POETRY: ‘Whispers of cloud in a smog-filled city’
Contributed by: Ryan Hughes, psychology major
“I have seen a palm of sunflowers
Float away into the mists of oblivion,
Speaking soft whispers to divine
Goddesses and fairy spirits,
Needing no spark for ignition.
I have seen sparkles of gold flakes wink
At the wind, and quickly dance past
All the winds of oblivion,
with just a subtle nod
Of satisfaction.
I have seen whispers of cloud, where
Dreams come and go,
Dazzle in the iron-rusted glow
Of the streets lamps at midnight,
Signing praises to the maids
Made in heaven, hardly bothered
By the lack of distinction
I have seen rigged rocks that glare right past
The azure eyes of midnight and
Speak volumes to silence,
Not needing any sense of recognition.
I have seen silk moss that suckles
At the nurturing teat
Of free flowing rivers that
Need no explanation.
I have seen whispering winds
Simply pass by and say hello
In a humble manner, needing
No knowledge or narration.
I have seen the croaking cry
Of the anxious cricket make
His presence known, singing
And humming tunes to
God knows who, forgoing
The gnawing need for simplification.
I have seen how the
Peace and harmony that exist
In the tiny and sweet
Glowing green pea of mystery,
High-five the truth of fiction.
I have seen that there is
Somehow a meaning there,
In the woods that whisper
And the grass that groans.
But there is where my
Sweet caring canary cry
Turns into such vicious
And vulnerable ugly-colored dyes.
For these sweet, and nuanced,
Whispers of cloud,
that meander in and out
Of our heart-filled shroud,
Are now ferociously drowned out.
They have become deadened
And drowned, tuned down
And spaced out.
The need for constant
Thrill and excitement
Is a cautious indication
That we have lost
our inner tuning fork
That vibrates to
our soft and subtle
Whistling whispers
That exist in our
enchanted felts
And hammers of Thor.
Only a painful inner emptiness
Needs the sharp stimuli of the unusual,
For in the vulnerable and sensitive
Spirit of a human,
With a heart on fire and a mind on ice,
Even the most banal and casual
Can elicit such dazzling sparks,
And flowering fireworks,
That meander through the mazes
And streams of a mind unbothered,
Pondering a song that
Goes on unaltered, and
elicits a dancing symphony
in a mysterious harmony of feeling
