Friday, May 18, 2012


Untitled by William Kraemer
Untitled, a photo by William Kraemer on Flickr.

The long cloud ivories await God's hands
To play sky piano for dulcet rain.
Looking on, a fading moon understands
That this great instrument was formed in vain:
No hands will come to carve the mist a song,
No ditty will jostle the cold high blue
The disappearing moon knows just whats wrong:
The day steadily brightens hue by hue,
Twisting the vapourous octaves awry
And slow motion smudging an un-played scale.
Now, godly digits could emerge and try,
but the ruins of cloud would say in braille:
"We are some scattered blobs of water fluff,
piano-time was just a luck-born bluff."

1 comment:

Lil' Danes Picklescott said...

Awesome poem. I'm agog.