When Clouds Speak,
I listen
I always seek
the poetry girl
she tasks me
"Boy, come along now
you can't see a thing scribbling
in the dark
oh, dear, what is that noise?
that creaking, crunching, popping
scrunch of a noise?"
that's me
someone glued me to the couch
darnn kids and their pranks
why ... I oughta ...
"Now, boy, what do you see?"
the lake
"Oh really? Well, well, well
aren't we the meow of
the Siberian kitty cat?
The scenic tour, boy
the poetic revelation
the mind's machination..."
uh ... the sun shining on the lake
and some trees by the shore
"No ... the sun extending her nimble fingers
tickling the water tenderly
the giggles rippling to the shore
splashing playfully at the old oak
who's soaking his weary toes in the cool mud ...
and ...
and ..."
no, no, don't go,
why can't clouds stay put
it's me, isn't it
I don't have the mind
to corral a bit of fluff in the sky
you fade into the sunset
like a dancer twirling into
a genie's bottle
is that where you live, poetry girl?
and now I'm left to conjure
to cajole from within
what might catch your fancy
should you see a few of my images
float by on the breath of a summer storm
"Yes, yes", you might say,
"I know it’s the moon in the
night sky,
but what is it really?"
it is me, poetry girl
and, yes, you are the sun
but not because you shine
it is distance
and the irony of your warmth
still comforting and personal
as though you mean it for me
but you light the world
the one I'm not part of
I'm only noticed
because I happen to be
in your glare
the truth is on the dark side
cold and unnoticed
when you rise in the morning
we mingle atop the same waters
you, the light
me, what is under the light
I am aware
and that is enough
if it's poetic
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