A house of dust and feathers flown,
In an unforgiving wind, too long alone.
A murder of crows jealously guard what they cannot have,
A flock of sparrows, to better fields, fly at long last.
Its weathered wood does not look above to the pale blue sky,
Indifferent clouds do not look down as they float by.
If we ask, these walls might tell of tales past long ago.
A voice on the wind then whispers: “We may never know.”
Thanks to my friend Carole D. For permission to use her photo.
Posted in Nature
Tagged bird, birdhouse, blue, cloud, crow, feathers, field, fly, house, poem, poetry, sky, sparrow, tale, wall, weathered, wind, wood
Oh cloudy day,
What can I say?
When will the winds and storms give way?
To make things brighter for another day
Or anothers’ way?
Oh cloudy day,
Come what may.
Oh cloudy day this I plea:
If darkness should overtake me,
If all around, only fog to see,
If the path be
Lost in obscurity,
Give me some small bit of light.
That I may take to flight,
That I may before night.
Oh cloudy day, restore my sight.
Remove my burden and my blight.
Cease your siege and end your fight.
From whence comes the summer snow,
Where sunshine dwells and warm winds blow?
The deceiving light of day.
Dark clouds breaking clear the way.
A tantalizing reminder of winters past.
A cold relief that cannot last.
The snows of summer are now gone,
To a place where it, more enduring, belongs.
And I, wishing for things that cannot be,
Hold it in my heart, where it’s more than a memory.
Such sorrow that dwells here unknown,
Terrors in her mind that grow.
Void calls out to void,
Speaking to her with such ploy.
Asking where, asking why,
In vain she asks, in vain she tries.
An unanswering void does claim,
Thoughts and dreams, all the same.
Ephemeral respite from terror being,
Her dark sorrow and fearful dreaming.
Sitting on a cloud that billows out becoming fog,
She waits for the approaching doom.
Sits and waits. But not for long.
At her hand solemnly gazed,
As she slowly began to fade.
Not regretting promises made,
That, on the clouds, were laid.
Hers for many. Her life she gave,
To keep them all out of the grave.
An unknown danger, she did stave,
Not to her, but to those she saved.
On that cloud all the while,
Wishing for naught, but a smile.
On her path, few walk the mile,
And fewer with justice in her style.
Now with only one life to give,
Saddness with one life to live.
But she’s lived more than others did,
Though none will know what she gives.
No one saw her sacrifice today,
She knows none will see her fade.
There will not be anyone to say:
“Thank you” before she goes away.
Solitary from her eye,
Grief within her made her cry,
And before her tears could dry,
She passed into dust, out of the sky.
Note on the artwork: I found this picture while on Tumblr and found it so inspiring I could not but write about it. Should the original artist be reading this, I apologize for not first asking permission for reusing your art, but seeing as this beautiful piece of art is one of my favorite concerning angels, and one of my personal favorite poems I’ve written to date, please don’t make me take it down. 🙂
I made the sky myself, to fall.
The way in its demise and all,
When night was the first to call.
She danced with the rain, her shawl.
Death and demise are not the same.
As the dying clouds bled rain,
What over me but joy came?
To watch her twirling beneath the rain.
Her dance ended; gave birth to flowers.
I could’ve watched her hour after hour,
But it was now time to give the wind power,
To sweep them away for the light that would scour,
And from the sky clear the clouds, grey.
Then they surrendered to the sun that day,
Mother nature in her bed sleeps away,
After her work, after her play.
There on her pillow of earth,
Among the flowers to which she gave birth,
In the sunlight such feelings of mirth,
Dreaming of rain, she considers its worth.
Each piece she places on the wind by hand.
A descent of ice on this winters dawn.
Dancing, twirling, finally finding land.
Each piece now resting in its silent song.
In the sunlight they take on a new form.
Sometimes it’s water, and sometimes it’s same.
Regardless of the plan to which they’re born,
Always it’s ice. And ice they shall remain.
At the end of the day, it’s what they are.
Their mother, Queen Cloud, waves goodbye before
Into the sky, fading away and far.
They’re now in winters hands, whom she adores.
Children here, before they’re sent to summer,
Later they’ll return on clouds of thunder.
Posted in Nature, Sonnets
Tagged cloud, ice, poetry, Queen Cloud, snow, sonnet, summer, thunder, water, wind, winter