Crystal ball, thy spirit.
Cast thee a mighty spell.
Vision sacred, let's hear it.
Voice of mine, pell-mell.
Tress and trawler, set thy hooks.
River bed to dredge.
Recipes we learned in books?
Formation, wild wedge.
Coal, control, bell toll, sail, soul.
Down the delta wide.
Wasteland, when you set a goal.
Woe, when you betide.
Chicken farm, thy tender.
Politics, tough thy game.
Doubtless, O defender.
Katabothron, quay, claim.
Current, channel. Atmosphere.
Particles, spread out.
Cloud cover, sere or severe?
Cannibal, red rout!
Trickle, stickleback. Code crack.
Fortresses, thy stack.
Under attack? Dinner pack.
Flak ahead? Shellac.
Yawndrift, yucca, yellow eyes.
Oceanic rift.
Circumspect the council's cries?
Petrify, wood. Gift.
Bank, holding of money.
Tornado, spinning fast.
Clown, well, life is funny.
Mead honey, my good ghast?
Icy tufts, monochrome white
Descend beneath cloud cover
To meet the unexpected
Leap of children's tongues.
A blanket of cloud stretches
Obscures, keeps us blind
But I like to think there could be dragons
Flying just behind
Beyond the hefty, leaden skies
That endless cloak of grey
Brightly coloured reptiles
Might romp around and play
The weather here is usually
Dull and overcast
The valley stays in shadow
But if we could just see past
We might catch a glimpse of fire
Beyond that drab cloud cover
Dragons doing somersaults
Swooping with each other
There could be dragons behind the clouds
Maybe not, I wouldn’t know
Isn’t it nice to think
That they could be up there, though
Neap Tide
early morning walk
neap tide is out
slippery stones still wet
sun’s rays pierce the cloud cover
cold gray water laps against the shore
sharp salty tang in the autumn air
not another creature in sight
I am lost in the aloneness but,
in no hurry to return home
I don’t know how sadness comes
After all, an hour ago it wasn’t here
Perhaps it’s the fault of the shoe
Standing askew by the door
Or of the clouds that suddenly appeared in the clear sky
Rolling in droves, embodying
Variable cloud cover
Or it's due to the photos from years gone by
Or all of this together
Falls down to engulf me
With a wave without water and air without light
The dark sun stares at me
Without the slightest sympathy
And I stare at the floor
Unable to lift my head.
Stars,
what can you say about them
- not a lot.
The slightest bit of cloud cover
and they’re gone.
Butterflies…
folks got a lot of things to say
about butterflies
- not me though
(bug splat on a rainbow),
the whole darn world is fluttering-by,
and butter has yet learned to fly.
Romance and moonshine
are like the stars,
they’re not reliable in daylight,
unless we are discussing
high octane spirit in a jar
or our deep and abiding
love for classic cars.
If you tie
stars,
romance,
moonshine
and butterflies all together
into a fairytale posy
apparently,
you are what some may refer to as a ‘poet’,
and what can you say about that?
Nothing.
Do you treasure
perplexity
strive to confuse
doubting the obvious
pandering the ruse
Do you live inside
cloud cover
avoiding the sun
exposure avoided
your fear on the run
Do you hide
behind bombast
the panderer’s lie
your costumes unchanging
as truth you deny
Do you wander
left aimless
your ego unbound
to cry from the wasteland
— bereft and unfound
(County Line: April, 2024)
(Sonnet / Lipogram) No letter "A"
Blooming buds dispersing sundry perfumes
Mellifluous tunes of ebullient birds
Butterflies come out of their cosy rooms
Soft verdure on verges nibbled by herds
Burbling brooks run under the bulbous dome
Modest cloud-cover with blowing soft wind
Gentle showers dripping down on the brome
The spring's resurgence delights every mind
Pristine life sprouts from the womb of the turf
Your comforting presence nurtures new life
Soft shoots burgeons out of the tough scurf
The joy of Zion unrolled without strife
Spring, the queen of spells on the wheel of time,
Poets cherished their thoughts in its prime clime.
A dark moon, one still seen,
as darkened glimmers, in a shadowy sheen.
Is it moonlight we see, or a familiar face,
now lost, struggling through,
a cloud cover of memory?
Whatever the sky is in us,
we see that sky reflected in the outer.
The space within is the space without.
Look again at that ghostly moon,
perhaps you will meet yourself,
looking for you.
The sky has climbed over
its usual low cloud cover,
today it is high, blue and vertical
with no hand holds,
those places for the eye to cling to.
In the city we don't get 'big sky'
we get pencil thin shafts
that sweep the dust off ledges,
we have foot-slogging
staircases and elevations.
where the sky cannot rise beyond
one last viewless window.
Far below
upon those hemmed-in streets
some seem forced to grow
into hybrid creatures
that must suck upon
each other's fears.
There are trees, a few stretch and reach
like mountain climbers,
yet all that high air above us is not reassuring,
it creates a feeling of smallness,
our arms too paltry to grasp the infinite.
Mostly we give no thought
to the sheer narrowness of it all,
and so with only these
manmade clifftops to jump from
it's no wonder some choose to leap.
I have vivid dreams.
of untamed, rich Autumn shades
Bleak, chilly evenings.
shadowy purple
null and void of cloud cover.
although a rainbow.
Fall ushers in shifts.
Shift causes tension and fear
but brings fun times too
Goodbye, gloomy fall.
rich yellow, orange, and red.
Brown leaves cover ground.
Revelations from Poet Atop a Mountain
After an arduous climb to the top of the mountain,
I looked back to see them looking at me;
Waiting for an answer, they queried,
“What do you see, ‘O Great One’ of the Ming Dynasty?”
What could I see? (Cloud cover below my feet.)
But I could hear echoes, and so I imagined tranquility
and painted a picture of myself
atop the mountain, leaning on a bramble staff
breathing deeply while gazing out far and free,
and put together words of poetry
to describe what I had heard and seen.
***
Poet on a Mountaintop by Shen Zhou, (Chinese, 1427–1509)
(translation from Indiana University)
White clouds sash-like
wrap mountain waists,
The rock terrace flies in space
distant, a narrow path.
Leaning on a bramble staff
far and free I gaze,
To warble of valley brook
I will reply, whistling.
***
Leave this shambles-filled world behind.
I furled alone, ignored by the rest of the world.
In the serene stillness provided by shielding.
I was suffering during a festive gathering.
During this foreboding gloomy twilight.
In the ending, I'm done with my vigor.
With the sweltering heat, simply hindsight.
The gorgeous moon was veiled by cloud cover.
Even if the hills are dark, quiet, and immobile.
Even if solid sunlight makes it awkward to excel.
The stress only tends to focus for a short time.
The scene was only a dim memory in her dream.
To find solutions, one must advance further.
Is it possible to alter one's giving character?
Written: September 19, 2021
4 - Sunset Haiku -
water is golden
swirling currents of bright light
the sun heads to dip
red, pink and orange
take over horizon skies
colorful day’s end
lavender and blue
blend above the dark mountains
pallet of night fall
there is a fireball
bursting through the cloud cover
sun’s grand finale
Heidi Sands
5/21/21
I wonder how a poet thinks?
Bound by circumstance or random occurrences,
as they rise and fall like changes in weather,
lost in the turmoil of cloud cover and threatening wind storms?
If I were a poet perhaps I would know of it,
and better understand and recognize
the idiosyncrasies of time and space, word and phrase
when feelings and emotions. love and hate rise and fall.
I am neither Shakespeare, Browning, Frost nor Bly
not even Whitman, Plath, Bishop, Yates or Hughes
but surely their thought and imagery portrayed
could tantalize and tweak my interest into some form of expression.
A new generation rises, hopefully, I am one
who often lacks conformity to form and meter, which might be best
for each of us who must write the words most meanigful to us,
cannot help but ring true to who we are within ourselves.
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