The sun, who has always loved,
has always burned, the young sun
who today rose with lofty
intent, to be brilliant. Sun,
in pajamas with patterns
stitched on the front, sun who woke
to an overcast morning,
…………a front
……………….rolled in over night
on a gust, yawning behind
a thick grey blanket, but who
sees no less keenly. Our sun,
whom we spot in passing, peaked
through a hole in the ozone,
through the door of the bedroom,
…………gutsy sun,
……………….whose reactions
create the morning. Our sun
whose willed anguish we call gusts;
typhoons, cyclones, hurricanes,
fog rose on a placid lake.
We stretch our arms out trying
to sift apart the clouds, tug
…………so the sun
……………….may come to dry
out our sopped earth. We invent
machinery, pray, retreat
to the tropics. But the sun
feels none of it. He burns,
a sleeping form at midnight,
a cool breathing that heals.
August and Partly Cloudy
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Hi Thom,
Thanks for the great comment you left on my Age of Jahiliyah blog. Glad you moved over to WordPress; it looks much better here – more spacious, great visual appeal and more organized.
This was a good poem, but I especially liked these lines:
“The sun, who has always loved,
has always burned, the young sun
who today rose with lofty
intent, to be brilliant. Sun,
in pajamas with patterns
stitched on the front, sun who woke
to an overcast morning,
…………a front
……………….rolled in over night
on a gust, yawning behind
a thick grey blanket,…
so the sun
……………….may come to dry
out our sopped earth. We invent
machinery, pray, retreat
to the tropics. But the sun
feels none of it. He burns,
a sleeping form at midnight,
a cool breathing that heals.”
Very nicely expressed and a nice image of the sun. Excellent descriptions throughout and you really give a new ‘light’ to the sun that greets us tirelessly every day. You made the poem interesting to read.
I’ll be checking back in the future.
Best wishes to you in your poetry writing