This Isn't Really a "Poetry Blowout" anymore...

Six Ways of Looking at the Highest of Clouds

[reduced from 10 for the sake of space]

I bet clouds act like old men playing chess in the park,
With no need to make a scene,
And chortle incessantly when a funny-looking dog strolls by
Until their dentures fall out.
I hope that’s where meteors come from.

It’s prodded my mind halfway through a race
How nice it would be to glide as a cloud.
But I come to realize, perching themselves atop the universe,
Effortlessly cruising over pristine peaks, beaches and bluffs,
Clouds must have been runners in the last life.

On sultry May days
I hope they’ve enjoyed the company of my mind,
Perched high in the clouds,
As much as I’ve enjoyed theirs.

They always sneak their way into every landscape, every picture,
And wiggle into the eye of your camera.
They never scream and yell for your attention,
But I can't think of anything more divine
And worthy of all my eyes' life.
I bet their birthdays are in November
When the sedulous sun has drowsily rolled over to a slant-
Clouds always seem to dazzle me most, sparkle most,
Seem to make the auburn earth seem all the more atrophied
When they flare purple and pink, collapse in November glee.

I’ve never liked astronauts much.
When we can look down upon the tops of the clouds,
A bolt is loose in supporting the universe.
Anomalies tug on ramparts that should rise high
And my relief is unrivaled once they’ve returned:
Safe feet graze safe ground, their eyes and mouths thanking God,
And the clouds’ delight reflects back
With the courtesy to smile blue, white, and yellow.
I think that means 'You’re Welcome.'

The blood in your veins will someday be a cloud,
And I wonder why we tend to look down when we cry
Within the lament of loss.
Those who have gone their destined way
Are smiling from the clouds, and shower their blessing from above.
For that, I know:
There’s something more to the cool rain that mingles with tears.

Blog Poetry Blowout, Day 6

Nothing Special

Squeeze my idle mind for all it's worth,

And this poem drips out (sorry for all the pulp)-

Can you tell it's non-concentrate?

Yet I write because it seems right today.

No one else seems to hear when I ask myself,

"How cold were we before?

When we're warmed by a blanket of December ice"

And I still stuggle to speak when no one listens.

A flower blooms saffron and skobeloff

From black and brown,

And I wonder what she's been writing this time.

I can't imagine what else would breathe life into dirt

Besides a pen, gracing some page.

What she does with Caesar's alphabet:

It's Alchemy if I ever saw it,

But I never quite got the gist of Chemistry

Their sublime poetry leans over,

whispers in my poem’s disfigured ear,

“My mommy’s smarter than your daddy!”

And my poetry turns red, arches in shame,

And wonders,

Was God just doing the best he could too?