clouds

Snowclouds in April

 

A lifetime in one day

clouds toss the sun about

and the wind bats the sail

how oppressed you feel

 

As a ribbon stretches

across my page

shiversilver in afternoon light

shafting through tinted glass

of tramstop topwindow

and the whole patchwork years

unfurl in a breezy

meadow like a picnic blanket

or a dancing plastic bag

pick the spots

glinting rivers and

sequin puddles shining

moments, vignettes, entire novels

maybe mundane but it never felt that way

the sky up there so grey

full of snow and rage

 

Today’s GloPoWriMo prompt: write something that involves a story or action that unfolds over an appreciable length of time.

Photo:  Devon Rogers on Unsplash

Crevasse

The way the clouds hang

light in a heavy sky

ragged fragments of white

at midday, bluegrey thunderhead

harsh mountains behind

stippled in snow and ice, 

unwelcoming

chimney smoke that will never be mine

I fit myself into a crevasse

thinking I’d weather a few more years

unexpected avalanche

tore at the façade

shattered fragments in mud, 

sharp so you cut yourself, 

cold

and I

will never forget the trails I ran alone

although fearful

it’s already a dream

of something left behind

atmosphere

 

between the top of clouds and

the lid of the sky

sunlight breathes shallow and sits

in thin air

her warm fingers edged with

cold wind

the weight of majestic rays

higher than mountains, above fields

alone, over hidden cities of busy lives,

the mess and rush of love and hate, real life

up here

not really anywhere,

significant

temporary

ripped only by metal wings or feathered flight

mostly, a lonely nowhere

except

hovering in that secret blue place

I ache and stretch tendrils of tenderness,

could I reach?

everywhere

my yearning

feels like atmosphere

 

 

 

The inspiration for this came in part from a poem by Frank Hubeny which conjured the idea of the sun above the clouds having its own little game up there.

I sat on this for a month because I was planning to submit it to a journal callout for ‘immigrant poems’ — it speaks to my experience as an expat/person out of place/away from home. But then I got busy and missed the deadline, oops. 

Photo: Idella Maeland on Unsplash