Random Acts of Poetry:  Blue Sky
The sky is an implausible shade
of June-blue spiked and riveted
with cotton candy clouds
and the air is a breath of warmth
laced with the perfume
of blooming roses
the earth is spinning
and rolling on its path
and somewhere on it
a child picks a dusty spike of goldenrod
in a sunlit field lit with laughter
and somewhere on it
a soldier not yet fourteen clutches
the cold metal of a gun to his empty soul
and somewhere on it
an old woman dies in the street
more from being untouched than from
the hunger that gnawed at her life
and somewhere on it
a sister bends inside
with the weight of poison secrets
and somewhere on it
a baby’s first laughter
ripples through the room
a child flies a red kite in the blue sky
and another lies dying in
a crowded hospital room
and the flowers bloom
and the water flows
the earth rolls on
and the same stars shine
over it all
and somehow, somewhere
God is there in everything
and somehow when
time folds in we will see
it is all goodPhoto: Stock photo used with permission

5 thoughts on “Random Acts of Poetry: Blue Sky

  • June 4, 2009 at 5:30 pm
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    i was taken into this piece and taveled to different places. i actually felt myself travel around the world and back to looking to God. good post.

    just check the typo on the fourth from last line. it…is.

    Reply
  • June 4, 2009 at 6:27 pm
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    Thanks, nAncY!

    And thanks for the editing tip, too! I had totally missed that. :o)

    Reply
  • June 5, 2009 at 8:55 pm
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    Guttural and gut-real beauty, all wrapped into one. Does that make sense only to me? RissaRoo, these are my favorite lines…

    a sister bends inside
    with the weight of poison secrets

    and

    a baby’s first laughter
    ripples through the room

    and

    and somehow when
    time folds in we will see

    Reply
  • June 6, 2009 at 2:45 pm
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    This phrase… yes…

    “an old woman dies in the street
    more from being untouched…”

    Reply
  • July 17, 2009 at 1:39 pm
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    just peeking through your words this morning,
    This is a beautiful poem.
    Writing is a gift that is worth sharing, and worth feeding your own soul in the call to be who you are.
    You will find the balance in circles of up and down, as life , and your loved ones will understand your respect for them, and yourself , as we are all children still..
    does that make sense?

    Reply

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