Carl Zephyr, Member 61,726 has a special interest in the water lifecycle: clouds, the sea, and the weather that moves them between each other.  He recently sent in a selection of his cloud poetry. He told us “Poetry is how I’ve processed emotions since I was 8 years old. I discovered a couple years ago, during a trying time, that I could identify harbingers of my coming storms – much like the stratocumulus warns Floridians that our summer storms are near at hand.” We will share more of his poetry in the coming weeks and have paired this poem with an image of Stratocumulus over the Atlantic Ocean, near Boca Raton, Florida by Raymond Popkin

Stratocumulus

Summer cloud
full, dripping
with sun

White
Life
the warmth of an embrace
the soft cheek of a lover

He builds morning to afternoon
Expansive, impressive
arms outstretched, admiring,
Admired

his waterdrops accumulate
Cumulus
pulling him down, down,
evening comes
his face darkens:
instability
in the atmosphere

suddenly
strat, stat

and he cannot stop
giving all of himself
to the heaving seas
only to limp back up
the morning after.

© Carl Zephyr

Sue Shaw, member 55,742, sent us her poem ‘Yoda’ and a photograph she took that reminded her of the character.

Yoda
Yoda—very, very wise,
With pointed ears and bulbous eyes,
Watches from the summer skies,
And seeing him, I realize,
That every cloud’s a gift—a prize!
Clouds bring smiles, deep thoughts, some sighs…
With clouds, imagination flies!
Yoda knows…because he’s wise!

© Sue Shaw

Eithne Hand, Member 13,947, published her second collection of poetry, Tickle this summer and the cover was a photograph taken by Clare Sutton. “Anfa | Tempest” is one of the poems in her book.

Anfa | Tempest

Slant light touched us home,
hands meeting for the first time.
Our bodies in surprise liked each other,
we tasted the same, share words of love,
found it hard to stay apart. Windy
autumn brought an orange wedding.

Years of weather rained past,
our tides neither rip nor spring
we tempered rare stormy nights,
moored together to this good thing.
We saw many capsizes, offered
windshook friends mugs of solace –

Feeling shipshape, snugly mated –
while our anfa sat offshore and waited.

From ‘Tickle‘, a book of poetry by Eithne Hand

Image credit: Cirrus vertebratus spotted over Hammersmith, West London, England by Claire Sutton

Sheryl Oder sent us this poem based on pictures of clouds that she’s taken.  She told us that the image above reflects the last line.

God’s Fluffy Artwork

Clouds are God’s craftsmanship in the sky.

At times I see

wispy white threads in the blue sky,
cotton balls scattered everywhere,
blue holes punched in the white clouds,
a UFO-like shape,
a white fog blanket covering the mountains,
and a mixture of light and dark puffy mountains.

What do you see?

© Sheryl Oder

Kathy Miles is a poet living in West Wales; her fourth full collection was published by Indigo Dreams in 2020.  This is a poem she wrote about Luke Howard with a photograph by Jan Boles of Anti-crepuscular rays over Idaho, US.

Cloud-Whisperer
after Luke Howard, 1802

He named them because he could.
For the thrill of cirrus on his tongue,
cumulus and stratus a banquet
on the palate. Obsession ached
inside him, the need to claim
and classify. The logic of shape.

He envied their resolve,
the purpose that kept them feral,
wandering from place to place
like nomads, always heading
to the next clear patch of sky
that argued its blue emptiness.

Seeing them submerged in sea
or lake, he wanted to raise
them like a grounded swift,
throw them high as he could,
then call them back to his side
by the names that he had gifted.

Now I watch their floss and bustle,
like a woman hurrying to work
worries building inside her; ragged
fractus, weary with the day,
shapeshifting into mist, keeping
its nose to the grindstone.

Their bellies are full of storm
and fire, while mine has emptied
of passion. I think of the man who
organised the skies; how nothing
pleased him more than waking
to quilts of nimbus, cirrostratus.

© Kathy Miles 2023

Cloud watcher Annette Birdsall, heard about the Cloud Appreciation Society from a friend and sent us her 50 word poem.  We’ve paired it with a an image of Altocumulus floccus creating layers of reflection by way of Round Lake, Idaho, US   © Jane Hutchings

Mercurial Clouds

peaceful wisps billowing across the sky
excited bursts piercing through
happy little cotton-candy tufts
comforting cover seemingly over the whole world
angry thunderous darkness brilliant with shards of light
dreamy drifting lolling pillowy fluff
depressed dreary damp endless days
… such mercurial beauty in the moodiness of clouds

© Annette Birdsall

Kate Edge, Member 30,633, an artist from Pembrokeshire recently sent us this poem.  We’ve paired it with an oil study which Kate is preparing for a much larger canvas.  It was painted in Harbour Village near Goodwick.

We bring peace to you now and forever more,
We are the motion of love resplendent
Our journey is to cover earth with
love’s nourishment to feed mankind
all the seeds sown by the Creator.
We pass all manner of changes below
but we are the circles of divine motion
breathing over the turbulence on earth.
Cloud awakening means to know the
invisible that we carry and to carry
it to the heart to others.
We are a living prayer
We evoke the remembrance
in remembrance let change take place.

© Kate Edge 2025

Paul Davies, Member 28,330. wrote this descriptive piece to share with us.  We’ve paired it with an image of Zunderdorp, Gemeente Amsterdam, North Holland, Netherlands   © mercy

Staring out the window,
wondering why those cotton-wool balls
which look like mammoths
or a score of shrubs shoulder-to-shoulder
don’t over-fly my garden in smaller clumps
the size of cows or sheep or rabbits or birds

I mean
why are these clouds so large
is there some gravitational attraction
which keeps those visible water particles
together in bundles of roughly similar size

© Paul Davies

Buckshot Dot, AKA Dee Strickland Johnson, wrote this poem in 1940 when she was 9 years old.  The image we’ve chose to accompany it is by Linda Holtby, Member 20,966, of faces in the clouds over the Hamble river, England.

THE OLD OLD MAN

His beard is so long it touches his toes.
If I were to paint him, he’d have a red nose.

He does not talk, nor gather a crowd,
For this old old man — is only a cloud.

© Dottie Jean Strickland* 1940, age 9

Holly Payne-Strange, Member 52,979, from New Jersey was enjoying the clouds at Thanksgiving in 2023 when she dreamt up this poem.  We’ve paired it with an image of a Circumzenithal Arc over Broadway, NYC, US by Judy Schramm

To Have the Honor of a Cloud

Ice crystals in the sky,
Reflecting sunlight, conjuring shadow
An ever moving gallery of whimsy.

It sounds like magic.

Surely it should be, by all rights
This beauty we ignore, day by day.
I think it’s because they’re so far away,
Glory and valor we assume is out of reach.

There’s a certain proud nobility about them,
Stately and serene.
It all seems so easy, slow, even boring.
An illusion fostered by distance and assumption.

I can’t help but think
That if only we looked,
Really looked, and noticed, and appreciated,
Then maybe grace could be an everyday occurrence.
Maybe we would notice.

Lofty ideals, unencumbered and honest,
Could curl above us
Natural as the wind.
Maybe generosity would need no excuse
And sincerity would be easily accepted,
Suspicion and shame falling like shadow,
To some distant terrain we can’t imagine.

I have to say,
When I think of you,
I only see the clouds.

© Holly Payne-Strange