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.

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Skywalker

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,

pacing,

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.

Together,

they bring forth a son,

and name him

Snow…

*

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.

Wings

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!