Poetry is all well and good,
when all is said and done,
and where there’s muck there’s brass,,
and words don’t come easy,
peasy.
Every poem has a silver lining,
and blue-sky thinking
can often provide
the basis for an airy poem.
When the sky is limiting,
and the birds fly through,
just to peck holes in your construction,
who is to say that a rhyme is a crime?
Who? said the owl of Oswestry.
If you had to write
a poem about clouds,
how would you begin?
Would you go outside
and look at the clouds,
or would you stay in?
Could you imagine the clouds
floating above your head?
Or would you you have to espy them
instead?
.
“I espy with my little eye,
something beginning with C!”
I look at the clouds;
but, I’m not so sure
that they look back at me;
and, if they did,
when looking down,
what would they think
of my observing them?
Some are shaped like running dogs,
leaping frogs, turning cogs;
most are cloud-shaped,
caped with a variety of smaller clouds
of varying hues,
traversing the skies
of cerulean blues.
There are clouds hanging over
yon Caradon Hill;
like the clouds hanging over my head;
but the breeze will blow
and those clouds will go,
mine shall be with me ‘til I’m dead.
White fluffy clouds in a clear green sky
Nibbling the grass as I walked by.
The sky
was obscured
by crowds
of clouds
all jostling
for a place
near the front.
Those on the edges of a cloud convoy were more likely to be picked off when the submarines found the convoy, but, sometimes, a torpedo finding a cloud in the midst of all the others would cause a considerable amount of panic. When the structure of a cloud convoy was lost the clouds all became easy pickings.
We wandered lonely,
just like clouds,
above the ground
our duvet shrouds,
moving slowly, along, around,
to and fro,
pushed by winds,
to where we seem to want to go;
up in the breeze,
looking down upon the trees,
leisure takes us
as we please.
Click below to see the words with a picture – G:)
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=434810980417852&set=a.200245313874421&type=3&sfns=mo
I’m chasing butterflies,
though it’s not allowed,
under the auspices
of a wandering cloud.
©️graemesandford.com
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Graeme Sandford 