Posts Tagged ‘clouds’

The Trees seem to beckon

as the Sun sinks low,

but the Heat keeps me apart

from the World I’d like to know.

 

Clouds, obscure! Sun, blink!-

for a short Moment-

so I may venture,

and- no more- lament.

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Thunder sings in

its tremulous language. Rain pours

down like oh-so-many tears.

If only

it would crystallize

like I wish my thoughts would.

 

Observation is

more of a ceaseless,

thankless occupation

whose rewards are never seen

by the observer- the one who records.

 

Blue-gray clouds never scrutinize.

Not the way

the observer does.

An assemblage of clouds observes.

Listen. There’s applause

just for you!

A blessing from silver skies

says, “you’re appreciated.”

Let the many small hands

strike the walls and window-glass.

It’s all for you!

The clouds praise with rain,

their way of saying,

“you’re wonderful.”

This morning is christened with sunlight.

Winter has turned the grass from emerald to gold.

Clouds and sky are inseparable,

their hues mix to palest blue.

Trees are awakened by gentle rushes of wind,

their branches wave like a parent

waves good-bye to their child on their first day of school.

The light comes and goes. It makes the grass shine,

remaining snow twinkle, street glisten, trees glow.

Wheat Fields Under Cloudy Skies

painting by Vincent van Gogh

Sky with its blue scales
does not daunt
pastoral fields- great pools
of emeralds, celadon-
the flowers at their fringes-
white stars, blood spots-
arcing under the wind.

The land is made of curves.
Clouds wheel in and out
of their own whiteness.
The wind is blurring
the world’s colors.
They are all within one another.

Something gray and infectious

has fallen into human throats.

 

Caught by veins,

those catcher’s mitts, those tiny roots,

 

and carried around

like dandruff.

 

Sir, your eyes are bloodshot!

Sir, you’re retching like a hurricane!

 

Sir! The sun’s been stopped

in the sky!

 

The clouds are hoarding

its light!

 

What a meteoric fall

man’s dug himself into.

 

Whether he’ll live to see

if the sun scorches through

 

those bandages of clouds is another thing.

For now,

 

only the willow’s tendrils move-

the trunk, a headstone.

“Each morning when the sun is shining, I look out the window and see how perfectly shaped the clouds are and how bright blue and inviting the sky is, and I fall in love with that morning. But the next day, I wake up and see that the sky is gray, and my heart is broken.
I think that’s why people become so wrapped up within themselves. We’re afraid to fall in love with things we know will break our hearts.”- Original