Thoughts Are Clouds

summer sky

Thoughts are clouds on canvas sky –

Some go idly drifting by,

Moved by whim or circumstance,

Shaped as concepts meet by chance.

Others draw conclusions there,

Intention giving studied air –

Captured by the artist’s mind,

Reflection paints each view refined.

Lest your work of art be marred

By thunder-heads, be on your guard;

Better than the stormy strokes

Are lovely thoughts that hope evokes.


Suspended miles above, on height

of dizzy death-defying span,

a Mohawk man prepares the site

for implementing steel-clad plan –

a skyscraper to lead from earth

to heaven’s altar,  far above;

for skywalkers to traverse girth

and walk the path of clouds in love.


For the many Mohawk steelworkers from the Kahnawake reserve in Quebec

The Birth

Autumn sky, in advanced stages of labour,

struggles, pants;

ripe with womb’s distension,

she moans,


her anxiety and pain

threatening to overwhelm.

She has forgotten to breathe.

Between contractions,

she recalls her training;

sudden intake of lungs delivers

North Wind fury.


they bring forth a son,

and name him



The sky, pregnant with snow, was surly and strange and wonderful all day today.  I could only capture the smallest portion of its wild beauty…

If I Were an Angel Bright

If I were an angel bright,

I would scale the cloudy height

And bounce upon a pillow’s tuft

And jump until I’d had enough;

I’d step across each cotton ball

To Heaven’s mighty Entrance Hall

And greet the King with harp held high,

If I could play in cloudy sky.


If up above the clouds I sailed, on silver-moonlit wings,

Oh, the sights that I would see, a thousand different things –

The Eagle’s nest would be revealed, and open to my view;

The hiding place of Doe and Fawn, the den of Fox pups, too.

The place where Oriole has hidden string to weave into her nest;

The storage house for Warbler’s notes, which rumble in his chest.

The streaming silky Spider’s art, for patrons, on display;

The inside of an Iris cup, in goblet’s gentle sway.

And if above my troubles sore, my flight would take its wings,

Oh, the sights that I would see – a thousand different things!