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I heard the sky whispering, it used the trees, their tips,
blown by breezes softly, only I could hear, so near,
the dawn was coming soon, to walk the heavens into day,
on tip toe calmly, the air was waiting quiet, expectant,
like the still of those at prayer in a great cathedral of the blue.

A bird stirred in a tree, a dog barked,
swallowed were these sounds that chased off the dark,
dividing like the opening of an exotic flower,
or bower of human vulva, lotus-coloured widening to light,
as in her gossamer gown of pure joy, she trod as if
she trod on water across the ocean blue and white.

Silvered, touched with mysterious magical glow,
as if the sounds of music were translated into colours, subtle,
yet as grand as Turner's painted vast expanses of gold,
old as the stars, this perceived illusion of a day.

Of a sudden all is brilliantly lit,
gloriously flushed with pink,
the growing rhythm of nature pulsing underneath,
breaching the soil to reach up, up to where
it's sustenance is fed, as does all that lives.

Awakened, sounds of dashing small creatures,
birds fluttering and chatting in the eaves,
the hustle and bustle of human beings, shouts of children,
screech of bus and tram, the sky has woken all,
day has dawned, look, look and be part of her act.

As the hours multiply in the mind, the flashes
of the sun god catch all surfaces, caress and warm
stones and lakes, where reflected lies the greatest painting
bequeathed to man, the whole sweep of the heavens is revealed.

Enhanced by the movements of the clouds and stars,
clouds, like galleons floating, exploding into volcanic eruptions
voluptuously puffed, powdery white illusions of shapes,
precipitated feathers of moisture in flux.  

Soon gathering as if summoned by a clan chief
to conspire, to become dark spectres and prepare
to enact an unprecedented drama over our little globe;
forks of fire shoot from these ogres of the sky.

They smite innocent bystanders, defrock trees,
cause chaos, thunderous crashes, the drumming
of a thousand devils let loose, an orchestra
of a hundred instruments makes a cacophony of squeals
and booms, blasts and rattles, a deluge of heavy rain
inundates all with its waters, the beating pulse
from the heart of the universe is heard.

As suddenly as it came, it takes its leave,
petering out to the drip, drip, dripping of every leaf,
the gutters quieten down, the cars slicker their way
along the roads, steam curls up from wooden fences.

As tentative sun rays penetrate the woods,
the sky still reflected as a dulled grey light,
and as slowly as the dawn, the sun seeks to part the clouds
giving them exquisite bright edges that dazzle, we blink
and our hearts beat a little faster as the yellow turns to red,
the red to scarlet, the scarlet to flames of fire.

The fire to a furnace of molten blaze, the firmament
of celestial blue, as a serene backcloth, bears the sunset
on her large plate, the dish that causes all life to exist
is preparing her toilet for the shadows to visit.

Just this part of the ball of beauty we live on,
as fading to pastel, like the dying sound of the howl
of a wolf, the curlews call, the sad lonely sound of a whale,
or the wail of a bagpipe permeating the breeze
of falling night, the canopy, that is our peaceful counterpane,
transforms herself into a dreamed reality,
deep, dark, velvety, sensuously silent, night sky.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Last few words: 
Ross will find this too wordy, but I felt the sy needed something vast to house it's character, so I send it as it is here, Ann. I cut out this part totally:- " ( CUT OUT- As day exists forever, never turning into night, save from the place one sees it from.)
Editing stage: 


I'm not totally sure what is ross's definition of "wordy" but i've always felt that each one of your pieces can do at least two or three. This is not bad I think as they are always rich with imagery


Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words ........Robert Frost☺

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Lovely response, two or three, there are two or three,
putting it mildly, but I feel the same sometimes, and
yet this time as I said to stan, I felt it needed the whole
vocabulary to describe it, like a great grand terrifying
thunderstorm of words-the length I never am busy
thinking of, it just happens to be that way.

Thank you for your nice comment, and love from Ann

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

author comment

A poem can never be too short nor long as long as it conveys what the poet intends. But that being! not used to this length from you. Now let me see if I can lend any help to this lol :
S-1,l-5 change air to blue to avoid close repeat of air
S-2,l-2 try :swallowed were these sounds that chased off the dark......or betrayed the dark
S-3,l-1 try swapping places with magical and mysterious....I don't know why
S-4,l-3 try underneath instead of beneath
S-%,l-1 try creatures instead of animals
S-8 I think Gaia is superfluous
S-......whew! My old index finger is getting numb lol
I think overall this is a fine write about the most changable of nature's mediums.............stan PS I am aware that some of my suggestion might be me unintentionally trying to force a rhyming type meter to this

Oh what lovely responses all.

Oh stan I love you for taking the time to study this, (not that I didn't love you in the first place :) and suggesting such good improvements, they tend to get too close to my old vocabulary and snatch at words from out of for immediate use, when rethinking about the exact relevance, and correct era we live in, would be more to the point, and you have done just that.

I felt the awesome size and relevance of the sky warranted a sizeable canvas on which to paint her virtues, and vices, hence the length it reached as I swept my brush across the heavens fired with the sensation of being a part of it, taking part in the clouds, the weathers, the colours and the sheer blue of the celestial firmament.

Yes, your improvements were definitely such, I feel. I do thank you for your trouble, although I hope in its toil it was enjoyable!

I hope you little finger has recovered by now?
So grateful thank you and love from Ann.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

author comment

Stan, I was inclined to read it the same way. I think it is due to the fact that there are a number of rhyming words in it and you almost feel the next one coming, but it doesn't happen! I loved the ideas and the scenes that were set, just miss the rhyming. As usual my Queen, you have set visions in front of us! Thanks, ~ Sir Gee

There is value to commenting and critique, tell us how you feel about our work.
This must be the place, 'cause there ain't no place like this place anywhere near this place.

Dear Sir Gee,
We all sometimes end up between
the devil and the deep blue sea,
don't we?

Between the rhyming and the not rhyming,
as the words revolve through the mind,
sieved, sorted, snatched, shoved away,
all in the process of creating a poem, a story.

The story of a happening in our minds, one
of the impulses that goads the hand into
writing down the words that come and
in that process, sort themselves out into
a coherent whole. Phew!

Blimey did I write that?
Well you know what your sovereign means don't ya mi boi?
Love Ann.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

author comment
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