You came like fog in my life
Building up hopes, surrounding me like haze.
For which I head over heels for your obscuration
In the end you melted into mist leaving me in daze.
deep in the valley
fog lays heavy like burden
not wanting to leave
I like to sit down and smoke sometimes late at night
while listening to music online to reflect on my life
and think
About why we as a species even go out of our way
to bash and hate and shame all those who are very
openly distinct
And why our society likes to shame my people into
hating themselves and denying and hiding who they
truly are
And why my people’s special attributes end up forsaken
and crudely positioned on the blankened faces
of other stars
Eventually the skies replied to my inquiry with bold,
intense storms of powerful lightning and
strong thunder
A fae then arrived and told me that so many of the people
around us are very disconnected from
whimsy and wonder
Note: I'm aware it's mostly global warming but one can't help but wonder if perhaps a lot of what's going on now is spiritual. Honestly, I think it is. But I'd rather let the weather experts do most of the talking while I continue to play with my imagination. Don't take this poem literally.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ fog creeps from the ¦¦¦¦ sea ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
Over ¦¦¦ pale grey ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ towers,—
And settles among ¦¦¦ roofs, ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
Along damp ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ streets it crawls,
Curls ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ among the ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ trees
And seems to freeze.
¦¦¦ fog slips ghostlike into ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ rooms,
¦¦¦¦¦¦ over sleeping faces,
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
And blows in ¦¦¦¦¦¦ waves over open spaces . . .
¦¦¦ one ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ looking down,
Peers at the ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ town,
And thinks its ¦¦¦¦¦¦ towers are ¦¦¦¦ a dream . . .
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ within whose brain
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ shadows revolve ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ and gleam.
(Blackout of The House Of Dust: Part 01: 08: The white fog creeps from the cold sea over the city by Conrad Aiken)
.
'tiz
warm snug
'tiz
'tiz
where lovez
mine
in ourn hammock
'to'noon
On starry, moonlit nights
Or those pitch black ...
These are the roads ...
I drive forth and back
My tailights and headlights
Go rolling through the mist,
Scattering newly dead leaves
With a turn of my wrist
Fenders ruffle the wildflowers
That grow high by summer's end,
Brushing them with wind ...
As I go sailing 'round the bend
The fog through my fingers flows
Cool, damp almost eerie to feel,
Sends a shiver along my bones
With one hand on the wheel
Time, it disappears out here
Old songs on the radio,
All around spin tones of gray
Driving as fast as she can go
Between midnight and morning
A lonesome hour for some,
Here you'll find an empty seat
If another soul wants to come.
heavy
presence that lies
between valley and hill
below sky, over the ocean
looming
A stinging mist colors my eyes
with vaporous pall of regret.
Oh, if only i could concede
and let the sun rays dissipate
this nebulous mentality
stealthily invading mind, heart,
a gray impasse of reluctance
that obliterates the future.
August 2, 2026
Eight by Eight Poetry Contest
Nette Onclaud, Sponsor
demure hushed in Avalon fog
weaving fables at grey spindles
river was tableclothed quiet
whiteness soft enveloped bodies
silvery sheath covered psyche
maidens mature into women
protective watchful fog unveils
ripened wombs awakening pink
__________________
sponsor : Nette Onclaud // 2.8.26
contest : Eight by Eight : theme Fog
Placing: Third
For Nette Onclaud's Eight By Eight Poetry Contest
Written: Aug. 2, 2026
Folded in fog of muted white
a drifting veil within our sight.
The willow breathes a muffled myth
to dust the dusk with autumn pith.
It blurs the chalky bone of mounds
and hems the sky in shadowed shrouds.
It steals the wholly shape of sounds,
then leaves the soul in dew-tranced shrills.
On a breezy December dawn,
Fog came riding a grey stallion,
Cloaked in shell-white with fleecy hair.
Sorcerer sprinkling milky dust.
He wrapped the trees in ghostly white.
Covered all in gossamer veil.
But as the sun shone on the hill,
Like a coward, ran out of sight.
Soft grey veils descend on the plains,
The world grows quiet, hushed and blurred;
I stroll back home amidst the fog
Without a sense of direction.
My breath makes cold and hazy clouds,
Lost in this murky frosty shroud,
My thoughts start to roam far and wide
Where worries waltz and fade away.
Contest: Eight by Eight
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Date: 01.08.2026
A fog of faithlessness hovers,
Me doubting my circumstances,
Will it happen or will it not?
Tentacles of distrust take hold...
Thomas was far better than I;
Why do I waver like a wave?
Sceptical susurrations spread...
Lord, please clear this cloud from my mind!
We mortals are known for waging good
And gallant fights to ward off some of
The fury of mother nature. We often
Succeed in fighting, defending, and
Minimizing her calamitous effects,
But we can never wip Mother Nature.
I once lived in an area that fogged
Heavily certain times of the year,
Especially late nights and early
Mornings. The heavy fog sometimes
Caused much damage and loss of
Life in anto accidents.
Some motorists equipped their vehicles
With fog lights to aid in their visibility.
Unfortunately, the company vehicle
I drove did not have fog lights.
When driving was required under such
Conditions, I often sought the tail lights
Of big rig trucks. Their big red tail lights
Would usher me safely through the fog.
Like a phantom he comes creeping
wearing a hooded cape of gray
which sweeps across the valley floor.
He makes all cars come to a crawl.
Those out walking feel some unease
as he breathes chill breath on their neck.
As eerily as he arrives,
this strange apparition recedes.
#97 on the top 100 poems list as of Aug 11, 2026
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