Thursday, November 14, 2013


I can see Cumulonimbus
rise to excessive heights
as Cirrostratus.

What I can’t see
is the cotton candy,
marshmallow, quilted coveralls,
that I used to marvel at.

Cumulus floats by lazily,
or as quick-paced
as animals
racing across the sky.

I pay them no-mind.

Wispy Cirrus
as my lovers’ hair
blows in the breeze,
as lovers whisper.

I see no wisps now.

Oh, Nimbostratus ,
dark and ominous,
a wrathful presence
or a soothing gray rain,
holding us hostage.

Oh, how you screw-up
my weekend.

Can I lie here
and view the sky, once more,
as a child,
and personify
these dewy phenomena?

Have I the discipline
to view such things
with the eye of a child?

To wax childlike about
the silent going-ons
way above my head,
way above my comprehension.

Way above my poetic prowess?



Oh, my Moroni Angel,
now that you drifted back
into my space
and filled a void
that did not seem so,

and now that silly unreality
becomes real and conscious

so I must confront, torn,
between remembrance
and a need to forget

as apparitions that appear
and disappear
and maybe
were never there . . .