Melbourne, Australia.

Good Morning Stratus Opacus

A hemline
draping sleepily above a shadowed underlay
Fraggled edges curling up crisply in the morning wind,
but not breaking
Smearing on and on to the horizon like damp, grey cake mix
Only a lone, naked streak of the suns light hands reach through
the thicket of a woollen sky to warm the eager grass below

© Rochelle Bree-Indiana Downing. April 14th 2008.

weather poem

Saint Paul, Minnesota. U.S.

(spring weather report in the midwest, 4/2004)

Storm grey system
responds wolfishly
to our juicy subductive depression—

mares’ tails & question marks above,

wondering if the air’s
as rich and stimulating
over there, as here.

Only way to know
is to leave Spokane
and the Montana waste places,

to swift in skies over Rapid City
and the Missouri’s
bluffs, to our sweeter

climatic currents.

Then overflow
into volumes, high
as the mesosphere, that

stoop to kiss the Great Lakes
and the simple
rolls of land

that lie beyond.

© Tom Lewis. 2008.

Kangaroo Cloud

Starkly on pale blue,
bleached sun, cloud blotched,
puffy white fluffy flumps,
statically sit,
in azure stable.

A single cloudlet,
singlet white perfect ,
thinned then fogged,
then volume vanished;
a pace away,
re-thickens.

A gust then weaves,
a kangaroo shape,
its tail wind wagging,
then slow float,
to mist as if,
to graze on gossamer,
then haze again,
back into ether.
© mountain fog August 2008

Foggy Night

An afternoon of mist, that’s nearly kissed the sun..
but not, I fear..
settles in the hedgerow’s shadows thick..
and snuggles and obscures the thistle sticks..
hastening to glisten upon the trees,
before slowly sinking to their knees..
to disappear just then.

All hints of stars or red of Mars reduced to white,
the mists enclose.
The world retreats and leaves our single hearts to beat,
befuddles a compass,
and seaman’s charts go incomplete..
..encroaches upon the faint of heart –
…entreats the loneliness of fog..
“depart”!!!!!
Heaven only knows how or when.

Tis true when as a child, I asked
about the mist that settled in and slowly grasped
the night..
“What is this whiteness of the air?”
“how do all things just disappear?”
to which they answered.. ” don’t despair,
’tis only a cloud that’s fallen down to earth
to sleep.”

© Cynthia Stamps July 2008.

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.

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 LONELY CLOUD

We were driving along on the western slope
We were kidding and someone was telling a joke.
When all at once someone spoke,
They spoke aloud,
“Look up in the air at that lonely cloud
It looks to me like it’s lost from the crowd.”

It was just hanging there in suspended flight
It was not very big but was fluffy and white.
We thought it was probably filled with fright
about where it would go or would spend the night.

All the rest of the trip we watched in the sky
But the little cloud was gone,
We will never know where nor will we know why.

© Glen L. Ewing. 1978.

READING CLOUDS

At times I glance up at the sky
just to read the
clouds as they pass by
fiery red when day is done
or billowy white in midday sun
There are dark black
forms outlined with light.
That drift slowly by on
moonlit night.
perhaps a sunlit cloudbank forms
with dark gray sides
foretelling storms
Now That shape’s a house
That one’s a town’
Look! There’s a sailboat
harbor bound.
At times whole mountains
come in view.
There are ancient towns with castles too.
Clouds offer me a gallery
of misty forms and fantasy.
What’s more… they’re mine exclusively.
The cloud art of my mind.

© Thompson H. Everingham June 2008.

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

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

Mountain Clouds

Clouds cling and mist the mountain tops
the trees still cool and wanting
the green has failed to creep nonstop
there, winter’s still ‘a haunting..

have they lowered and come to stay
those mallow denizens of the sky
to crouch so low and envelope and play
and flow and creep and glide?..

the swirl grows deep upon the crest
kissed by fine white wisps
the raven, clouded in their nests
are blinded by the mist..

high mountain roads that disappear
their private world remains
evaporating views – the clouds so near
ingulfed by pelting rains..

the white of clouds and blossoms meet
fog instills the orchards ground
the sight confounds the mind to greet
whirling mist that settles ’round..

scudding clouds that hide the ridge
and dip down valleys gorge
wander over fields and ledge
that stonewalls love to forge..

a dancing ceiling of clouds so gray
with rain remains a promise’d ride
sunlight’s shafts a glimpse for May
but now, the mountain’s clouds, a tide..

© Cynthia Stamps. 2007.

Leeds. Yorkshire. UK.

Learning to name clouds

The sky wasn’t ready to receive us:
as clouds mopped after sun spills,
hills gulped heat then, shaded, cooled,
lobbed wind around in rowdy gusts.

The thermals puffed on their cumuli:
mediocris above us, blooming congestus
to the west where calving plumes rested
on collapsing columns. Our new canopies

lay limp and sighed. We wouldn’t get to fly.
The instructor saw the front ahead:
first, ice crystals spun to cirrus threads
stitched the tattered blue, then altocumuli

unravelled to stratocumulus stratiformis –
a muddle that lowered the sky. In grey
calm, we soared until rain stopped play
with a darkening drizzle of nimbostratus.

Grounded, I weighed up the trade: unlearn
the vast truths of the childhood sky,
the storied mind whose empires
rose for me alone above the plains

back home, and earn your place in a hive
stiff with Latin, riddled with equations:
the architecture of these brief cradlings,
their seraphim views, our thumb nail lives.

© Alex Fox 2007.

Tunbridge Wells, Kent. UK.

CLOUDS
+++++++

THEY TUMBLE, THEY CRUMBLE
THEY MOVE SO SMOOTH
WITH AZURE BLUE
SHINING THROUGH
ABOVE THE BROOM-SWEPT SKY
AS JETS ZOOM BY
+
THEY SWAY,THEY SPLAY,
IN THEIR OWN WAY
WITH STREAKS AND PEAKS,
AND SUN SHINING THROUGH ,
WITH ETHEREAL HUE
+
COTTON WOOL CLOUDS OBSCURE THE VIEW
DISINTEGRATION THEN ENSUES.
THUNDERCLOUDS LOOM HIGH
LIKE A CARPET IN THE SKY
+
RED SKIES ABOUND
AS SUNSET GOES DOWN

© VAL NYE. 2007.

The Clouds, Sky and… ALL I SEE!

I see your beauty high and low
I see the clouds and bugs you blow about
and neither sends a shout, hey watch out.
I see your beauty everywhere.
Night and day shining bright.
The sun and moon and everything light.
Who is to say that this is rare, for in the universe
is any of this to spare?
I see you two embrace and never give a hoot to
the plane that passes by. Not a recognition or a cry.
Get back and look at all I see and then come home and you tell me,
Dad, your just imagining all you see.

© Nick Houvras, 2008
 
 
Remorse

There are clouds full of remorse and cry all day.
humans are the same in many ways.
I sat next to two republicans who didn’t feel any remorse for killing one million people in Iraq!
What is it? A kind of asking for forgiveness for ones wrongdoing!
Should all of America feel this remorse? Don’t know?
Then one should ask, remorse for What?
The answer; two million Vietnamese killed for a lie a president told to the people of America.
Remorse! What, more remorse? Yes, do we feel it?
No!
What for this time?
More lies from three other presidents!
Who? What? When?
Who? Well, Bush’s one and two, and Bill Clinton in the middle.
What? The death of over one million Iraq’s !
When, from 1988 to 2008 and beyond, over 20 years of killing for What?
Let me list the reasons: Oil, Oil, Oil, Oil, Oil, Oil….
And Vietnam?
For building a stronger industrial military complex for one state.
For one state? Yes, for one state.
Texas!
Now back to clouds that cry all day.
shouldn’t we all be crying too, like the clouds we have no memory and just go on.
One cloud was a question mark asking me why?
I don’t know and I can’t say, I’ll take my leave and cry all day.

© Nick Houvras, 2008
 
 
Two Eyes

Two eyes and a head what else do I see?
They are in the clouds looking down at me.
Who put them there and why,
perhaps the answer is a mystery.

© Nick Houvras 2007.

Persistent Wet Weather 2007

So this is how I see it…

Usually, when it’s time for Spring sunshine,
Mother’s Day flowers,
Easter Egg hunts,
Summer holidays
Walks on the beach,
Picnics and deckchairs
And blue, blue skies,
All the clouds, efficiently,
Drift away
To distant places,
Rain forests, tropical zones
And great sea spaces,
Piling up dutifully
Out of the way
To leave us an empty sky stage
For the sun’s performance.

BUT…

This Year
The clouds have rebelled.
They were tired of packing their suitcases
And rolling and gliding, conveniently, away.

This Year
They have stayed behind
And have taken their holiday
At home.

This Year
They are basking in stolen sunshine
Above our heads
Toasting their tummies.

This Year
They are keeping our sunshine for themselves
And what we think is persistent rain
Is actually sweltering clouds
Perspiring…

©Jacqueline Mai August 2007

Clouds Come to the Ground!

Ha! Ha! white cloud have you any rain?
No Sir, No Sir, not today.

Ba, Ba, white cloud,
have you anything to say?
Yes, Sir, Yes Sir, have a good day.

Wa, Wa, white cloud,
you look like my brother Ray!
Do you mean the Sun Sir?

Well Okay!

Good, Good white cloud,
can you shade the sun?
Oh yes, Oh yes, I’ll do it just for fun!

Ha Ha white cloud,
do you see the moon?
Yes Sir, Yes Sir, over the Lagoon!

Nap time, sleep time, hope your still around
when I awake clouds,
come down to the ground.

© Nick Houvras. 2007.

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 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

New Delhi, India

Love And Clouds Are The Same

One moonlit night I thought of clouds
I waited long to see
the morning, but the sky that came
brought no clouds for me.

Only a cotton thread did blur
the edges of my fist;
But I am not yet strong enough
to worship distant mist.

An empty sky is safe because
nothingness can only stay.
When joy arrives in clouds I fear
they’ll fade, or glide away.

© Susan Orey 2007.

_________________________________________

Canberra, Australian Capital Territory,
Australia.

Lenticular Heaven

Too many days, ground tied and cluttered,
Complicated by officialdom and bureaucracy;
Surrounded by people who simply know not
The power and majesty of what they see;
So many longing gazes, through office windows,
At welcoming skies, Brindabella Ranges sparkling, shining;
Under sweeping lenticular bars, smooth skirts flowing,
Across powerful winds, cumulus rotor forming, dissolving.
Oh, how I want to touch this sky.

Launched at last, tug towline released,
Supported by long white wings, cool oxygen flowing even;
I am soaring in smoothest laminar flow,
Sailplane surging higher into our lenticular heaven.
We dance and sweep the leading edge, always windward,
Our shadow caressed by rainbow halo bright,
As lenticular curves flow across the escarpments,
Warm brilliant sun casting a crystalline light.
Oh, how I love the touch of this sky.

Delicious moments, when my soul escapes
The constraints of mortal working life,
My mind recalls the wave, the precious sensations
With awareness enhanced, feeling truly alive.
The lenticular backdrop frames the landscape with beauty,
Frost crystals on white wings curve a glistening arc;
I am at one with the sailplane, with the air in this heaven,
And my existence, my meaning, is renewed by this spark.
My love of life has been touched by this sky.

© Drew McKinnie
September 2007

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

Clouds?

Magic carpets of the sky, changing art on the fly.

Scribbled imagination pods, doodles of the mighty gods.

Suspended dreams, cotton balls in floating streams.

Illusive wings of silk and lace, or perchance a mirrored face.

Fantasy within reality found, imaginations hunting ground.

Mystic transformations fleeting, enchanted visions forever retreating.

Unknown reasons why, hovering visions thus occupy.

Blindness to the symphony, maturities greatest tragedy.

© Wayne Paton. 2007.

Playground of imagination

One day my mom, dad and me,
went to a beach, down by the sea.
In the sand, I carved a bed,
where I lay, my tired head.
As I looked up, into the sky,
white magic carpets, drifted by.
As they moved, their shape did change,
into the wonderous, or very strange.
I could see there, many a face,
both a dog and cat, in a race.
A race to a point, a certain spot,
then they joined and they were not.
As they joined, they changed again,
never to stay, very long the same.
I could see islands, full of castles,
funny hats, made with lots of tassels.
A frosted king, with a crown of white,
airplanes with one wing, on a flight.
A flying horse, a witch on a broom,
a big scratched door, going into a room.
Cups and saucers, and alphabet soup,
sometimes it looked like, gobbledy goop.
I saw birds, with big long noses,
fire engines, and water hoses.
Pretty ladies, in silk and lace,
an ugly old man, with a dirty face.
I closed my eyes and started to dream,
of white angel cake with lots of ice cream.
A drop of rain, fell on my cheek,
so I openned one eye, to take a peek.
There in the sky, over my sand bed,
was a huge white dragon, with one eye in his head.
He looked so sad, with just one eye,
that’s where the tear fell, from the sky.
I closed my eyes, then openned them wide,
for he had turned his head and was trying to hide.
As I watched in wonder, like magic he switched,
into a rabbit, with a big nose that twitched.
Now I’m at home, and gaze out the window,
I see clouds in the sky, and I now know.
What I see, is really a dream in my head,
like when I sleep, with my head on my bed.
I can dream of magic, white carpets in the sky,
and make anything I want, float quietly by.

© Wayne Paton. 2007.

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.

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

Erith, Kent, United Kingdom.

A sunset ditty

The summer sun that sinks like sand
Into this dusty, hilly land
The red ball slips behind the rocks
Just like a coin into a box.

© Graham Croucher. 2007

Southampton. UK.

Early in the morning before the sun doth rise,
you can hear the birds singing in the skies,
dewdrops on the flowers,
skies with pink do gleam, clouds like fairy towers,
gone in morning dreams.

© Cynthia Russell. 2007.
“( I wrote this poem when I lived in Yorkshire as a child, for a school poetry competition which I was fortunate enough to win.)”

Almassera vella
Relleu Spain

Clouds.

This morning’s clouds shroud the mountain.

They dull the valley, they have closed the room,

they have enclosed us in a coldness.

Our lashes pearl. They want us to honour them.

Those grey, cream and grey with a smudged edge clouds,

honour them and the long streams of clouds just wandering off,

flick-flacking light on fell sides of another valley

then rushing a ridge to tumble into receding plains beyond.

Honour the thunder clouds with their yellow bruise bilious-ness,

assorted clouds, arranged museums of clouds,

sample cases of clouds, variety packs of assorted clouds;

honour the comprehensive provincial collection.

But also dread clouds, panicking clouds, clouds that move

slowly back and forth, clouds that seem friendless,

mean clouds, duff clouds, dim clouds, a sobbing cloud

and an army of clouds with lieutenants, infantry, bombardiers.

And a cirrus earring, a brooch of stacked cumulus,

a nimbus thimble, a strato-bangle in a cloud emporium,

the long sucking in of clouds. Semi-detached clouds,

clouds spinning very quickly, clouds that are motionless.

And other clouds elsewhere: the white on jungle green

clouds above the Selvas, crinkled edging to the Persian Gulf,

flowing, ethereal cirrus over the veldt,

a European cloud crisis, the sub-committees of clouds.

The cumulonimbus corporation over the Vistula,

galleons over the Great plains, feathers over the Tatras,

tumbrils rumbling above Chipping Ongar

and those sudden low mists beside Burtons Wood.

Sullen cumulus over Paris, morose over Carcassone:

dignitaries discuss a prioritising of clouds in Vienna,

a Belgian ware-house filled with mourning clouds:

clouds in weeds, in sackcloth and clouds that weep, seep

then leap across late afternoon meadows in the high Alps.

Clouds that seem bashful, retire behind Gothic spires,

clouds that lay flat, and dissolve, form cubes, cones, cylinders

(those lenticular loaf clouds over Dortmund)

and rivers of cloud in Sarawak, over the Congo,

cuddling clouds that hold the side of Puigcampana,

vegetable clouds floating in stacks over Montana.

Then disappearance into clouds, clouds full of coloured birds,

clouds of identical insects, the sound-scape of clouds,

one hundred cloud smells catalogued in the Tibetan book of clouds.

A cloud’s dumb warmth. Mexican worshipped clouds,

clouds seen as monuments, boutiques or pot -pourris.

The influence of clouds on the early development of the truncheon.

Recorded sightings of clouds in the form of Louis Quinze furniture.

The Tuba. The Torso. The kitchen chair.

Fluff. Cauliflower. Cotton wool.

Clouds that weren’t invited. Clouds that have not been named.

Clouds that will have left before you knew they were there.

Clouds disappearing into a river. A marble cloud, a pastry cloud,

an asphalt cloud. Caring clouds, enfolding clouds, ‘as if’ clouds,

clouds that swirl to conceal pudenda, clouds with

naked infants, sculptural blocks of cloud, clouds with ambition:

a cloud Imperial. Cloud with a persecution complex,

angst-ridden clouds, insulted clouds, an unfulfilled cloud,

a cloud that, in a desperate act of felo de se, evaporates

and so a workshop needed for repairing broken clouds,

service stations for re-fuelling empty clouds

and flatpak deliveries of strato-cumulus.

Drugged clouds, effete clouds, sloppy clouds,

professionally drunk clouds, clouds with no sense of purpose,

illiterate clouds, seriously challenged clouds

and yet marvellous clouds that pass, above, below, to the side;

clouds that drift into the fourth and fifth dimension.

Our simple afternoon clouds clambering over the ridge,

settling in wispy vapours over and behind the castle

then gradually moving away and becoming quickly forgotten.

© Christopher North. 2007

Pedro

Our cat companion of 21 years
Has gone to his heaven to join his mama.
I imagine soft clouds holding and comforting him
Where before it was us and our now empty arms.

Passing clouds dapple his earthly resting place
With a constant balm of caresses
Bathing him in light and shade
And taking him gently onwards.

Sunrise greets him first each morning
As the night clouds race out to the sea,
Then they gently pull their blanket over him
On their return at the end of the day.

The sunshine and darkness that besets us
In these early days of loss
Needs the soothing drift of clouds and time
To loosen and bear away our tears.

I watch the cloud shadows in their ceaseless voyage
Smoothing the places where he once walked
Softening the sadness and giving Nature
A new page to write upon.

©Jacqueline Mai June 2007

The Silent Dance

Grey, fast moving sky,
Dense blanket clouds, tearing,
Releasing gold patches
From the clear sky above.
And in the turbulence,
In its dips and hollows,
Seabirds crest the thermal waves
Riding the wind,
Weaving a silent dance
In an empty sky,
Secretly, just for me,
Alone outdoors.
.
Beyond the birds, clouds gather thick grey
But westward the sky is torn into rags
As the wind pushes the cover inland
Tearing the mantle from the sea.
The birds, sheltering,
Follow the clouds landwards
Safe from the chill
Of open sea air
And in their passage
Below the clouds
They dance for me,
Circling my head like a blessing.

In an empty sky
Their silent dance
Tells ancient tales
Of their journeys with the wind.
They do not mew, peacock like
In their seabird voice.
The dance is silent, invisible
Except to me who, looking skyward
On a grey and windy day
To watch the racing clouds
Finds instead
The dance of the birds.

©Jacqueline Mai 2007

Alzey – Germany.

STARS AND CLOUDS

Humid masses, pink and gray,
rushing, vanish, stay awhile,
forming lumps, aim at begetting,
generating shapes of wonder.

Fable-children, night and day,
forever doomed to play, beguile,
wish to escape the spheric setting,
wanting myth and break asunder.

Full of despair they fight their way,
drifting along many a mile,
address the stars and turn to begging,
not knowing what and how to ponder.

So in their sphere they have to stay,
alone as well as in a pile,
there is no inter-spheric wedding,
stars high above, clouds way down yonder.

© Timothy McNeal. 2007.

Devon, UK.

CIRROCUMULIMERICK

Cirrocumulus catches the eye:
Ice-particle clouds, way up high.
You may well lick your lips,
Adding salt to your chips,
But you can’t eat a mackerel sky.

© Celia Warren 2007.

“How Old Are You”

You know you are hooked when you drive off the road because you can’t take your eyes off it.
It has been there for only a few seconds, minutes, moments, but it is long enough.
You tell your mate, check it out.
He doesn’t see it, you start to doubt.
But no, it’s there you see it plain.
It’s a shark chasing a crain.
It’s wings are spread, as it flaps in vain,
because close behind is the great white waiting to claim.
yes you know your too old when you can’t see the same.
I hope I never get that old.
© Pebbles 2007.

Suffolk, England

Sam. (This is for all parents) …

Up there in the summer sky,

I showed my mum a big, white man.

He was really there, but I wonder why

she smiled and called him Sam Fairy Anne?

© David Crawford 2002.

Summer Storm

The Summer storm is brewing
The clouds are gathering round
And all across the sky
Is a cacophony of sound
The lightning flashes sharply
And splits the sky in two
From the sparks of Gaia’s eyes
As they turn the darkest hue
Nature at its fiercest
Reminding man once more
Whatever he invents
Is a drop on ocean’s floor
So marvel at the strength
Revel in the sight
For Nature’s glorious powers
Are showing all their might

© Phil Sanders 2007.

Mosman Park,

Western Australia

Cloudland

they
float
drift
sail on the wind
don’t need anchors
know tempest and calm
hide moon and stars
rain on our parade
enhance sunrise and sunset
depress us
inspire us
make us want to see beyond.

© Ann Brodziak 2007

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.

Spring-cleaning is under way.

When morning clouds scuttle away
I shake the blanket of sleep from my head
And step into the warm mist of the shower.
I dress in fleecy clothes of cloudlike softness,
And my hair, wispy now, floats like cirrus clouds
Around my sunny smile.
Cumulus clouds of cotton wool add moisturizer, gently, to my ageing face
And a delicate cloud of powder colours its fragile whiteness.

Then, having aired my bed
I toss the duvet and watch it settle
Into its plump altocumulus mounds and hollows
So soft and inviting, a cloudy marshmallow of comfort.
The temptation to sink back into my winter cocoon
Is fogging my brain…
But no, I must seize the day
Spring-cleaning is underway.

Clouds of dust slink in every room
Stratus-like, they spread greyness
As I disturb the winter slumber of books and cupboards
Tired cushions and fading curtains.
I wipe a nimbostratus cloud from dull mirrors
And the washing machine with its towering load,
Begins its low thunderous rumble
As it spews winter from my home.

Out in the garden the thunder rumble turns into the cracking of cottons
Flashing and snapping on the line in the whirl of a gusty breeze.
The sky a clear cloudless blue,
For aren’t all the clouds in my house?
The windows shine as I wipe away their grey winter haze
And the sun gleams into all the rooms
As my cloud world dissolves
And spring steps in.

©Jacqueline Mai May 2007

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

Birmingham, UK.

Clouds of moods.

A cloudy day, a moody grey

I feel the same inside

You read me well, we share the mood

That neither of us can hide.

You show me your mood

Though I dare not show mine

So how do you see through me?

That all my thoughts are thine.

Thin and high, you are far away

Just like my thoughts right now

My mind is drifting, from here to there

You share my mood some how.

A ray of sun across the sky

You let it through today

Is this because you share my mood

And let me have my way.

A lightening bolt, a clap of thunder

You share my anger quite well

Yes, today I lost my temper

So just how could you tell?

I feel good today, all is OK

A gentle billow of fluff and white

How do you know? Do you read my mind?

Your mood is mine, quite right!

© Adrian Beckett. 2007.