clouds

Midweek Poetry: White Cloud Dreams by daintydora

I had this dream the other night that I wrote down as soon as I woke up in a crazy, scribbled, early-morning-handwriting. The vision of it is still so strong in my mind as if it were a calling, some kind of prophetic message. A sense of something... higher, or a veiled message from my subconscious.

And the aerial view of it was so different to any dream I've ever had before.

White Cloud Dreams

A white cloud is hanging above the mountains - the Alps or the Pyrenees or the Himalayas - and the pin-pricks of the mountain peaks appear tiny: icing bobbles on a cake, snow, edible baubles; picturesque, white and frosty.
The cloud is high up above the world, spiritual and all around me, white and blue and green.
White mists, white snow, blue skies, a river below and green trees peeping up through the white, their green tips just visible.
And then crystal rain-drops sprinkle down slowly on the mountains, but not enough that it melts the snow.
I am the light, twitching, bright, sparkly. I am the cloud. I know just before I wake up that I am the cloud.

It all felt very poetic and silent and beautiful. And the image was very specific to the point I would recognise it if I saw it again (in a dream or reality).

But I'm not sure what it means?

 

Midweek Poetry: Clouds Boiled in Anna Karenina by daintydora

Using Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina as my source prose, I randomly - and blindly - landed my finger at a collection of phrases and words from throughout the book, to come up with an interesting if nonsensical paragraph of fodder in which to 'find' a hidden poem.

Surmise departing flattery, impossible the baby cried. Quietly waiting for a day, continually knocking. Without followers, quiet, nasal, old-fashioned dolly. Unpleasant orphanage returned superficial pleasure. A mist. Forty paces feel bored. Nothing except hypocrisy. Recognise one’s real daughter had quarrels cordially. Fleecy clouds boiled without water, cheerfully. Errand images altogether different. French cathedral long been married.

I like this paragraph of imagery that is unexpected and makes you double-take to scan your eyes over it a second time (a double-read?)

It has a poetic sense just as it is. A tumbling jumble of Tolstoy's finest phrases.

Here's the poem I made from it, which is and has been so far 'untitled':

Superficial,
the clouds boiled.
Boiled without departing.
A cathedral of clouds
boiled.
Images recognise pleasure. And
surmise cordially.
Surmise. Superficial.
Departing.

This is a re-post - originally posted on my blog circa October 2010. I couldn't resist. And I'm still going strong for #100daysofhaiku!

See my progress so far over on Instagram.

 

Midweek poetry: Loud Clouds by daintydora

        Loud clouds

                       boiled

                       green and gold,

                                 inside out

                                           with rain.

                     Then the

                              white came

                                 again.

                Loud

                     boiled clouds

                           seamed with silver,

                           frothy and frilled

                                      with treasure.

                               Someone else's

                                        sunny day pleasure.

Fisheye Clouds City Scape, GlasgowThe seasons are changing, again, subtle markers of time – whispering, calling, ‘time is slipping away. Your life is slipping away. Come on….’

Or maybe they are just saying, ‘enjoy me, enjoy your time on this earth, short as it is in the grand scheme of evolution and life and the universe’?

Relish the cold on your face and the wind in your hair and the leaves blowing around you and dropping like golden welcomes on the pavement where you walk day after day. Enjoy the blanket of darkness and the bright dazzling light and the calm, quiet hours of night when the birds are asleep but cats prowl around the back of the shed, up to mischief, annoying next door’s dog.

Feel the breeze as you go and cherish the passing clouds as they take their mystery to hover over someone else’s head as they walk. The clouds are watching over you. Drifting, at peace.

Go at peace and be like them, the loud clouds that boil.