Romano Zeraschi sent us this recent cloud inspired poem.  We’ve paired it with a sunrise over Sumirago, Varese, Italy by Paolo Bardelli.

Nuvole:
anime che svolano
addensano
e svaporano
cartografie di sogni
illusioni.
Stampigliano promesse
scambiano timidi baci
e umide di timidi amori
vezzose e libere
scorrono e sbrigliano
nel superno abisso
senza paura.
Dipingono
cose che vorremmo
e non sappiamo
o ci fanno paura
minacciose
quando avanzano orridamente scure
per poi pentirsi
e piangere
e allora è una promessa
un pegno assoluto
uno squarcio che viene dal blu
dentro la fossa
del nostro esistere
giù nei meandri delle nostre attese.
Eccole che finalmente di nuovo scorrono
e sfarfallano rappacificate
eccole che indugiano pigre
decorando i plurimi cieli con nobili medaglie
di smalti ialini
e poi madrepore, ventagli di gorgonie e coralli.
Fantastiche creature:
talvolta assumono il tratto di un topolino
e allora paiono squittire
a volte son volpi, farfalle, uccelli
e allora si attende un guaito
il cinguettio garrulo di un fringuello, d’un cardellino civettuolo.
Più spesso scorrono liberamente festose come alunne d’un primo giorno di scuola
o s’indovinano in ricreazione
immerse in un fervore di beatitudini
dimentiche d’ogni campanella.
Osserviamole ora per ora
seguiamone le tracce nell’inseguimento infinito
mutevole ed eterno:
vederle in adunata
stringersi in circolo come sorelle
ci paiono intonare di lassù un coro
per poi obbedire ad un cenno imperscrutabile
e allontanarsi per punti cardinali diversi
a oltrepassare l’orizzonte o morire prima
magari a ovest, sciogliendosi nel tramonto.
E al mattino
rivestite di bianco
quando germogliano appena al primo orizzonte visibile
sbocciarsi poi in eteree
quasi fragranti e revolute forme
che si allontanano
divergono e poi s’adunano
accavallandosi in canyon e radure
e precipizi
e burroni
o talora vicendevolmente sgranarsi a festoni
in bianche molliche d’immaginarie catene
colline e pianure
e dissomiglianti montagne
disegnando .
Accade anche che una nube si compiaccia in splendido isolamento:
resti alta allo zenit
o sfiori gli orizzonti per una ronda circolare
d’una missione compunta e segreta.
Albe e tramonti susseguono
ed è allora che si ammantano di violetto
o in più tenui ametiste
tramutando in arancio o porporino.
Veleggiano in grumi vacui
in eburnei fiocchi galleggiano
pullulando talvolta in purpurei amorini
E non raramente si espandono
circonflesse o lenticolari
o si aggregano, rabbuiandosi in cumuli e nembi.
Man mano, il Grande Atlante si sfoglia:
isole e atolli e lagune compaiono
i reef d’una barriera corallina
istmi e favolosi fondali
e penisole e continenti
un tettonico scivolar di placche
milioni di anni in poche ore
minuti del nostro esistere.
Lassù c’è vita
condensa e compatta strati e substrati
ere geologiche in ore o minuti
e poi pianeti, costellazioni
lo sciame luminoso dei cirri, asteroidi vaporosi e soffici
e può anche accadere che irrompa un bolide non si sa da qual vento sospinto.
Ma questa è scienza
meteorologia astratta
geologia e geografia insieme
inesatta e purissima astronomia
quand’esse son lassù a giocare invece per gli eterni bimbi
per i cuori dell’infanzia
per noi solamente
per noi
piccoli e sperduti principi d’un pianeta perduto.

© Romano Zeraschi

Annie Dillard, Member 46,119 sent us an anecdote of an encounter from a small ship in Antarctic waters. We’ve paired it with an image from “Cloudface 88” of Lenticularis over Skarsvåg, Nordkapp, Finnmark, Norway

“Over a long life I’ve learned that the meaning of this sight is a handy thing to know.

From a small ship in Antarctic waters I saw a stack of lenticular clouds and thought HERE’S TROUBLE.

We pulled into a station and those manning it said, Go to the hurricane harbor.

We toodled off to the safe harbor. It was fully occupied by the Chilean Navy.

We had no choice but to head out for sea room. If we were going to be helpless in a storm, we’d best go where

we wouldn’t hit anything. I’d often read about “sea room” and here it was.

We bucked and tilted –probably used a lot of gas–and were just fine.

Later I found a similar stack of lenticular clouds almost permanently over the peak of Washington’s Mount Baker”.

© Annie Dillard

Lou Piccolo enjoys reading poetry and recently submitted this Haiku inspired by the sky. We’ve paired it with an image from our Photo Gallery of a spine-like contrail over Chester, England by Michael Hearne.

Clouds embroidering

white criss-cross stitches on a

bright summer-blue sky.

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

Bonnie Boothroyd was driving and when she came over the crest of a hill and before her was a fascinating skyscape which inspired this poem.  We’ve paired it with an image from our gallery of Cumulonimbus over Bosse, Belgium © Sunwalker

Layers

The sky overhead hangs low,   leaden

threatening my mood

In the distance though,  a wide clear patch of fading blue

And off near the horizon

identically long and narrow

ephemeral            wingless            airships            hover

Yet another layer beyond

framed by the darkening springtime sky 

Cumulonimbus

explode to altitudes so

high they capture the glow 

of a sun       already set

and I wonder,   for folks

beneath those sun swelled clouds

does the sky hang

dark and low?

                                                b mackenzie boothroyd

Kathleen Janick, member 49,856, recently wrote this poem inspired by fog on the coast of Maine, USA

Ric Johnson wrote this poem after walking alongside the River Weaver in Cheshire, UK and was inspired by the clouds that appeared overhead. You can see more of his work on his website.

SKY PEBBLES

Tight knit, these pebbles
Although not knitted at all
If our brains were in place.

Magically magical
But truly, touchingly magical
Though impossible to touch.

As if some god had woven them
Having shouted at stray clouds
To form up and bunch in tight.

Just letting us know
Down here but looking up
That some gods value beauty.

Whether knit one, pearl one
Is this god’s speciality
Is unknown to me.

However tightly knitted they seem
We know each pebble
Has its own resolve in place.

The resolve to be fluidly individual
Unmindful of watchers
Careless of admiration.

And, of a sudden
As I looked
Change and separation all around.

Pebbles unformed themselves
Indifferent to me, or the god
And how we thought of them.

No longer pebbles
Neither galleons nor dragons
Whales, pigs nor eagles.

But spectacle and grandeur
Clouds shaping, reshaping
Each day of our lives.

Well, fancy that!

© Ric Johnson

Buckshot Dot, AKA Dee Strickland Johnson, sent us this poem reflecting on sky.  We’ve paired it with this mixed sky over the Sunshine Coast, Queensland, Australia by Ebony Willson, Member 53,124

The Sky Without Clouds

A day without clouds is the sky at its least.
We had one here just recently.
Be they piles, or wisps, or fantastic shapes,
they continue to fascinate me.

They pose, slowly move, or they change all the time.
They’re now like a scatt’ring of sheep —
hurrying, scurrying, playing around
just below tops of the high mountain peaks.

© Buckshot Dot, AKA Dee Strickland Johnson 2022

                                ~ ~ ~ ~~ 
                    *AKA Dee Strickland Johnson

Keshet Amalia Wistenberg recently sent us this poem to share with the CAS community. We’ve paired it with an image from our Photo Gallery by Ernesto Astiazaran of a joyful cirrus face over Tucson, Arizona, US.

Vantage Point

Fribbling, trotting,
In circles abounding,
Our smidgens of forms
So dear, yet so far.

We click and we squabble,
Enwrangled, surrounding,
By godlies, by froundies,
By tresses of star.

They drift and they float
And they sweep up the foundlings,
Who live in their castles,
Their dreamy memoir.

They follow, they peer at
We short-sighting groundlings,
And ‘member it all
In their mountains on par.

When angry, we quarrel,
With teeth, steam abounding,
When they do, they weep,
As they know what we are.

We’re boorish, we’re legged,
We’re scraggle-pip-thounding,
We’re dirty and little
and thoughtless, wind scar.

They weep and they roar,
Erupt, all propounding,
They do so as schedule
Makes bare who they bar.

For us, we’re the peasants,
sca-venging, sca-rounging,
And them all the king, and the chief
And the tsar.

We imagine a vastly
Built ever so rounding,
For us in the center,
The jam in the jar.

‘Truly?’ ‘Tis factin?’
We shriek, throbbing, pounding,
For deep’st we know’st
Our knowings off par.

The clouds, are our windows,
From here to the bounding,
Old boundary of here
To the great world their from,

The clouds are our windows,
From here to the bounding,
Old boundary of here
To the great world to come.

© Keshet Amalia Wistenberg

David Oscarson, supporting member 40614 sent us this poem he recently composed. It centres around falling snow and encroaching clouds that cover the mountains.