Best Cirrus Poems
I've never heard the sound of snow
nor dawning's oboes crooning light,
yet witnessed angels' trumpets blow
and chimings of the flurries grow
as alabastrine wings take flight.
I've never heard the sound of snow
when cello strings caress the bow
of morning at its burnished height,
yet witnessed angels' trumpets blow
a salmon cirrus cameo,
diaphanous and opalite.
I've never heard the sound of snow,
piano in the afterglow
of sunshine's brittle fahrenheit,
yet witnessed angels' trumpets blow
ebullient through the chorals' flow
across the operatic white.
I've never heard the sound of snow,
yet witnessed angels' trumpets blow.
"I wandered lonely as a cloud." William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a boat
a shallow dingy left behind,
alone in marsh of reeds remote
my paint now faint so unrefined,
my only hope the next high tide
on brackish water then I’ll ride,
in aimless drift left up to fate
the wind and wave upon the bay
on rhythmic swells, I’ll grow sedate
with naught to see through mists of gray…
on ripples pale so soft so free
my destination out to sea;
that distant place where lay the sun
across the sunset waters west,
the ambiance of cirrus spun
to brush with colors every crest
where I can bathe in shades so bold
of melting solar marigold.
Yet — let go I must of wishful dreams!
My lifeline dispossessed I strayed
and followed streams with other schemes —
now lofty tide cannot be swayed,
a rustic wreck in reeds reposed
their wind-song whispers I’m imposed.
There’s no escape their soldiers’ lance,
the blades of green so tall and crisp,
with waves they undulate in dance
and breezes ruffle tassels’ wisp,
though swans find beauty mid the reeds
—a wistful coward’s bitter weeds.
Susan Ashley
January 14, 2023
~ Second Place ~
Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 25
Sponsor: Mark Toney
~ Poem Of The day ~
January 16, 2023
Poet’s note: this poem was inspired by, but not written for, the contest: “I Wandered Lonely As… Challenge”, sponsored by Natasha Scragg and judged on September 24, 2022. Thank you, Natasha, for the beautiful William Wordsworth quote and for the poetic inspiration.
Photo: gettyimages; Jay Fleming
I see you ‘cross the vast expanse,
a love disguised in dreamy whirl
and clothed in raiment sun-spun gold
as wispy cirrus wraps your dance
the music of your sigh aswirl -
a breeze I feel but cannot hold,
but dance I will with memories
though for your arms I’ll ever pine,
I look to skies for bluest eyes
at times behind the tapestries
of cumulus both yours and mine –
the realm in which my angel flies.
Our love so like the lilac leaf
two halves that shared a center vein,
once green we were but now I fade
I’m torn in half without relief
the pain not washed away by rain —
this heart-shaped leaf afraid and frayed.
O touch me warm your slanting rays
how cold my soul you left behind,
to gaze through tears at beauty high
to wander through the haze of days
and know the planets misaligned —
when eyes of turquoise dyed the sky.
Alas, myself but cosmic dust
yet still, the stardust gilts the rust.
In moments of twilight civility
an exchange of gifts -
darkness for light..
RISING
from beyond the softening silhouette edge
you brighten like a blushing damsel
hazy haloed
unabashed in the pleasure of ripening
daydreamer
...a vivid blur of lemon drop...
veiled by a wispy fanfare of mares’ tails
windswept forth in pinkened pageantry
heralding the maturing marmalade horizon -
arousing a drowsing periwinkle sky
your prosperous glow casts a molten net of gold
slanting low across the ebb and flow
igniting the imagination
- agleam with peachy dreams -
of just-waking waters
while catching fire-tipped riffles;
rubies gathered ride the tide to the coastline
glamorizing the washed still-sleepy seaward sand
saturated in the rose-colored nectar
of your generous nature ~
Susan Ashley
October 13, 2018
*Mare’s tail: a long narrow cirrus cloud whose flowing appearance somewhat resembles a horse’s tail, often indicating high winds in the upper troposphere.*
A citrine leaf in lingered lilt
did savor breeze of sapphire whisk
as Autumn’s honey-secrets spilt.
A hopscotch star.. an ember brisk,
she sighed and fell— then took her chance!
a citrine leaf in lingered lilt
with wind-a-whirl in saffron dance
below the western cirrus gilt.
Before the winds began to wilt
and aspen whispers rose a wail,
a citrine leaf in lingered lilt
did fly where camp-fire-clouds grew pale—
where songs are spun from angel dreams,
their rapture wrapped her like a quilt,
no longer needing rhinestone streams,
a citrine leaf in lingered lilt.
Cinnamon memories catch my soul in snares
as I trace in anguish the curve of your lips
in a photo stained sepia with my tears -
a thousand words spoken through my fingertips;
wishing you to be the breeze teasing my hair
or the sun on my skin after its eclipse,
let mare’s tails twine us in a heavenly kiss --
cinnamon stirs my bittersweet reminisce.
Susan Ashley
May 9, 2019
~ Fourth Place ~
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 2
Sponsor: Mark Toney
~ Third Place ~
Premiere Contest: Favourite Poem From May, 2019
Sponsor: Julia Ward
~ Second Place ~
Premiere Contest: May 2019 Premiere (Max 8 Lines)
Sponsor: Brian Strand
*Mare’s tail: a long narrow cirrus cloud whose flowing appearance resembles that of a horse’s tail*
Image: Cloud Fantasy, by Susan Lawrence
On spring's green carpet I repose, revitalizing the soul
passing slow minutes pondering the sky
The lake whispers a morning meditation
as memories abound of cloud fantasies
a thousand ships of condensation dreams
Assorted sizes, shifting shapes
capriciously changing contours and colors
white, dun, pewter gray, dusky purple
magically mirroring my many moods
Fleecy, flitting, tiny, quiet, wispy cirrus all alone
like first day of school in a new town
Thunderheads colliding with cold fronts
hurling lightning in angry retribution
resolute battleships storming towards war
Stratus clouds, flat and unruffled
soothing, like grandma holding a cookie sheet
embracing landscapes like a comforting blanket
hugging hilltops in a friendly fog
Misting up at a feel good story
spilling tears on the gloomiest of days
A nimbostratus orchestra performing
a symphony of snow for mountain dwellers
a reverie of rain for desert denizens
Bouffant hairdo like a 60's prom queen
strutting across the sky adjusting her tiara
cotton ball cumulus, billowy like a verbose uncle
enhancing sunsets with colorful stories
.....
The soul of the sky is Sol-
our daylight and warmth, essence and marrow
The stars are sky's artists painting our stories-
archers, dippers, swans, seven sisters,
scorpions, lions, hunters, heroes
The heart of the sky is Luna-
a nightlight for sleepy children
a lamppost where lovers meet
a lantern for the darkest of trails
but clouds are the personality of the sky
written 24 May, 2022
//Inspired by the wonderful art of PS member Susan Lawrence, after viewing her landscape paintings at susanlawrence.net. Each landscape is framed by a different personality of cloud; I encourage all to pay a visit to her website to enjoy her portraits and abstracts as well as landscapes ~ John//
My springtime blood did flow a river’s rush
in stream bed’s cradle anchored to the land
as dreams rode jet streams to the cirrus strand.
I grew beneath the nimbus, thunder-lush
but autumn’s dry-leaf-drought did bring a hush…
though soul, a snowy owl, not stuck in sand,
as slowly stilled my river came to stand —
my thirst now nursed by rapture of the thrush.
I muse about this skin and skins worn past,
rebirth perhaps… a dolphin of the seas.
This river turned a ripple wanes tonight
surrender of what’s mortal… not the last.
My sigh the sylph that finds the Pleiades —
this breath I shed, a winter’s wisp of white.
How do you feel
when you look to the skies..?
the cumulus inspired your innocent imagination
with playful marshmallow fantasies —
the sun peeked from behind
peony-puffs of airy white
to admire the flounce and frill
of your yellow sundress —
in the morning of your youth
you felt buoyant
by the age of your afternoon
you basked in the warmth of the sun at its peak
golden the glow and short the shadows
though heaped nimbus clouds hugged your horizons..
heavy the rain and hard the hail
as lightning's lance pierced the heart of the day...
your refuge the bold shield of the roof you built —
you felt tried.. but tenderly triumphant!
like a cosmic tear rolled down upon the hills
the paunchy sun puddles on the dark edge of Earth
a last languid look at an old friend
before the spill and burn behind the rim -
the sweep of cirrus serene and cerise
filled with embers of dreams
and prayers and wishes at peace —
in the elder moments of your evening hour
the sun sets as the evening raises its silver torch
how do you feel
when you look to the skies..?
—a satisfied soul smiles
Susan Ashley
January 23, 2023
~ Fifth Place ~
Premiere Contest: Contest NO 1180
Sponsor: Brian Strand
~ Third Place ~
Premiere Contest: How Do You Feel
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
The breath of breeze grows shrill and births a song
as racing billows crowd the edge of skies;
upon their nimbus brows a face forlorn
and in its midst the flash of angry eyes.
Percussion pounds the walls and taps the snare,
reverberation echoes all around,
while swept within its breath, a sultry air
whose mournful moans within the din abound.
But then a quiet quells the tumult's roar,
as silent cirrus feathers drift on high
where wistful thoughts are dreamt and eagles soar
among the clouds where children's wishes fly.
No sunset's slip nor rainfall rhythm heard
could feign escape when poet's muse is stirred.
Buoyant on the North west winds;
Shredded clouds expose a half moon eye.
An eye that stares cautiously at
The hyphens of cars below.
Stratus sunsets trace the highway,
That leads to my refuge,
and shields me from the voyeur and the oncoming night.
I sit upright against unforgiving vinyl,
on the back of a bus that rebounds daily,
between New York City and my nightly abode.
I watch the cirrus race the Greyhound
and the Mustangs running in packs of three.
A spyglass has formed within a white nimbus,
an oval window into the crowded heavens.
The clotheslines of the Gods turn to skyrockets,
Shooting masterful projections upward,
Now, composed as arrows that hasten
An antelopes final good night.
Clouds drift away without shadow or fault.
The clouds, the clouds
I alone with my burden,
Where do they go?
It is on this day
Into his elegant horizons
Where cirrus clouds are sprayed from sunrises and sunsets
Attuned within throat of violins
An example of his concave humanity
Preaching fond memories in baritone clefs
An embrace of admirations’ core within exhaled stanzas
Forcing trembled knees to stand against robe of Death
His double entendres know no bounds
My iridescent conundrums become resolutions’ pavement
As I grab aloe-coated tissues
Wiping joyous tears from his laughter induced statements
He pours wisdom in foaming, oat-flavored pints
While we relish in his charming, devilish wit
Slowing down a rushed humanity
Bit by luminescent bit
Yes, it is on this day
Where I choose to declare in Quatrain formed sentence
To the one that puts the “man” in humanity
An affirmation on why I bow in Santa’s reverence
©Drake J. Eszes
Dedicated to the almighty Jack Ellison and my 1st Quatrain!
Scrambling tooth and nail for a patterned fate
I approached the lofty mansion of Learning's Gate.
All cued up for a slip of paper - the one they call Degree,
halfway convinced that I hallucinated humanity.
For who under their own free will would venture
into this spiraling sameness:
this illustriously-in-debt, this Regal Club
of the Nameless?
I bellowed my voice into the air
(This great atrocity!).
But not a single student seemed to care:
So well fashioned they were,
adorned in their prized medals of mediocrity.
Along with their unwillingness to ever stray,
all too content to be but rainbows dreaming of gray.
I hung my head in such morose emptiness.
As I fashioned myself: the uniquely ubiquitous.
And what a fool I was to join the crowd - and yet so halfheartedly.
Striving for the cirrus clouds, the silver moon, and then the galaxy.
For my actions didn't match my cerebral creativity
I was statue still cursed with a meandering mind
(and other such extremities).
Exploding with hopes large enough for two
I sat clearly convinced languid leaps would do.
But one cannot daintily decide to dream the Dream
for it is merely the seed, another earthly deed.
You're not allowed to walk away, gandering as it grows,
for we are likened as the summer sun - keeping the rivers a'flow.
"Picturing profits in your hands
do not till the all too ready land"
explained the elderly gent with leathered palms,
"Someday soon you will understand."
And though we aim to be ourselves
gravity inevitably
brings us to the grid.
Imagination like a heavy rain;
we the paper people
so helplessly hid.
But fear not ye denizens
of the cherished cubbyhole:
where you keep under lock and key
your dust-laden soul.
If one burgeoning blunder
tore it all asunder
surely one single spirited spark
could heal even the most
dormant of hearts.
So fare thee well oh Cookie Cutter Coop -
Another day on that wretched plain, and I'd surely die.
I'm glad just to sever sameness in one fell swoop
by hanging on a star in the midnight sky.
NOTE: I always enjoyed using alliteration when I could... and with this particular one I went a little bit nutty... but I think it turned out okay.
When the sky bleeds solitude
like a wounded weeping heart and
the horizon’s embrace wraps valleys about eternity,
then, only then, can the bountiful earth find love.
Crimson dawns feed the artist eye, and poet’s pen
for all that’s green and wonderful must bleed, and rise, and die.
Each reflection rainbowed in cirrus cloud’s caress
or white capped ocean wave combine
Blue bloods of forest’s fringe between earth and sky,
meadowlark and nightingale
a wedding bell of bliss,
the mornings brings…
I pricked my finger
on a thorn of Voodoo roses
felt the stab of crimson
and sweet burn of saffron
in a tequila sunrise
I smelled apples but tasted oranges
as a clock chimed with mockingbirds
in the chartreuse trill of Spring
Summer's cerise burn passed
in a steamy haze
with the glistening sting
of hazelnut sand between my toes
and the white capped kisses
of salty teal on my face
before the cresting of absinthe foothills
One chill morning dew appeared
on pointed leaves as wisps of cirrus
sped in a porcelain sky
and salt lay on my cheeks
not of bright Pacific dreams
As I groped for apricot skies
rose petals fell and curled like ashes
acrid as whiskey and bitter as gin
lost in the gust of October's amber swirl
April's scarlet whisper was silent
in Autumn umber
the seasons having passed
in a sapphire moment
with the piercing shimmer
of Voodoo roses in bloom
10th Place
The Poet's Ear Contest
Sponsor: Greg Barden
Written: 7/16/17
-The Windmills of Your Mind-