Cold Heart

I wonder, did wife remember my lambswool sweater?
As we arrive, park our car, and release our Red Setter.
Then the clouds take my breath but my wife rolls her eyes,
She’s seen Lunesdale, the bakers, and their famous game pies.

The trip looks to be doomed as she licks both her lips.
…but I might have a plan involving ‘hot’ fish and chips!
I say “Pies are for tea, wife” and jump back in the car,
and coax her aboard with a Mars Delight bar.

We race to the chippy and I rush right inside,
with a grin on my face and a strange sense of pride.
As we gorge in the car, wife crows…”yours looks much nicer”.
But then hers is the one I’ve laced with de-icer!

Within minutes she’s gone as I’m spared from more cawing.
So I look to the clouds and begin a rough drawing.
Then the irony hits me, goodness, what a caper!
I’ve only gone and forgotten my paper.

© Mark Peacock 2009

Distopian Megaformation

Why are you over there, you massive white beast?

In the North, near the moon instead of Southeast.

The fear takes me over, as I fall to the ground,

and my eyes start to water as my trousers are browned.

I’m confused my great cumulo-friend, at how this can be.

You’re not meant to be there, though you may disagree.

I tighten my belt as I hop to my feet.

And I shout to the skies “White Light! White Heat!”

Then my temperature steadies and I paw my own eyes.

I pack up my rucksack and say my goodbyes.

For my affair with you is over and I must return home,

To my job as a chemist who makes polyurethane foam.

© Mark John Peacock 2009

Fair Weather Feathered Friend (My Cloud is My Bird)

by Mark Peacock © 2007

I could say I’ll love you until the day the stars fall from the sky,
but I wouldn’t want that as it might spoil the clouds nearby.
I should say I would move any mountain for you,
but that wouldn’t be true…as it might also spoil the cloud formation…in my view.

You might want me to say you’re the best girl in the world,
but my mistress, the clouds will always be better, so that would be heinous.
I know you’d like me to stay with you in the hospital,
but how can I when I look outside and see a perfect example of Altocumulus Castellanus?

Yes, you are beautiful but you cannot fly.
I’m afraid you’re not the Cirrostratus in my sky.
And your hair looks like too scruffy…
…and in no way fluffy. Like a cloud or like Duffy.
My true love is Mackeral Sky.
And will remain so ’til that day I do die.

Tempestuous Dawn

In the mornings you weep, like a newly shawn sheep.
Through the day you change shape, like a drunk playful ape.
In the night you’re subdued, like a mole without food.
Then skywards you drift, like a Stannah stair-lift.

It’s these things that I love, my big, cloudy dove! (above).
And it’s these I’ll watch daily, like my DVD of Bill Bailey (gaily).
And I’ll never grow bored, nor will you be ignored (my reward).
And though you’re like condensation, there’ll be no segregation (based on nation)…
…as we wait together for, the inevitable, precipitation (semantic relation!)

© Mark Peacock. 2009.

River of Dreams

Oh boy, your heroism is unsurpassed.
and then, you obscure my ship’s mast.
Who goes there? Your guile is my past.
And to river, your swells are so vast.

My reunion has never been lost.
There’s a reason my pancake’s been tossed.
I’ve a line, daughter, that you have now crossed.
Brave soldier, let thee never be bossed.

Raise me amongst devil-demons, cry loud.
Have your moment of freedom, be my Turin Shroud.
Lets we forget, let men never be proud.
…but reasoning’s defunct when I spot a cloud.

© Mark Peacock. 2009.

Clown Cloud

Cloud to the North, you blow back and forth.
Cloud in the South, you look like my mouth.
Cloud to the East, you growl like a beast.
…but cloud in the West, oh you are the best!

You look like a clown, but not one with a frown.
One with a grin, and wild laughter therein.
A clown with a nose as red as it goes.
And hair wild like Don King brimful of Rum-Sling.

I could watch you forever, but that’s not allowed.
Oh how I’ll miss you, my friend the clown-cloud.

© Mark Peacock. 2009

wild flowers….
the slow appearing
of a cat-shaped cloud

…..

blooming wisteria –
among the passing clouds
my mother’s smile

…..

wispy clouds…..
I offer paper butterflies
to the wind

Je suis un nuage sur pieds
Rempli d’humidité…

Dear Clouds

I will
lie upon my back
and gaze up at you
and yearn to be with you
so that I could
roll around in you
delight in you
be free in you
I do
Love you.

Dublin, Ireland.

Cloud

It was the only one, just there
In the clear blue sky, lying low
Close to the tree tops. Sheep like,
Its black face hidden under curly horns.
Stretching, changing, growing bigger,
Dragon like, spitting fire
Causing it to split in two, becoming its
Original self, facing the dragon.
Only this time it is more like a lamb
Clearer, brighter, peaceful
Just being there. The dragon disappears.
The lamb remains for a while and it too
Melts into little pieces and is gone.
Leaving a whisper of white
In the horizon.

© Marian Neary Burke.

A poem written after George Bush refused to sign the Kyoto Agreement in 2001:

1. I love nice sunsets
I don’t know why
But every time
I look to the sky

2. I see God’s work
In every cloud
And wonder if
He’s thinking aloud

3. “What have they done
To my best creation
The earth, the sky
The deep blue oceans

4. I hope they stop
Before it’s too late
For one day they’ll
meet me
At the Pearly Gates

5. And I will want
A good reason why
They are destroying
My earth, sea and sky”

6. His wrath we’ll feel
His displeasure see
For once His creation is gone
So are we.

[June 2001]

Could a cloud lie?

Great dollops of whipping cream clouds boiled up
from the south late this evening changing shapes
plump forms rolling over one another in play
huggable.

If you look away, of course you miss it all
the sky is clear until another storybook page
slips into view.

A child preparing to bed down under the stars
could see a bedtime tale unfold in the sleepy silence,
fresh air gently stroking his soft hair
and the faint hum of cicadas singing his lullaby.

Now I have no child to keep me company,
to remind me that stories at bedtime are essential,
be they read from a book or from the skies.

Yet I can tell myself stories, partly made up
and partly real, and fall asleep believing in the
“lived happily ever after” because

a cloud could never lie.

© Margaret H. Brooks 2007. From Shatter of Weeds

Whirling Dervishes

Whirling dervishes
Swirling, dipping, diving
Around the afternoon sky
In all their pure vaporous glory.
Weaving in and out
They sweep like ghosts
Forever intertwined.

Coming together
The dancers grow.
At first a white puff
Then with eerie silence
The color changes.
From white to gray
From gray to black
Ever growing into a hulking mass
A black heap of fury
Thunder is its voice
Floods are its footprints
As it tears through the plains

Whirling dervishes
Swirling, dipping, diving
Descend from the abyss above
Spinning in an ever intensifying circle
Down to the earth they plunge
Twisting, twirling, turning
The dervishes demolish and destroy
Intertwining with the trees and shrubs
Ripping, ravaging, razing
The dancers leave their scars
Disappearing to dance another day

Whirling dervishes
Swirling, dipping, diving
Forever dancing
Forever free on the breeze.

(Denver, 2005)

Almost describing
almost wondering…

in Teddington, England

“I will hear in heaven”, Beethoven once said,
And he does, sitting there on a cloud,
With wild hair, wearing wings, writing quartettes for strings,
Still talking exceedingly loud.

“I’m waiting for Brendel”, he shouts out to Handel,
As Mozart floats past with a smile,
“The best pianist alive to play Number Five,
But he won’t be up here for a while”.

A great orchestra plays his works night and day,
Which a Maestro conducts with closed eyes;
Each composer you love has a cloud up above,
It’s the Radio 3 of the skies.

Gershwin comes along, composing a song,
On the piano he’s playing forever,
“It’s genius, Mr. B, which has brought you and me
And some lesser immortals together”.

Make a note to be good – you might meet Henry Wood,
Promenading about with a baton,
Introducing to you a composer or two,
And the best seats that you’ve ever sat on.

© Lisa Foster.

My Birthday Present

Today when I opened my presents
I saw Spikey had bought me a book
It was wrapped in fancy pink paper
I thought I should have a quick look

I tore off all of the paper
Too excited to take in my stride
What was the name of this volume?
It was “The Cloudspotter’s Guide”

It is packed full of information
With photos of clouds like rude signs
And detailed descriptions of every one
Of clouds of all different kinds

Can anything get any better?
Surely nothing better could be
Than knowing it’s an official publication
Of the “Cloud Appreciation Society”

I rushed to access their website
To find out if I could join
I could and it only cost me
332 one penny coins

So now I await the postman
To bring me my cert, badge and bumph
Then I can read all about it
At work when I’m having my lunch

I need to learn all the details
Of clouds and how they are formed
The white fluffy candy floss cumulus
Which look like bulls with some horns

I can’t do this any more…

The Banality of Blue Skies

They are serious about cirrus.
And stratus.
And cumulus.
Also alto.
And fracto.
.
There is the honored cloud of the month.
Clouds that look like other things.
Clouds that look like nothing else.
One kind looking over the shoulder of another.
They softly call attention to
News that rocks the cloud world.
Cloudspotters chit chat with other cloudspotters.
The Cloud Appreciation Society Badge Issuing Committee
Makes a stunning announcement.
Henceforth new members will receive
Only one style of badge. (Gasp!)
It will show the cumulus.
This makes old members instant collectors.
Ebay eligible.
With their leftover cirrus, contrail, whatever.

My suspicion is that one, Gavin Pretor-Pinney,
Coudspotter Extraordinary,
Is behind it all,
Churning out his little cumulus badges,
Waiting to sucker in people like me.
People with their heads in the clouds.

shifting, shifting, apparition,
sideward sliding shade magician.
mist and myth of shadow rhythm,
swathe my hills in cotton.

whirling, spinning, spirit image,
ancient pathway, vaporous vision,
web phantasm, aged musician,
dreams stretch through the fog.

echoes, tones, arpeggio.
athenaeum of the soul.
dance in stillness
with a flow,
that’s gently showing all.

phrasing, chants, and syllable.
tracing shapes on stone.
searching symbols which descry
an effervescent light.

apparition, shade magician,
move between my lines.
fleeting phantom.
fading dancer.
edges,
pools, and glade.
drifting cool,
gone on fringe,
float…

and slip away.

[Written for the cloud formations at Grandfather Mountain in Boone, North Carolina, US]

I assessed the ladder’s size,
clothed by familiar skies…

Written in different languages ‘to reflect the changing nature of the sky’:
Solaris du Ciel

Si: they are real!
Uber Kopf, if you will
Meme: juste a prove
on a pris le pink pill
and pause et regard
mais on muste faire heed!
Peut-etre, le ciel’s Puck nimbus on speed
~~~~~~~~~~~~>>>>>>>

Ces Times pour un laugh
o guardian de skies
Sun reckless: They’re out-
D’spite long-locked disguise
Jack und Jill’s faces : ) : ) in sepia,
See! S-uggestible sight; O- M-orning G-lory

(2006)

Shadow Cloud

I cast a shadow on this earth,
a passing cloud then gone,
Phasing in, then out, then in,
full in strength, then fading dim,
a unique part of one.

© Kevin Bole

West Chester, Pennsylvania. US.

“(I fly a powered paraglider. Recently, I had a remarkable flight above and among the clouds. This was a first for me, so I commemorated the occasion with this bit of prose. I hope your readers enjoy it.)”

Morning Enchantment

Morning mist met me
as I left the RV.

I smiled when I looked skyward.
This was going to be special.

Long I’ve dreamed, to fly
among and above the clouds,
though in two years of flying
my marvelous magic lawn chair,
the chance has always eluded me.

That would change today.

I laid my white wing gingerly
on the damp, dew licked grass,
checking, and double checking
my alignment with the soft puffs of wind
that brushed my cheeks so faintly,
and struggled to coax the ribbons
of the windsocks from their poles.

Once hooked in,
I ran the motor full speed
aimed just above the wing,
making sure all was well
while making my own wind
for what came next.

As I released the throttle
I began to move forward.
My wonderful wing always wants to fly.
It did not disappoint, today,
as it leapt to life over my head.

A squeeze of the throttle,
a tug on the brakes,
a bit of a run,
and I was FREE!

The bondage of gravity broken,
I was now in flight,
the captain of my own ship
in three dimensions.

The local field and sky soon
became crowded with others,
So I sought solace in another place,
farther afield.

Flying down low,
I practiced my steering control
by following the rambling drainage swales,
They seemed to meander aimlessly
through a magnificent cornfield.

I played hide and seek with a deer,
who tried to escape detection there,
between the rows of stalks.

I chased a red-tailed hawk
for a mile at 50 feet,
over an endless field of soybeans.

Then higher, I climbed,
through a misty hole in the heavens,
where I saw my morning shadow,
wrapped in all the colors of the rainbow,
flying on the cloud’s edge before me,
as if to keep me company, in that place
where the world faded away
and I became alone with the sky.

And higher, still, I climbed,
to view the great blue infinity
that stretched forever
above a perfect white carpet
of cotton candy beneath my feet.

Then, suddenly nervous that
I could no longer see the field,
I chased after the misty hole that
was slowly trying to run away,
and flew back below the aerial meringue
to reconnect with the other world I came from.

Finally, following forty-two
fantastic minutes of flight,
I set my trims to half an inch,
killed the motor at 100 feet,
silently descended from my waking dream
into a gentle warm breeze
and landed like a pile of bricks.

I’m still smiling.

© Kevin. 2007.

Tulsa, OK. USA / Halifax, Nova Scotia

O Cirrus

In the silence lifting on the breath of heaven
the temporal cirrus and tossing crown
the lowest of heaven’s aspirations
a leaving of royal weaving found

Yet, my heart is drawn upward, cirrus !
while gazing at the fabric torn
high above earth’s unneeded worries
gazing at the beauty worn

The earth in a temporal moment
as if needed be, this day
to cover our lowly aspirations
with a high, directed song
to the eternal blue unending
and accompanying wind, breathing along

The lowest of heaven and the highest of earth
the visible sign of a merry mirth
fortelling of green-giving rain
arising on tomorrow’s wind around
and the ‘just so’ easing of the pain
of the lowly men, here bound

O Cirrus, not loud, nor featureless to man
born to be inspiration’s friend
the flying hope of earth’s highest dreams*
and deepest yearnings become known
high, above, where there is no sound
Beautiful, Perfect, Quiet, Alone !

© Kent Turner.

in Tulsa, OK. USA / Halifax, Nova Scotia.

O Cirrus !

In the silence lifting on the breath of heaven
the temporal cirrus and tossing crown
the lowest of heaven’s aspirations
a leaving of royal weaving found

Yet, my heart is drawn upward, cirrus !
while gazing at the fabric torn
high above earth’s unneeded worries
gazing at the beauty worn

The earth in a temporal moment
as if needed be, this day
to cover our lowly aspirations
with a high, directed song
to the eternal blue unending
and accompanying wind, breathing along

The lowest of heaven and the highest of earth
the visible sign of a merry mirth
fortelling of green-giving rain
arising on tomorrow’s wind around
and the ‘just so’ easing of the pain
of the lowly men, here bound

O Cirrus, not loud, nor featureless to man
born to be inspiration’s friend
the flying hope of earth’s highest dreams
and deepest yearnings become known
high, above, where there is no sound
Beautiful, Perfect, Quiet, Alone !

© Kent Turner

I ask myself as the clouds sure to form
If you see it as I do from where you were born…

Hong Kong.

The Story of Clouds.

The top of the sky,
the writeboard of the creator.
He depicts in black and white,
the story told by the clouds.
In heavenly words,
they transform, they tell,
they migrate to reach every part of the world.

© Ken Fung.

Sky The Guide Dog

Sky is a guide dog.
He will lick you
into light.
His eyes are pools of sparks.
He is a star hound.
Sky leads us across the universal fields,
opens up the lids of daydreams,
teaches us to feel
those tender rays.
Sky’s vista runs deep,
shows up a braille galaxy.
In this cold, blind dark,
we follow his moonlit trail.
We marry our lonely visions with his
and see
heaven.

© Keith Armstrong

Whitley Bay. UK.

LITTLE GIRL

Clouds sometimes
cross her brow
or sunbeams burn
her skin
but now she cannot hear the screams
nor can she feel
the sting.
Today
she only wants
to share her life
and feel
the wonder
in the eyes of all
when all the world
is free.

© KEITH ARMSTRONG. 2007.

The Morning River

The river is flowing
The river is not big but rich
Rocky shore in water to wet
Reflected on the river is a scenic flock of clouds
Among them a bird flies
He was quickly across and disappeared
Into the mass of clouds
The river is flowing without sound
Clouds are flowing along the river
And slowly leaning

© Kazuhiro Tachibana

Clouds haiku

Ribbons of pink clouds

Figure skating against the

sky, makes Monday melt.

© Katy Konrad 2011

Dallas, Pennsylvania U.S.

Ode to Clouds.

Travel with my eyes
the beings under the stars
That pull with wind,
shade in Sun,
make shapely billowing white
sheets
colored before night

A landscape of the heavens

Reflection of oceans

Wanderers of open sky!

© Kathleen Bednarek. February 2009

New Brunswick , Canada.

Silently, clouds

Teach the grammar

Of a summer sky

Summer sky speaking

The language of clouds

So eloquently

© Kate Breen. 2009

LIBERATION

Today I saw Death come riding by,
On dress parade through the sky.

With helm of ivory and cloak of fine bleached silk,
He rode a giant stallion that was as white as milk,

On his way to free some poor soul from the bonds of life and earth,
To which he had been fettered since the night time of his birth.

© Karl Stuart Kline
excerpted from from my book, “Going Without Peggy”
www.poeticat.com