A View
The narrow path towards Mt Toolbrunup
inclines through fragrant green enclosing wood.
He forged ahead, I kept up best I could.
A tumbled boulder slope leads ever up.
A wall of shale and quartzite borders right
and white mist tendrils slipped across its face.
I turned for one last gaze, as cool embrace
of cloud bathed all things near in pallid light.
The peak was wrapped in solitary peace.
We sat on massive thicket creviced slabs,
all patched with hard white crinkled lichen scabs,
in arbitrary mountain clime's caprice.
I lingered when he left for just a while,
a space to sample isolation's charms.
Then down the slick wet rocks ungainly style,
discreet descent on rear end, heels and palms.
We missed the view and so we have avowed
to reach that veiled unbounded space again
and maybe if we're fortunate, well then…
once more, we'll sit within a mountain's cloud.
poem by Diane Hine
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Handsworth Wood
Have ever you seen
On Halloween,
The cloud that covers the trees so green?
The shroud that covers the last of lovers
The shifting mist of the in-between?
I’ve stood, I’ve stood,
By Handsworth Wood,
I’ve stood as long as I thought I could;
All Hallow’s Eve is the night I grieve
My Genevieve of the purple hood.
She slipped between
The trees so green,
She slipped from me one Halloween;
The cloud had glimmered, the evening shimmered
But she was never to more be seen.
And since that cloud
Became a shroud,
I’ve not forgotten the words I vowed;
My patience burns for the cloud’s return
To help discern what I might have been.
The day she left
I held my breath,
Her sleight of hand was so very deft;
But Genevieve, I still believe
You’ll wander out on some Hallow’s Eve.
I wait in vain,
There’s only rain,
The rain and part of the cloud remain;
But Genevieve I’ve not perceived
Since she went tripping in World’s End Lane.
World End’s Land
In Autumn rain,
There’s nothing left of my lost refrain;
For Handsworth Wood is a neighborhood
Where trees are held in a great disdain.
2 July 1977
poem by David Lewis Paget
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A Song of Kabir
Oh, light was the world that he weighed in his hands!
Oh, heavy the tale of his fiefs and his lands!
He has gone from the guddee and put on the shroud,
And departed in guise of bairagi avowed!
Now the white road to Delhi is mat for his feet.
The sal and the kikar must guard him from heat.
His home is the camp, and waste, and the crowd --
He is seeking the Way as bairagi avowed!
He has looked upon Man, and his eyeballs are clear --
(There was One; there is One, and but One, saith Kabir);
The Red Mist of Doing has thinned to a cloud --
He has taken the Path for bairagi avowed!
To learn and discern of his brother the clod,
Of his brother the brute, and his brother the God,
He has gone from the council and put on the shroud
("Can ye hear?" saith Kabir), a bairagi avowed!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Jeckoyva
They made the warrior's grave beside
The dashing of his native time:
And there was mourning in the glen--
The strong wail of a thousand men--
O'er him thus fallen in his pride,
Ere mist of age - or blight or blast
Had o'er his might spirit past.
They made the warrior's grave beneath
The bending of the wild elm's wreath,
When the dark hunter's piercing eye
Had found that mountain rest on high,
Where, scattered by the sharp wind's breath,
Beneath the ragged cliff were thrown
The strong belt and the mouldering bone.
Where was the warrior's foot, when first
The red sun on the mountain burst?
Where -- when the sultry noon-time came
On the green vales with scorching flame,
And made the woodlands faint with thirst?
'Twas where the wind is keen and loud,
And the gray eagle breasts the cloud.
Where was the warrior's foot when night
Veiled in thick cloud the mountain-height?
None heard the loud and sudden crash--
None saw the fallen warrior dash
Down the bare rock so high and white!
But he that drooped not in the chase
Made on the hills his burial-place.
They found him there, when the long day
Of cold desertion passed away,
And traces on that barren cleft
Of struggling hard with death were left--
Deep marks and footprints in the clay!
And they have laid this feathery helm
By the dark river and green elm.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Bacterium
in a cloud like massive fog
where the peace does belong
where the waves smashes
against the rocks
I sense warning's
Behind this fog you hear a bird
sing us a song, in warning that we are not alone.
In this thick massive fog
from my beautiful Islands
I sense hunger for freedom
while on mine cheek bone my tears
like the rivers. And I hide my face
when the light get´s so bright
that it blinds my national right!
Because in this cloud like massive fog
I know in my thought a bacteria
that has poisoned the butterfly
so he carries on
with a bitter national song
poem by Malan Tyril
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Life of a Cloud
Warming thermals whisper as they rise,
To tell us they are soon to bring to view
In cooler air aloft before your eyes:
A gentle wisp to counterpoint the blue.
Powder puffs emerge to grant her grace
That further bloom as would for stately tree, and
Yield a sight that calls for our embrace:
Another cloud anew above the lea.
Cruising forth, she yearns for ageless life.
O how her hopes will soon be dashed in vain,
For up there in the cold she courts her strife,
To fade away as drops of closing rain.
Scant and lacy speak her living span,
And fair among us could be brought to mourn,
But she was there to populate her clan:
From fallen tears, new daughters will be born.
Copyright © Mark R slaughter 2010
A cloudy sky
sky cloud sky cloud sky cloud sky
sky cloud sky cloud sky cloud sky
sky cloud sky cloud sky cloud sky
sky cloud sky cloud sky cloud sky
sky cloud sky cloud sky cloud sky
sky cloud sky cloud sky cloud sky
sky cloud sky cloud sky cloud sky
sky cloud sky cloud sky cloud sky
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Goal
ON the grey levels of the plain of life
When, slowly swirled,
The moving hills of morning mist
Hedged in the world—
While yet undared the path of toil and strife,
I found a friend
Whose faith I pictured would persist
Until the end.
Then peered the stooping sun across the plain—
The world he kissed;
In sudden glory shimmering
Flamed all the mist!
The sullen Darkness carried off his slain,
And straight away,
Like a forefinger beckoning,
The white road lay.
Her hand in mine, upon the path we pressed;
Together shared
The flowers we plucked—to find them pain;
And forward fared
Till we stood radiant on the mountain crest;
And still ahead,
Dipping to pleasant depths of plain,
The white road led.
But when I urged her onward to the end
Her heart peered out
Upon the road's unswerving leap
In dizzy doubt.
“Nay, we have reached the highest, why descend?”
Her lips demurred—
And with us, gazing at the steep,
There stood a third.
Her eyes clasped his in an embrace of love.
Said they: “No more;
Here on the crest is our abode,
Our journey o'er;
The goal for you!” So, leaving them above,
I went alone—
And still the arrow of the road
Sped on, straight on!
But darker and more desolate the way,
Until I turned—
Lo, in the halo of the sun
The lovers burned,
High on the mountain-top! Ah, what if they,
By passion kissed,
The goal of life and love have won,
And I have missed?
poem by Arthur Henry Adams
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The Last Step
Cast in sadness, this torment's real.
I walk in shadows, my bliss is concealed.
In this hell I suffer alone
Life's betrayed me and turned me to stone.
I have crossed magic borders
Between life and death
White is the light that I see
Time and space is no longer for me
That's my sad destiny.
Plunged into disaster my bliss is forever
Gone and forgotten and I've left all behind.
Rising shadows, my twilight is here
(the) end of days I will not fear
Light is fading, my ending is near
Rhymes of laments are filling this sphere
I have crossed magic borders
Between life and death
White is the light that I see
Time and space is no longer for me
That's my sad destiny.
Plunged into disaster my bliss is forever
Gone and forgotten and I've left all behind.
Drowning in a lake of tears
I give you my farewell,
My soul is sinking deep in this well
And now I'll face my hell.
Rising shadows, my twilight is here
(the) end of days I will not fear
Light is fading, my ending is near
Rhymes of laments are filling this sphere
I have crossed magic borders
Between life and death
White is the light that I see
Time and space is no longer for me
That's my sad destiny.
Plunged into disaster my bliss is forever
Gone and forgotten and I've left all behind.
song performed by by Zonata
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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By The Rosanna--To F.M. Stanzer Thal, Tyrol
The old grey Alp has caught the cloud,
And the torrent river sings aloud;
The glacier-green Rosanna sings
An organ song of its upper springs.
Foaming under the tiers of pine,
I see it dash down the dark ravine,
And it tumbles the rocks in boisterous play,
With an earnest will to find its way.
Sharp it throws out an emerald shoulder,
And, thundering ever of the mountain,
Slaps in sport some giant boulder,
And tops it in a silver fountain.
A chain of foam from end to end,
And a solitude so deep, my friend,
You may forget that man abides
Beyond the great mute mountain-sides.
Yet to me, in this high-walled solitude
Of river and rock and forest rude,
The roaring voice through the long white chain
Is the voice of the world of bubble and brain.
poem by George Meredith
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The Final Painting
The white cloud passed over the land
there is sea always round the land
the sky is blue always above the cloud
the cloud in the blue continues to move
- nothing is limited by the canvas or frame -
the white cloud can be pictured like any
other clouds or like a fist of wool
or a white fur rose
The white cloud passes a shadow across
the landscape and so there is a passing greyness
The grey and the white both envelop
the watcher until he too is drawn into the picture
It is all a journey from a room through a door
down stairs and out into the street
The cloud could possess the house
The watchers have a mutual confidence
with the approaching string of white clouds
It is beyond spoken words what they are
silently mouthing to the sky
There was no mystery in this - only the firm
outline of people in overcoats on a hillside
and the line of clouds above them
The sky is blue The cloud white with touches
of grey - the rest - the landscape below -
can be left to the imagination
The whole painting quietly dissolved itself
into its surrounding clouds
poem by Lee Harwood
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On A Recently Finished Statue
Said Sculptor to immaculate marble-'Show
Thine essence; into necessary space
Most pure describe thine unshaped Purity!'
And lo this Image! As a bubble blown,
Swiftly her charms, dilating, went through all
The zones of sphered Perfection, till the stone
Smiled as to speak. Some coming thought half-shown
Forms on her parting lips, so that her face
Is as a white flow'r whence a drop of dew,
White with the fragrant flow'r, inclines to fall.
'Oh Everlasting Silence keep her so!
Immortalise this moment, lest she grow
To such a living substance as can die!'
He cried. Consent Eternal heard his cry.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Dome of Pearl
One summer day we went
with me to Paarl mountain
which glistens white
in the rainy winter season
like a huge pearl
Your hair tied in a French plate
swished to and thro
were you walked
on the narrow track
up the slope in front of me.
I could see every muscle
moving of your delicate bottom
and embraced you from behind
while we stopped to catch some breathe.
Your sweat and perfume
was very alluring
and we were thirsty
and drank some Coke
before continuing the walk up
on that cream coloured
domed granite hill
looking somewhat like
ice cream without a cone
in huge dimensions.
We went right up to the white
height indicating beacon
with a deep abyss under us
and the wind rustling
through your fringe and my hair,
the sun burning down ferociously
and breathtaking the whole Franschoek Valley
stretched patched green, yellow and brown
with grape orchards up to Simonsberg
which lay somewhat flat in the distance
with clouds shrouding its peak
and your felt somewhat dizzy.
[Reference: Paarl meaning pearl.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Rape Of The Mist
High o’er the clouds a Sunbeam shone,
And far down under him,
With a subtle grace that was all her own,
The Mist gleamed, fair and dim.
He looked at her with burning eyes
And longed to fall at her feet;
Of all sweet things there under the skies,
He thought her the thing most sweet.
He had wooed oft, as a Sunbeam may,
Wave, and blossom, and flower;
But never before had he felt the sway
Of a great love’s mighty power.
Tall cloud-mountains and vast space-seas,
Wind, and tempest, and fire –
What obstacles such as these
To a heart that is filled with desire?
Boldly he trod over cloud and star,
Boldly he swam through space,
She caught the glow of his eyes afar
And veiled her delicate face.
He was so strong and he was so bright,
And his breath was a breath of flame;
The Mist grew pale with a vague, strange fright,
As fond, yet fierce, he came.
Close to his heart she was clasped and kissed;
She swooned in love’s alarms,
And dead lay the beautiful pale-faced Mist
In the Sunbeam’s passionate arms.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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A View
driftwood
with seven twigs
on the shore
as clear as glass
is the water
and all stones and pebbles
are visible
above
blue skies
so blue that the white cotton clouds
appear like sperm cells moving
impregnating
an earth-sky womb
and then
it rains
the water rises
the drift wood again taken
floating
gently to another shore
another island
of white sands
a coconut tree towers
to reach a waft of cloud
winds as cool as ice
sands slipping on the fingers
a leaf from a guyabano tree falls
on the mouth
of a sleeping woman
beside her
the man whose arms are enclosing
her throughout
the rainy night
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Morning Mood
Morning Mood.
I sit inside a massive white fog of nothingness and play on
my imaginary piano, with one finger, a ditty: Sun outside….
sun inside… sun only sun. I feel massively and supremely
untalented now that the amalgamation of writers, poets
painters and dancer that were inside me have turned into
an immovable block of zero.
I look at a black dot ringed by a grey cloud, if I look long
enough the cloud will disappear, only it doesn’t, instead
the dot disappears and the cloud turns into an evil dervish.
The amalgamation fragments and I sit in a rowing boat,
on a green sea, watch as seagulls evaporate into a void.
At last there is silence and I’m my vastly incompetent self,
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Attraction
The meadow and the mountain with desire
Gazed on each other, till a fierce unrest
Surged ‘neath the meadow’s seemingly calm breast,
And all the mountain’s fissures ran with fire.
A mighty river rolled between them there.
What could the mountain do but gaze and burn?
What could the meadow do but look and yearn,
And gem its bosom to conceal despair?
Their seething passion agitated space,
Till lo! the lands a sudden earthquake shook,
The river fled: the meadow leaped, and took
The leaning mountain in a close embrace.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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O That A Chariot Of Cloud Were Mine!
O that a chariot of cloud were mine!
Of cloud which the wild tempest weaves in air,
When the moon over the ocean’s line
Is spreading the locks of her bright gray hair.
O that a chariot of cloud were mine! 5
I would sail on the waves of the billowy wind
To the mountain peak and the rocky lake,
And the...
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Men in Green
Oh, there were fifteen men in green,
Each with a tommy-gun,
Who leapt into my plane at dawn;
We rose to meet the sun.
We set our course towards the east
And climbed into the day
Till the ribbed jungle underneath
Like a giant fossil lay.
We climbed towards the distant range,
Where two white paws of cloud
Clutched at the shoulders of the pass;
The green men laughed aloud.
They did not fear the ape-like cloud
That climbed the mountain crest
And hung from ropes invisible
With lightning in its breast.
They did not fear the summer's sun
In whose hot centre lie
A hundred hissing cannon shells
For the unwatchful eye.
And when on Dobadura's field
We landed, each man raised
His thumb towards the open sky;
But to their right I gazed.
For fifteen men in jungle green
Rose from the kunai grass
And came towards the plane. My men
In silence watched them pass;
It seemed they looked upon themselves
In Times's prophetic glass.
Oh, there were some leaned on a stick
And some on stretchers lay,
But few walked on their own two feet
In the early green of day.
(They did not heed the ape-like cloud
That climbed the mountain crest;
They did not fear the summer sun
With bullets for their breast.)
Their eyes were bright, their looks were dull;
Their skin had turned to clay.
Nature had meet them in the night
And stalked them in the day.
And I think still of men in green
On the Soputa track,
With fifteen spitting tommy-guns
To keep the jungle back.
poem by David Campbell
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King Of The Mountain
Walking through the high dry grass, pushing my way through slow
Yellow belly black snake, sleeping on a red rock
Waiting for the stranger to go
Sugar train stops at the crossing, cane cockies cursing below
Bad storm coming, better run to the top of the mountain
Mountain in the shadow of light, rain in the valley below
Well you can say youre peter, say youre paul
Dont put me up on your bedroom wall, call me the king of the mountain
Blacksmith fires up the bellows, cane cutters burning the load
Workers of the world, run to the top of the mountain
Mountain in the...
I cant take my hands from my face, there are some things we cant replace
Mountain in the...
Over liquid tarmac wastelands of cactus and heat
Down cobblestone alleyways of washing day sheets
Up ghost prairie mountains of sunset and space
Down the road at a familiar place, across the wilderness
Out further than the bush I will follow you
(hirst/moginie)
song performed by by Midnight Oil
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Trumpets Of Heaven
A silver cry is calling from a height
Leaving the awful pause that follows song,
And through the silence shines a stretching light-
A stretching light that quietly runs along
The path of stars, and pierces cloud on cloud.
Pure things in space across the guiltless sky
Rustle with wings that bear in flight the proud
Revenge of God, with God's intensity.
Among the lighted ways-to move unheard,-
A great-unseen assembly seems to shine
To gather silently in line on line,
And wait and wait for some expected word,
A call on the height! And from the blinding skies
Come white battalions with their blinding eyes.
poem by Leon Gellert
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A Short Cut
I decided to walk home from the pub through Booth’s wood,
it only took half the time the winding road would.
A minute or so into the wood a fusty smell filled the air
and a ground mist seemed to cover everywhere.
This path I’d walked many times and never noticed this before,
it was very eyrie with no breeze to disturb the mist at all.
I came across a clearing where the trees were further apart,
for no reason a thumping was echoing from my heart.
I stopped and looked all around, just to satisfy my curiosity
when towards me came a cloud of a green luminosity.
It came from within the wood, which was difficult to believe,
but then a purple cloud formed from behind a fallen tree.
Now I was really getting anxious, as I put a sprint into my pace,
then another cloud, a yellow one was heading towards my face.
The thought of going back from where I came entered my mind
so I turned around, but the clouds were in front and behind.
They weren’t in a hurry, but they were slowly closing in,
a blue cloud joined the others, this defied logic and reasoning.
I became overwhelmed and mesmeric, so I had to stand and wait
and let the four clouds surround me, on them rested my fate.
The four clouds enveloped me, as they swirled and mixed into one,
I breathed in their moisture and felt compelled to walk on.
I didn’t know where I was going; I was blinded by the cloud,
but they formed an alley, so I walked within the shroud.
It swirled again together and then separated just as they came,
and departed in four directions, and never came back again.
They had left me standing on the edge of a cliff’s precipice,
which to my local knowledge, until then didn’t exist.
Looking over the edge I could see a crashed aeroplane below,
it must have lost its bearings and navigated to low.
There was nothing I could do, but tomorrow I would return again
and climb down the rock face to inspect the aeroplane.
Early the next morning I descended and found five bodies inside,
a dog, two adults and two children, they died side by side.
The police went to investigate when I reported the crashed plane,
it had crashed in a magnetic storm of swirling cloud and rain.
poem by Orlando Belo
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