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.

copyright, Karl Stuart Kline
excerpted from from my book, “Going Without Peggy”
www.poeticat.com
© Karl Stuart Kline. 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. 2009.

Pannus lurk, ominous on the horizon,
Somewhere in the haze…

September’s Spring

September’s spring nearly full sprung,
yet August winds still chill,
here upon mountain top;
clouds scud, scoot and clamour,
pale fluffy faces huff,
while darkened cumulous puff,
precipitately pregnant,
we await the fall.

© Mountain Fog (AKA Justin Baillieu Fitzpatrick)

The ‘Beast’ Humbly Replies to the Chemist

“Why am I over here?” Sir, don’t you see?
We clouds roam the firmament, ‘megaform’… and drift free.

No need to be fearful, hypotensive, caught short
or strut around looking in places ‘we ought’.

Nor do we, as a rule, emit light or heat white.
As ‘cumulo-friends’ we’re not here to give fright.

High in the sky are utopian trysts!
Hugging land? Less lovely – we’re then fogs and mists.

Perhaps, sir, and I speak with some pride,
you might care to beg, borrow or buy the The Cloudspotter’s Guide

in which our terrestrial champion Gavin Pretor-P
extols ‘bodies without surface’ (and that’s Leonardo da V!)

© Julie Elizabeth Smalley 2009

No watcher of the TV weather I,
Go outside and read the sky…

from Middlewich, Cheshire, UK

A CLOUD COUPLET

Beware! Endless contemplation of Nature might weary us,
for a cloud’s existence is Very Mysterious!

A CLOUD HAIKU

In awe of the clouds,
I wonder. Do they ever
appreciate us?

A CLOUD McWHIRTLE

We’re sure as hell lucky that
G. Pretor-Pinney
started to celebrate the Celestial Un-clear.
For with his wise guruship
meteorological
our oft-cloudy skies now fill us with cheer.

A CLOUD PANTOUM

Ever considered the curious shifting shapes in the sky?
Perhaps you’ve pondered the view from a ‘pilot’s office’.
Didn’t you wonder about clouds…the how, what and why?
Well, we’ve got just the Society for a cloudspotting novice!

Perhaps you’ve pondered the view from a ‘pilot’s office’,
unable to express in terms arty or formal.
Well, we’ve got just the Society for a cloudspotting novice!
(Thousands of Appreciators think the practice quite normal.)

Unable to express in terms arty or formal?
Nature’s nebulous variety puts on her show free.
Thousands of Appreciators think this is quite normal.
Yet, to learn how please join us for a very small fee.

Nature’s nebulous variety puts on a show free.
Advice is hereby addressed “To Those Who’ve
Yet to Learn How”. Please join us for a very small fee.
(Marvel, observe when you look at them move!!)

Advice is hereby addressed to those who’ve
ever considered the curious shifting shapes in the sky.
Marvel, observe when you look at them move.
Didn’t you wonder about clouds…the how, what and why?

“CLOUD QUARTET” © Julie Elizabeth Smalley 2009

Middlewich, Cheshire. U.K.

The Clouds’ Reply to William Wordsworth’s “Daffodils”

“Lonely as a cloud”? Exception!
Mr Wordsworth, sir, we must
as clouds correct your misconception
to “content as a cumulus”.
Praise not earthfast daffodils
but Hosts of Silv’ry Celestials.

Golden blooms stretch’d along a bay
might present an awesome sight.
Yet all ten thousand, come what may
could never, breaking free, take flight.
Gaze above you. Reward your glances
with our infinite, shape-shifting dances.

Poets, artists, children too,
seeing layers, heaps and curls of hair
enrich their souls with what we do –
bunching, swirling in the air.
Those daffs outdid the waves? The dolts.
Let ‘em try Kelvin-Helmholtz!

Sir, when on your indoor couch reclin’d
(A habit too oft indulg’d?)
think cirrus, floccus – much more refin’d.
Enlightened, your inward eye will bulge.
Then your heart with pleasure fills
and soars amongst celestials.

© Julie Elizabeth Smalley. March 2008.

THE CONNECTION

Oh that furious funnel that swallowed
Dorothy every year, the whirling universe
of things that like necessity surrendered
her to song, flowers and color. Each year
Danny Kaye told us the beginning played
black and white, but I knew that, and why–
if I brushed my fingers across the screen,
warm gray powder from that storm would coat
my hand like ash on Catholic foreheads.

I knew this must be one thing done
with life. To see one. Remember: evenings
on the cool concrete stoop watching clouds
the ugly color of bruises sag low
to the naked trees until they seemed
brains dragging their network of nerves.
Then the woods purpled, the color
expectantly darkening to the shade of storm,
until you knew the connection would be made.

The sky was like this when Father and I
stood in the yard, saw ourselves repeated
in every lot down the street. And above,
the vast ornaments of weather leapt
head to head. His thick finger pointed up
Oakcrest: Look. Here it comes now.
Not that feverish thing. Something more mine:
a clear violent screen of rain advanced
until it was upon us, cold and stinging.

©2007 Joseph Allgren

Where are you going, Grey Cloud from the North?
Did you come to steal my blue sky?
Why have you taken the wind from the breeze,
Is it me that you want to see cry?

On whom are you crowing, Grey Cloud from the North?
Who do you mock from up high?
For whom have you shaken the cheer from the trees?
Do you hope they will quiver and die?

What is there in knowing, Grey Cloud from the North,
That all that Blue Sky was a lie?
What beast would you waken while we lie at ease?
You will not frighten me, not I.

East Sussex, United Kingdom

A Cloud Sonnet

Clouds of the skies are nothing like the sun
Rain proves more cooling than what shade they shed
A brilliant moon grants a victory won
And the way through the snow has more solid a tread
But you, you are so fair, so free
Flowers spared weeds or a blossom without stem
Like so much wool scraped on an air dead tree
Cotton more free than the hands that once picked them
And yet you, you are all around
Wisped whither you will – still you choose to linger
And share with us that sudden sound
That spoils summer days without pointing a finger
When it’s done we’ll run, long for the sun we want
Done with fun save one – I stand there non-chalant

© Jonathan Freeman.

Sarasota, Florida, USA

Cloud Viewing

The old masters went snow viewing
and inked poems by brazier light.
Letting go of arising & passing, they
shivered with the nature of mind.
Genial, life & death haunted hunters!

In Florida we go out cloud viewing,
eyes filled with wine-bodied, innerlit
here-and-gone Spanish armadas
of fleeting shape shifts. All summer
greedy & guilty & crazy with excess.

I give my eyes & heart. At sunset
take a camera to the quay beneath
the Sarasota bridge that arcs to
St. Armands Circle & capture high,
warm luminaries in watery sky drifts.

From nowhere a half-naked fisherman
drags over a hooked catfish. It’s
eye fiercely piercing clotted last light.
“Can’t eat ‘em,” he says & plunges in
his knife. Dark falls, chafes & ignites.

© John Wark 2009

Clouds Above Lark Hill

Pillows and sheep
sheep asleep on pillows
bellwether and teg
pampered and plumped

Clouds that meander
from vale to wold
patient flocks billowing
bold as bolsters

Along the horizon
cloudwisp collies
rounding up sheep
in the tapering wind

Hurdled and huddled
close to the fold
delighting in dreams
of grazing sky-free

Cloudtrails of wool
woof and weft woven
hillside and valley
of sleep-grazing sheep

All down the sky-long
Warwickshire feldon
from Ilmington to Adlestrop
into Gloucestershire

© John Alcock

“Our Clouds” is from the latest collection by JJEvendon: Apocalypse

Clouds.

Tipperary, Ireland.

Come with me into a summer field, covered over by a hemisphere of harebell-blue.

Lay beside me in the sweet-smelling grass, studded with wild flowers, and gaze up.

Over our heads, skylarks weave and sing; fluffy, white billows of cloud float and grow

Upwards, outwards: speckling the earth with fleeting shadows before they drift

Downwind and away across fields and roofs, to make brief shadows in the sunlit day of others.

Some will look up like us, and marvel at these blithe spirits; many will not even heed their passing.

© Jill Mabbott. 2007

” Thunder in the distance,
looms now overhead.
I have sat too long. ”

© Jeremy Mitchell-Christian. 2009.

The Cloud

Floating in a crystal sky
Made from ice and water, she
Goes drifting elegantly by
Moving very airily

Soft as lace, untouchable
Going where the wind does blow
Her beauty is infallible
Though we can never tell her so

Dazzling white will fade to grey
But her beauty’s undiminished
Her tears fall through the rainy day
Her substance sadly all but finished.

© Jenny Walker

Langtoft, South Lincolnshire, U.K.

LOOK AT THE SKY

“Not a cloud in the sky”
The people all cry.
Delighted it’s blue
They have things to do.

I love to see clouds
And cry out aloud.
When I see a great sunset
A picture I get.

Keep watch up above
I think you will love
The fluffy white shapes
Like angels in capes

A minute goes by.
“Look at that,” I cry,
It all looks quite new,
Now see a different view.

There is a society you know,
Twelve thousand or so
Have joined in to share
Their love of the rare.

In 64 places
They all turn their faces
And hold their gaze high
To examine the sky,

So let me urge you,
Whatever you do,
To look up and see
And wonder like me.

© Jenny Scott July 2008.

Scotland.

The Poem was written in Shabroo, a tiny village in the Himalayas, 1979.

This lifting cloud…
has raised it’s heavenly skirt;
and been caught by the wind,
unfettered by natural laws,it flies…
higher than before.
To disperse into the Eternal
cyclic rains, from whence it came.
Thus embracing Creation in all it’s forms,
the Infinite “O”.

© Jenni Holt. 2007

Topsham, Maine. U.S.

Water Dreams

When water dreams
its reflective eye gazes upward
to rarefied destiny;
racing with crystalline wisps of cirrus,
carelessly tossed into heights of blue summer,
or merging with whorls of foreboding lenticularis;
ceilings of smoke, faces and fire.

To be one of infinite droplets after a storm,
arcing in neon redemption,
or a reaching, radiant halo
around sun or moon;
oracles revealed at last.

Tendrils curling from a morning lake,
or fog, silent, sifting
through dark spruce.

Cumulus towers are impossible topiaries,
trimmed to the imagination,
or the works of overly romantic painters
that claim the sky.

Hurry now, toward gilded shreds of late autumn sunset,
before small warmth is pulled away,
and dim gates open to boundless shock of icy dark.

So many days of awakening to
ocean and gutter,
river and puddle,
casting an eye skyward
and dreaming anew.

© Jeniferlee Tucker. 2009.

Cloud No. 9

Through the shapes in the clouds
I see you sleeping
As your eye lids flicker
You must be dreaming.
The stars that surround you
Covers like a blanket
The soft shine of the moon
Dimly lightens your room.
The sharp air in the breeze
Cuts butter like a knife
But I stand there looking
Admiring life
So much to see
In so little time
As I watch you sleeping
On cloud No9
Your hair draped gently over
Your soft white cloud
You sleep so peacefully
I feel so proud.
Your soft white pillow
Under your weary head
You look so life like
On that cloud as your bed.
I see you, on cloud No9,
I see you, smiling all the time, on cloud No9.

© Jaycee MacNaughton

Haiku for Howard

Luke Howard, named clouds
Naming what we could all see
By name we now share

[Upon passing, by chance, where Howard lived. Once.]
© Jay Sharma

San Francisco Bay Area, California, USA

Mare’s tail or ghost hair
White whips or slubbed silks
Breeze training cloud scarves
Translucent linen strands afloat
Big brush gesso strokes
Swiped and twirled, wrist
Dancing loose and free
Clouds in the sky
Joy in me.

© Jan Lewis 2009

Vernon, CT U.S.

White Lights – White Clouds

I saw a big hole in a large white cloud

I stretched out to reach it

My arms were not long enough.

Sunbeams filtered through in dazzling display

A chimney of white light called to me.

It was a ladder with no stairs

Or a robe of light heading straight for me.

I could not touch it so high above

This chimney of Light and of Love.

I saw the circular hole in the middle

I heard the notes of a flute and a fiddle

Sweet notes of instant recognition

While the white light radiated through

This strong stable heap of white cloud

I could not touch it, not allowed

It was not my time to be lifted up.

I saw this shimmering white cloud that afternoon

It spoke to me without speaking,

But I saw it with a third eye

A mystic concentration with due respect.

I sat down but felt raised up and hovering

I think my aura was uncovering

As a bit of Heaven in a chariot low

Shined down through this massive cloud

I could not go, was not allowed.

But with my heart’s eye I could see

This emanation of eternity

Reminding me the white clouds

And God’s ove are free.

© James Webb Wilson(Jim the Poet). 2009

Vernon, CT U.S.

Where Do Dream Clouds go to Die?

Where do dream clouds go to die

After marching across the sky,

Parading monuments for dreams and daring

To spark ideals and thoughts of caring,

To catch a dreamer’s eye and soul

To spur a dream and make it whole.

Do they fall off the edge of the earth,

Off the precipice of their whimsy and mirth?

One time in passing and then gone

Clipped by the reaper of the celestial lawn,

Falling off the stage one scene at a time

Disappearing without reason or rhyme.

Do they just float and flutter off

Into thin fronds feathery and soft

Off as a mackerel sky in a foreign land

Dissipating the mountain so grand

Breaking down a dream so suddenly dismissed

Passed on, deceased, but by a poet kissed.

© James Webb Wilson(Jim the Poet). 2009.

Vernon, USA

White Sails Riding High

I saw the white sails ride high
A massive armada across the azure sky
Each thought in a mighty seaworthy craft
White sails afore and white sails aft.
A thought drawn taut and billowed out
Providence assured without a doubt.
Soft sails of pride, genuine and real
With a bold mast and a sturdy keel.

I saw the little skiffs on the bay
A gay regatta on a blustery day.
They danced about, all in good sorts
White sails dancing while the sun cavorts
With the sweet allusions that tantalize
By sending white sails before our eyes.

I saw the summer breeze chase
One after another at its own pace,
The pace they keep right from the start
Seeking a temporal identity of heart
Living for now in this brief encounter

© James Webb Wilson 2009

RELAXING AFTER SUPPER

I was tired from a long day at work,
I sat out in my lawn chair reading
It was shortly after a good supper
While Muffin the cat rested at my feet.

The sky was silent and much above me
It lent me clouds of classical design
White Ionic columns of a great temple
From Zeus’s grin to Minerva’s dimple
Where divinity seemed simple
As they sat on their Olympian thrones,
Settling over my Connecticut bones.

Then by the evening breezes led
Their white horses coaxed were sped
From one corral to another,
Some were as Pegasus promptly tethered
Others in white mare’s tails drifted off
All the Gods horses were so well aligned
They floated in symmetry and silence refined

I count the serenity of each cloud I see
As they steady me and put me at ease
I wonder why Rushmore does not have knees.
I watch the clouds in the evening air
And merely let my imagination
In the majestic drama unrehearsed
Each guess is as good as the first,
Each scene gets its rave review
On this stage of clouds and peace.

© James Webb Wilson 2009

WHITE SAIL REGATTA
I saw the skiffs upon the bay
One by one as they raised their sails,
White linen sails to catch the shy summer breeze
Billowed out and ready to race.
This great fleet of a nautical regatta
Ready to drift across the celestial sea
While the crows watched from the hill

We needed no tickets and never will
As we sat up in our box seats at home.

I saw the wild race begin
With a slow but steady start
The way all boats start out,
Adjusting t the currents passing by,
Feeling the tension in the sails,
Setting the rudder for direction.
They moved out in one procession
Their white sails proud impression.

Then the Levantine breezes stirred
And set the skiffs a challenge strong
Each skiff seemed told to move along
Some skiffs died along the way,
Some struggled on courageously.
Perhaps upstream somewhere.
Or dissipate, dissolve and be gone
Clipped by the reaper of the celestial lawn.

© James Webb Wilson 2009

Vernon, CT USA

Clouds For Dreaming

These are the mammoth clouds for dreaming,

Piled high enormous mountains teeming,

Chiaroscuros toned layer on layer ever bright,

Puffy white upon puffy white.

They slowly float across our view

Dividing thew patches of azure blue

On a proud afternoon of a summer;s day

Gigantic masks of a surrealist’s way.

These huge conglomerate amorphous cliffs

Dominate the sky as each one drifts

As a winged sculptor etches a face anew

To form a future yet to come true.

They rise as some Herculean boat

Weighing nothing able to float

Across a wild and energetic sky in ease

As Rushmore4 images come to their knees.

These are the quiet giants of our time

The footless wonders of a higher clime

Which pass by and leave it may seem

Nothing, except per chance a dre3am.

© James Webb Wilson (Jim the Poet). 2009.

Oxford, UK

I know that you see me
And I can sense you are there,
Time to collect my thoughts.
A deep breathe in and I begin to stare.

You move so fast
You move with the wind,
But I want you to stay longer
I want you to be pinned.

You are almost gone now
Our time was so brief,
But thank you Mr Cloud,
You have lifted my grief.

I will sit here a little while longer
Collect my thoughts and continue to ponder,
I envy you in many ways,
how free you are and able to wonder.

© James Robson

TREES?? CLOUDS!!

ONCE UPON A TIME SOMEONE WROTE THAT HE WOULD NEVER SEE A POEM AS LOVELY AS A
TREE. A TREE??
AS FOR ME?? HE DIDN’T LOOK UP HIGH ENOUGH, YOU SEE.
I WILL TAKE A BIG MAJESTIC CUMULUS CLOUD!! YESIREE. IN FLORIDA, JUST GET A
LOUNGE CHAIR- TOO MANY RED ANTS- A GLASS OF ICED TEA, AND RELAX WHILE
WATCHING AN EVER- CHANGING SUPER SHOW FOR FREE!! A CLEAR BLUE SKY? BORING!
AS FOR ME?? LOOK UP. IS THAT A BUNNY? AN ELEPHANT? WAIT A FEW MINUTES- MAYBE
3. THE SHOW CHANGES AGAIN- YOU’LL SEE. LOOK UP- WAY UP. ARE THEY CONTRAILS?
WOW, MUST BE WINDY UP THERE. LOOK HOW THEY ARE CHANGING SHAPE. A TREE?? IS
THAT AN ANVIL WAY UP THERE? ARE THOSE CUMULUS CLOUDS GETTING DARKER? OH ME.
WHAT IS THAT RUMBLING? LIGHTNING! OH GEE. ARE THOSE CLOUDS LINING UP? OH NO-
HURRICANE WARNINGS, POOR ME. DAY 3- WE’RE CLEAR AGAIN- HAPPY!!! OH MY
GOODNESS, WHAT DO I SEE: THE ULTIMATE CLOUD SHOW- A RAINBOW!!! YIPPIE!!

© James Dorow

the world’s breath
mouth full of lightning…

A u s t r a l i a

For the whole year

I was in Mr Watson’s class

I sat by Australia :

a little pink Australia

with a hopping kangaroo

on a massive map of the world.

My head was so close to Australia

I could have licked it. If I’d wanted to.

During Double Geography once,

Mr Watson asked me why I was smiling.

I pointed out the window and said,

‘Well, Sir. There’s a cloud, Sir. Up there.’

‘How interesting,’ he said. ‘Not.’

‘But Sir!’ I said, ‘It’s in the shape

of Australia – with the big wide bit

and the long pointy bit. Can you see it, Sir?’

‘Gosh,’ he said,’ ‘Shall we alert the BBC

to broadcast it to the nation on the 6 O Clock News?’

‘Well, Mr Watson, Sir.’ I said, ‘Maybe we should!’

‘No,boy.’ he said. ‘No. Anyway, we don’t have

time to hear about an Australia-shaped cloud

or an Australia-shaped rainbow

or an Australia-shaped snowman

or an Australia-shaped anything

for that matter. Do you understand, boy? Do you?’

‘Well, Sir’ I said, ‘Not really.’

I don’t think Mr Watson was too happy with my reply,

because he made me write out 50 times :

‘A cloud does not look like Australia

and Australia does not look like a cloud.’

© James Carter

C l o u d s L i k e U s

a poem for Mr. Wordsworth

You’re n e v e r lonely as a cloud

for like the sheep, you’re with the crowd

and plus there’s always loads to do

like soak a fete or barbeque

Us clouds are water – boiled you know

for we’re recycled H20

from stream to sea to cloud to rain :

precipitation is our game!

And how we love it when it’s warm

for then we cook a mighty storm

but when it’s time to help some flowers

we’ll brew up those April showers

Going back to our CV

we have a range of skills you see

from snow to hail and mist to fog –

to making shapes for you to spot!

A sunny spell? oh we’ll be back

you’ll need some rain – and that’s a fact

we’re high as kites and cool as jazz

that’s clouds like us – our life’s a gas!

!

!

!

!

!

!

!

!

© James Carter. 2009.

Clouds have travelled where I never have.
They’ve crested the Himalayan peaks…

I see you
And when I catch sight of you
You have already been seen…

The Might of an Ephemeral Cloud

Standing on a hill’s summit
In high summer’s heat
All colours below seem flattened to a pastel palette
Faded and deadened by searing sunlight.
But it takes just the passing of a cloud
For village colours to waken and blossom,
Trees to stretch and breathe,
Rivers and hollows, mounds and forests
To leap into a life of abundant greens
Refreshed by the cloud’s shadow
Which is sliding down golden fields
Vaulting over tangled hedgerows
Chasing flocks and herds and boys on bicycles.
Nature’s dimmer-switch – the cloud –
Turns down the glare, the heat
And as its shadow runs and rises, soars and clusters
It caresses the earth’s miraculous face
And I see the might a cloud possesses.

Then later, lazing in the sun’s heat,
Reluctant to step out of it
Wanting, hopelessly, to store the glory
To get me through the poverty of winter,
That lies In wait like a cruel joke.
I know that this time of excess,
Of gorging on sultriness and light,
Will not rise vibrant in my memory.
I will forget the ease and comfort of a body
Relaxed by warmth and long-lit days,
As muscles and mind tighten in the numbing cold
And shortened days turn people inwards.
What I will remember is that instant
When the cloud, frail and transitory
Passing beneath the sun
Stemmed the great fire’s force
And I felt, and saw, the more powerful might
Of a thin, ephemeral cloud…

© Jacqueline Mai. 2009.

Lonely as a cloud…?

Wandering lonely as a cloud is a concept devised by man
For him to muse upon in his own lonely state…down ‘there’.
Whilst – ‘up here’ – I’m never lonely.
OK, there might be some big gaps occasionally
But I can see a long way,
And I could always budge along a bit faster
If necessary
To join another cloud or two.
Today, I’m drifting rather fast inland,
Well, racing towards the sunrise actually,
Blown eastwards from the ocean.
I’ll sidle back there this evening
As the night clouds threaten to chase me
Back to sea.
They are very possessive about their personal space
These night clouds.
They are not averse to dressing themselves
In dark colours – especially early –
To make those poor earthbound humans
Rush to get their washing in,
Or put their lights on much too early.
‘Where has the light gone?’
‘Is it going to rain?’
They will exclaim,
Scurrying about like ants
Into their square nests,
As the night clouds roll ever onwards.
They are the ‘Business’ these night clouds,
Dragging their blanket over the earth
So that everything can sleep.
Me? – I rush back out to sea
And scuttle to the other side of the ocean
If I’ve a mind to.
The horizon gets pretty full by evening.
Loads of newly hatched clouds
Bobbing about, bumping into each other.
Young really, that’s their problem.
Still, they learn pretty quickly.
I’ve watched lots of them
Grow up into huge storm clouds.
Not fat clouds you understand,
There’s no obesity in cloud world,
But there are some very, very huge ones.
They have a lot of responsibilities too.
Mind you, it wouldn’t suit me,
I’m getting on a bit now,
Becoming a shadow of my former self.
So, I like to take it easy nowadays.
A bit of scurrying and racing
From time to time
And meeting up with a few other old codgers.
Sometimes we have a good laugh
And do imitations of things we’ve seen
And the others have to guess what it is.
A giant with his mouth open, yawning,
A flying saucer,
A pig with six legs…
Well, you know the kind of thing.
It amuses the younger clouds
And it lets us off the serious weather stuff.
Me and a few of the others
Are off up the coast tonight
To watch a film.
They’ve got this big screen thing
On the beach
For holidaymakers.
I’m not too bothered about
Who’s acting in it
But I do like to catch sight
Of clouds that I know.
Some of them are very famous
In cloud circles.
I’ve even been a cloud extra
In one or two films myself!
I was that wispy cloud
Floating past in
‘Master and Commander’.
Did you see it?
Perhaps not.
You were probably looking
At the vast ocean
And musing on
How lonely a cloud’s life is.

©Jacqueline Mai April 2007