Long Cloud cover Poems
Long Cloud cover Poems. Below are the most popular long Cloud cover by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cloud cover poems by poem length and keyword.
Silence quells the bells
as dawn sneaks into the space,
where darkness reigned supreme.
All is hushed and holding back.
For something to be assembled.
From the dis-membered memories,
littering the floor from the day before.
Mists slowly spread their pale white tendrils.
Down dark dank valleys, too dozy asleep to notice.
The trees stand stoically, resigned and watchful.
Knowing they only play a silent backdrop role.
Their stand-ins and understudies.
They've seen it all before anyway!
Birds call out, timid and trembling,
afraid to be the first solo voice,
to breach the heavy quietude,
imposed by the dawn chorus chorale.
“Too soon, Cock; Too soon,”
cluck the bleary-eyed hens,
still clinging to dreams,
while perched in their drowsy lofts.
The sun sneaks a peak over the horizon,
hoping that no one will notice.
it's up so early, but its game is up!
For rays of searchlights have already,
breached holes through the gray cloud cover.
There are so many memories to recall and reassemble.
The echoes of boots on stepping stones.
Brooks still murmuring their lullabies.
Waves lapping on hushed lake shores.
White beaches clad in their nightie gowns.
All the alarms in the cottages are holding
their breaths, counting down to explode.
Dawn takes time to re-member,
what dusk dis-membered
and unpicked at close of day.
Neatly storing them away in its toy box.
'Forgotten' is never a word,
for lay of day, or daybreak display.
For no day is discarded.
No moment is deleted from yesterday—
They day is re-assembled and re-built
from the dis-membered bits
it set aside in the toy box.
Wrenching pain, hot pavement, warm tears flowing
---- Steaming ----
Not from being unloved or desires not being met
Just very simple little wooden doors slammed shut
--- Locking the heart ---
Truth not given, oh no, that just flies away so easily
Fast as a car racing on a track in a speeding minute
Vultures swirl, but wait until the last second to leave
--- Their feast ---
They think they know it all, just how fast you're driving
In the approach of only a simple sight you wanted to see
--- But they are wrong ---
Assumptions by others whirl in the silence unspoken
Their choice to protect what they think is helpful in a way
--- Wrong again ---
All it takes is a little effort, the simple choice to speak, to ask,
To communicate under the skies, even with the cloud cover
Heidi Sands
7/19/17
The street is dark, no Christmas lights, only at my home
The country is dark, losing Liberty, Justice and Freedom
In the daylight today, I saw plastic bubble tents outside a café
Somehow these are supposed to protect from Covid?
Sadness and anger grips our nation, this year and this season
As our judicial system collapses into the same darkness
Corruption consumes every level, agency and court
Christmas is restricted and people can’t celebrate,
On the most important day of the year, with loved ones
A new star shined tonight, after a century and I missed it
With the cloud cover that is above my home in the sky
As I looked at my dark street and prayed for us to be saved
Heidi Sands
12/21/20
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.
It is hard to walk in the sand especially with boots and a heavy rifle.
Manuel and I would sit on a rock and watch the moon give birth to
a distant blue Africa.
Franco's Guardia Civil were not all thugs. A few were poets.
Manuel's father had worshiped the general and had blessed
the day Guernica 'that Marxist nest' had been flattened.
That was decades before he was born, yet Manuel still patrolled
the beach, weaving between sunbathing tourist seeking nonexistent saboteurs.
On his rounds the young conscript fell in love - often, but in winter
(when his sneering corporal was away), he would sit in the bar,
tongue curled like a snail shell, dedicating lurid hyperbole
to every female foreigner that had smiled at him, and to all
the Catalan girls that never did.
That night the moon seemed to translate for us.
He asked me earnestly:
if I thought Franco would ever lift the ban on bikini's?
"Never!" I replied, "The Pope and the Rightists are against it."
Manuel rose and shuffled sadly away, his rifle dragging on the sand.
That night the moon came close, to bask on Manuel’s beach,
and she without a stitch of cloud-cover over her matronly form.
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?
My mother’s the wind in the fields of gold.
Cloud cover, her verdant parasol, optimistically high.
A capped child am I, and a small wittled sigh,
Before either one of us become very old.
Tall weeds are my pants, cerulean sky my shirt.
My mother’s long skirt with cyclone folds.
Like time passing, her cloud-countenance unscrolled.
We share a faraway look as the impish day flirts.
Does God capture such natural poses as ours?
Do angel fingers flutter through our family album?
Do these familiar winged creatures fancy the plum
of our faces, sunkissed or coldnipped by the stars?
7/16/2020
(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.
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.
In 2018 there were four who exited life's door never to return. There was an additional one whom I feared might also depart, but he recovered from his sickness and now continues his mission. My acquaintance with each of them was for many years a God-send. Each of them entered this world and walked upon the stage of life.
We enter this world one by one and at once our stories begin to unfold and later to be told. There's much to be told between the dashes, but here I speak of exits only and how they contrast. In years past I paid meager attention to little things that in the grand scheme of life are not small. I see and observe more now, feel more deeply what surrounds me, especially when they take their exits. I apologize if it appears small to you, but to me it is huge.
It's the exits of four men in 2018 of which I speak. Men of my acquaintance and friendship who completed their mission. It is not their demise that arrests me, but I am somewhat captured by their contrasting exits. I was privileged to sit and talk with one and pray with him in his dying days. We spoke of some pleasantries we shared together, and I was pleased with being allowed to say goodbye. With another who did not linger, I rushed to his bedside some three days before his demise. He observed me with a stare, unable to respond as I stroked his hands and head. My third friend was a public figure and received a public celebration before his final exit. At the end of the service, I kissed the top of his head saying, "Goodbye, I love you."
The sun, having received its commission, rises in the east and proceeds with its daily mission of providing light and energy. It then sets in the west often with the most awesome glow, beautifying the horizon. But sometimes, the sun exits or sets contrastingly with a rainbow or even cloud cover, like the exit of my fourth and final friend whose passing was sudden and more arresting than the others. Less than 60, much younger than the others, he departed without a word. However, several days before his departure, I was privileged to spend a few telling moments with him. Contrasting exits. Yours and mine; Only God knows how it will end. But because of Christ, it can be good.
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