’ darkness lay
A deep and endless azure sky — beckoning
The world to its sunshine and warmth.
The clouds spat out rain in protest
Angry drops ratatatting on rooftops
Even clouds must posture, it seems
Surely, these were boy clouds.

© Muphen R.Whitney.

Westminster, Maryland US.

Musings from an Unfettered Heart
Opus Thirteen

On the Sex of Clouds

The clouds glowered,
All gunmetal gray and threatening.

They lowered their booms
All might and fright.

Beyond the clouds’ darkness lay
A deep and endless azure sky — beckoning
The world to its sunshine and warmth.

The clouds spat out rain in protest
Angry drops ratatatting on rooftops

Even clouds must posture, it seems
Surely, these were boy clouds.

© Muphen R.Whitney
(October, 2000)

Fluffy puffy cotton wool,
High up in the sky,
Bringing rain, making rainbows,
Silent ships drifting by.

Completely Blue

The world felt upside-down.
I gazed at clouds thick and curdled.
They spread in soft rolls, pendulous and fat-bellied.
Hanging compact and solid-more a floor than ceiling.
I wanted to tread on them, bounce on them, test their illusion of solidity.

Use them like a trampoline and leap through misty folds of vapour.
Sink into them like the bubbles on my bathwater.
I wondered how thick they were and how far they spread.
They seemed to continue forever, rolling on as far as they eye could see.

The sky had been coloured in. Smudged over by a giants thumb pressing on a fat grey pastel.
The clouds were low, oppressive and heavy.
A mass of intriguing density.
Yet I know the fickle form of clouds and how the mouldering sky could look completely blue tomorrow.

© Miki Byrne 2010
Tewkesbury, Glos. UK

Gloucestershire, UK

Clouds

Air-brushed wisps to mackerel bellied speckles.
Drift windblown like the earths’ chiffon scarf.
They float in candy-cotton puffs or grey washrag streaks.
Bruised by storms. Thrown and twisted.
Cyclonic tubes suck skyward and bring death in twisted tendrils.

Free-form sculptures in balletic poses saunter across a blue stage
And ragged edges softly coil away.
Such are chameleon clouds that continuously change.
They die and reform in living moist beauty,
And are always fascinatingly there.

© Miki Byrne 2010

Morning Sky

Blue canvas of sky
Slashed by pink streaks,
Purple swathes.
Leading in the air-brushed
White feathers of cloud.
Changing second by second
As I watch.
Magical transformation
Painted by sunlight, shaded
By moisture. Displayed above
In an ever-moving panorama.
Wonderful ceiling of the world.
A transforming delight.
Natures abstract strokes
Laid gently upon the canvas
Of blue.

© Miki Byrne 2010

What beauty lies before us spread
When once we lift our eyes…

from Sydney, Australia

Cloud gazing

I saw an elephant up in the sky
On a serenely lovely summer’s day
A myriad of clouds went drifting by
Wispy, fluffy, streaked in white and grey

Such afternoons as these are made for play
The temperature is warm, the sun is high
I love how in a child-imagined way
I saw an elephant up in the sky

All lives have trials to bear and tears to cry
Commitments to be honoured, debts to pay
But we’ll forget our troubles by and by
On a serenely lovely summer’s day

Across the farming lands we made our way
To find a pleasing place for us to lie
And while we were reposing in the hay
A myriad of clouds went drifting by

Their ever-changing forms enchant the eye
Parading past me in a vast array
To name them is a game I like to try
Wispy, fluffy, streaked in white and grey
I saw an elephant

© Michelle Willis 2008

Oh clouds! You fill the sky at day,
Until the wind blows you away.
You bring us rain, you bring us snow,
You leave us sunshine when you go.

(Written about 10 years ago, on the school playing fields)

Clouds floating are natures heaven,
Rain rushes descended on the Earth,
Moisture rises from the river vein,
Gathering together they give birth,

All is reborn from a cloud of dust,
Scattered throughout Cumulus night,
Floating to form the Earth’s crust,
Co-equally cuddling out star light,

Nebulae and galaxies hugging space,
Rising dew, becomes a falling drop,
Crawl and swirl, eternally in race,
Always on the go, no start no stop,

Rising over the luscious landscape,
Stratus merges in to Stratocumulus,
Changes to Nimbostratus cloudscape,
Climbing Cirro Stratus and Cumulus,

Majestic waves of climactic Cirrus,
Wonders of the world she enshrouds,
Mysterious magic necromantic Venus,
All life born from gathered Clouds.

Copyright © 2010 Michael James Dempsey

I dreamt the clouds were all asleep
Feathered pillows resting their heads…

Perched on high above the sprawl
I take it in the endless crawl…

The giant sky what a fun place to play,
Magical white forms to uncover today…

Clouds at 25,000

Gliding through puffy white
On metal wings of wonder
Patchwork quilt o’ glorious sight
The ground that passes under

From my window I scan the sky
For clouds on high and low
Searching endless as I try
For objects I may know

On and on my gaze intent
The shapes amongst the blue
Many hours I have spent
Scanning the infinite view

This winged journey soon will end
My daylight ride fun fest
Sad am I nil time to spend
Terminating this joyous quest

© Michael Davis

Clouds, they live in a theatrical realm
Behind nights curtain they quietly roam…

Amongst the chaos high above
Endless clouds they push and shove…

I miss the mist
That hangs high…

When I wake up very late
The dancing clouds they never wait…

Obsidion umbrella that rules the night
With random specks of dancing light…

Clouds

The voice of the sun
Told me to bring my paints out
To paint the sky.
To shape the clouds
With my skilful brushstrokes
White wisps
Scarlet smudges
Pink pinpricks
An endless task lies ahead of me
The clouds busy forming
From my restless hands
The shy filling and unfilling
Blue over white over blue
For all eternity.

Mia (aged 8)
St John’s College School, Cambridge, UK
(you can also read the other poems by pupils from St John’s College School)

Am I Cirrus.

Am I Cirrus

Spiralled and curly

Like fingers scratching above

Am I cumulus

Classic and flossed

Adding colour to the bright blue sky

Am I stratus

Covering, enveloping

Cotton wadding the heavens

As I mutate and change with the wind

Giving light and darkness to days

Whitening and lightening

Or soaking in gray

Am I nimbus

Angry and broad

Stratocumulus

CumuloNimbus

Or

Am I Cirrus.

© Mesha Banerjee. 2009.

Among the daffodils I roamed
And stared as far as space allowed
When all at once I saw a domed
High-soaring silver cloud.

A selection from a series inspired by the US Postal Service ‘Cloudscapes’ stamps (now out of print):
Cirrus Radiatus

How your name sizzles!
Yet they swear
your heart is born
of windblown ice-
but look how your ivory fingers
caress the azure;
how they reach out
to the world
like a lover
begging her hand.

Cumulonimbus Incus

An Inca god no doubt.
Yet I mistook him
for a wild stallion
galloping across the Andes
in search of whiter snow.
On closer look,
I see he’s only a common cloud
puffed with pride,
pondering where and when
to drop his offering.

Altocumulus Undulatus

You win the prix d’or
for décor of
the ozone dome.
The human eye stares
in awe of your miracles:
sky of virgin smiles,
sky of unbearable joy.

Cumulus Congestus
On first glance
I shivered, feared
you held the poison of Hiroshima…
Grasping your name,
I breathe relief
you merely suffer a spell
of cumulated congestion.
Nothing serious –
nothing a dose of crisp air
and a brisk constitutional
across the moor
won’t cure.

(We don’t understand it, but he promises us it is about clouds)

Sie fliegen auf und ab, hin und her,
treffen alles dieser Welt.

Mal hell, mal dunkel, mal leicht mal schwer,
Und manchmal auch ein Farben-Meer.

Mal trifft man sie als Tiger, mal als Drachen,
Und auch mal steigend auf,
aus eines Menschens Rachen.

Mal sind sie Feld, mal sind sie Pfeil,
Und meistens gut fürs Seelen heil.

Mal regen sie auf, mal schön wie Poesie,
Mal verzaubern sie auch, wie Magie.

Man kann sie lieben, man kann sie hassen,
Doch eine Sache, kann man nicht unterlassen.

Man nimmt sie ewig wahr, ob man will oder nicht,
Denn sie gehören zum Leben, so wie das Licht.
(Hamburg, Germany 2004)

Here and Now

I planned a walk one winter day,
But now it was almost too late;
The sunbeams struck across the grass
And underneath the gate.

And soon the sun like a blood-red fruit
Fell from the sill
Of the dazzled world
And when I came upon the hill
A cover of grey down was low
And, line upon line, the landscape
Softened in the mist.

Too late? Too late for what?
I was here. Here I am now,
Gazing upon that pinkish band
Which , like a rosy bedroom
Glows beneath the fringes of the travelling cloud,

And while I stay to gaze, and screw
My eyes to pierce the mystery –
Almost abed now in that dreaming sky –
The dusky coverlet unrolls to show
A deepening spread of tender blue.

© Maureen Forrest, June 2008

Scarborough, UK

THE CLOUD COLLECTOR

“Where are you going,” a stranger asked,
“With your fine mesh net and cardboard box?”
I’m going out, collecting the clouds,
Across the field and over the rocks.

“What are you doing?” a student said,
“In your threadbare coat and woollen hood?”
I’m roving wide, collecting the clouds,
Towards the sea and into the woods.

“What are you planning?” the teacher quizzed,
“With your fountain pen and little book?”
I’m running off, collecting the clouds,
Beyond the hills and crossing the brooks.

“Where are you rushing” a worker sighed,
“With that open smile and gleeful shout?”
I’m racing on, collecting the clouds,
Throughout the land and further about.

“Where are you off to?” the master cried,
“With your fancy hopes and far-fetched dreams?”
I’m searching wide, collecting the clouds,
Along the banks and forging the streams.

“Why are you going?” the people asked.
“With your sights set high, you’ll likely fall.”
I’m living life, collecting the clouds,
Collecting, collecting, collecting them all!

© Matt Stradling 2011

Anchorage, Alaska, US.

The Painter’s House

At first, the horizon began
sinking lower on the canvas,
far beyond the rule of thirds.
Then she did away with the horizon
and the canvas altogether.
Now all she paints is clouds:
cumulus gathering on the door handle –
cirrus streaking across bathroom counters –
stratocumulus upon the night stand –
altocirrus fringing the edges of the full-length oak mirror –
cumulonimbus, complete with the anvil shape
of the cirriform cap, waiting presciently in the front hall –
and in the narrow space of counter and wall
between stovetop and refrigerator,
altocumulus and cirrus at sunset.
Sometimes you can glimpse undulations
of middle clouds, sliding around a corner or
sidling up beside the couch,
and ice crystals of high clouds lie
like broken glass upon the coffee table.
But it’s the low clouds
that envelope you
as if they enter through the skin,
damping the breath,
revising vision.
By then it’s no surprise that
thunderheads converge over the bed
and the single pillow
which should promise fair weather
has swallowed the vaulting blue.

© Marybeth Holleman

Anchorage Alaska.

Visit Marybeth’s site

The Painter’s House.

At first, the horizon began
sinking lower on the canvas,
far beyond the rule of thirds.
Then she did away with the horizon
and the canvas altogether.
Now all she paints is clouds:
cumulus gathering on the door handle –
cirrus streaking across bathroom counters –
stratocumulus upon the night stand –
altocirrus fringing the edges of the full-length oak mirror –
cumulonimbus, complete with the anvil shape
of the cirriform cap, waiting presciently in the front hall –
and in the narrow space of counter and wall
between stovetop and refrigerator,
altocumulus and cirrus at sunset.
Sometimes you can glimpse undulations
of middle clouds, sliding around a corner or
sidling up beside the couch,
and ice crystals of high clouds lie
like broken glass upon the coffee table.
But it’s the low clouds that envelope you
as if they enter through the skin,
damping the breath,
revising vision.
By then it’s no surprise that
thunderheads converge over the bed
and the single pillow
which should promise fair weather
has swallowed the vaulting blue.

© Marybeth Holleman.

in North Carolina, US.

Winter’s Quiet Visitors

Snowflakes
are little bits of clouds
that come down to visit us
one by one.

© Mary Beth Steinhoff

Look up and See

The waves come rushing with their arched wall of power.
No earthly flight will carry you to safety.
Fill these moments with joy and wonderment,
while closing your ears to the deafening frenzy.
Look up and see the serenity above,
of shapes and colour no other eyes have discovered.
They hover and glide, as if forever,
their majestic movements, practised to perfection.
All as one, like floating geishas across a stage.
A choreographed festival, of light, colour and shapes.

Feel the gentleness wash over you.

© Marque 2010

Memories

Dawn gently rises from its distant pew.
The bright stars of the night dissolve from view.
A kaleidoscope of pastels, and shades, so pure,
appear and morph, while lifted by invisible hands.

Soon the rays will kindle maternity,
from the vapours of their eternity.
Close your eyes, carry the picture to your soul,
recalling the shapes, colours, horizon and burning light.

Now feel the warmth of the sun on your face,
while your feet stand in an icy place.
Slowly, open your eyes and wonder at the subtleties of change.
Those who looked with vacant stare, that earlier moment is lost.

For you, the beauty and emotion are now caste in your mind.
Forever, to recall at will.

© Marque 2010

A walk with my ‘Boy’

The wind is cold and gentle.
Storms chase the unprepared.
Like many a time the sky is two,
as though a mirror of the landscape below.
To the West a great sea flows to unknown shores,
of a blue mirroring the firmament above.
To the East a mysterious horizon before the rising moors,
with a bank of cloud, until overhead.

We leave our carriage, walking together
along a lane where the view is forever.
All compass points stretch by three leagues with the eye.
You stop to look and turning your heel,
there’s too much to see, I stumble and reel.

To the North a vivid rainbow pillar grows,
from out of the sea, of strength and vigour.
I cannot move. I look down at my boy in his own reverie.
He is watching the rabbits as they abound.
We share a silent word, turn and walk West.
Before my feet the land disappears, a roar ascending, danger impending.
Before my eyes a tranquil sea with hidden yolks of strength,
lit with a radiance from the heavens above.

Turning south with a titled head
to watch the sun preparing for bed.
Among its downy pillows so deep,
with its light expired, it’s fallen asleep.
My boy so joyful, a flightless bird.
We join and turn without saying a word

To the North and East the galleons grow ashen.
Their edges painted by the sun’s glowing hearth.
We quicken our pace; we are the quarry of a chase.
A storm, dressed as a willow tree closing to our heels.
Chilled, but dry, we return to our shelter.

Now home we go; what an adventure.

© Marque 2010

To be blessed

Who is more blessed than I?
I delight at the blue of a sky
more than a sky that is blue.
Embracing nature’s glories; what else is their to do?

Who is more blessed than we?
Earth has more beauty than an eye can see.
From the flowing waves in fields of rye,
to the billowing sails across the sky.

© Marque 2010

Gravy Gravy Cloud

© Mark Peacock Jr.

I am allowed more cider if I eat my gravy.

My dog is called Ray and he is massive.

My Zafirra is broken but it is not making me cry.

I am taller than a bin with things in it.

I like the sky because it is blue.

My favourite colour is blue.

My spelling is good for my age, which is no barrier.

Clouds make me happy in my face.

Life Without Passion is Unforgivable…

In the words of my Hero, ‘I’m like a bat-out-of-hell’…
My vacation’s back on due to fervent ground-swell!
I’ve been worried for weeks that I’d not see those clouds,
but my prayers have been answered by the wild, baying crowds.

People say I’m a moron for endorsing this struggle,
But clouds and my duties are tough things to juggle.
So when my chance shows it’s face, I’m not biding my time,
And I’m straight in that taxi with my partner-in-crime.

…and I don’t mean my wife of course, she’s still at home.
It’s my rich neighbour Bernard, and his Schnauzer, Jerome.
I don’t like being a postman, I get cold hands and the like.
But it does have its plusses such as this lovely strike!

This means I can wonder o’er hills and o’er dales.
Topping it off with a few fine cask ales.
I take photos all day, I never want to go back,
but I must or it’s likely they’ll give me the sack.

How can I get round this? I’m hatching a plan.
It involves Bernard of course, and some de-icer-laced ham.
I watch as he chews, like a mad, hungry cow.
…and when he’s gone we swap clothes, “BECAUSE I’M BERNARD NOW!”

© Mark J Peacock 2009