We are clouds
individual
and collective by nature
changeless-ever-changing
drifting into our eyes
and across our minds

We cannot live in
photos or paintings--
inspiring, but hanging
dormant like billboards
and traffic signs

Dark clouds awaken
when angry
fire and fury
torrents of rain
hail damaging

Then Zephyr comes
to appease their anger
  --god’s of the sky--
peace treaties pending

She often drifts in like
an angel
ahead of a storm front--
thunder and lightning her silhouette--
bringing in less
threatening clouds to
comfort us when storms
leave us angry cold and wet

At times even darker
clouds hang ominously
and high winds are surely threatening war--
then out the blue
allies flank our enemy
blowing away
the fiery vaporous Thor

We float into wintertime
into its storyline
Drifting in and out of space
and time through seasons
of wind hail rain or shine
(essence of
our connected
and interconnected minds)

Billowing Cumulonimbus
Dark Nimbostratus
Thin Sirius basking in sunshine
Shapeless grey clouds of snow
Cold drizzle reigns

Funnel clouds
cyclone
monsoon
hurricane
typhoon
bursting through
atmospheric membrane

We can be moody
boasting large volumes
but revealing far-less mass

Passively aggressive
boasting less volume
but revealing a lot of mass

We are clouds
changeless-ever-changing
drifting into our eyes
and across our minds

I march through a thunderstorm
the same way I marched before
to face my enemy, the devil.

The wind is heavy and violent
trying to knock me off my feet
like a bully I dealt with in school.
But I stand my ground
And keep marching forward
as I have against them.

The sky is full of dark clouds
much like OCD, depression, and PTSD
looming over my head.
But I know the sky will change color;
a beautiful one.

I pass by people running
For their homes to take shelter
and wait for the heavens to have mercy
so they can roam outside.
All my life,
I’ve been running away from my problems
hiding from my enemies.
I have business to take care of
in this storm
and I will get it done
whether the light breaks the fallen sky
or not.
I wait for nothing and no one
And I will fight anything or anyone
that stands in my way.

I’m a stormbreaker.

Thunder strikes
Cowards quake at its roar
The sound reminds me
the clap of the whip
made across my back
as a kid growing up.
But thunder tells me
To be strong and mighty as Thor’s hammer.

I’m offered an umbrella,
but I’m not part of that academy.
I was always shielded from the world
I never took a risk.
I want to live. Freely.
I let the crash of rain
pour on my body like a shower
cleansing me of the filth
I’ve sustained from today.
Drenched from head to toe.

When my business is done
and this storm clears,
I finally rest
and watch the sun rise
on a grateful universe.
I’m aware there will be another storm
worse than the last.

People are fools
believing there’s gonna be sunshine and clear skies for the rest of the week
like the rest of their lives.
They don’t know struggle or pain.
It’s a storm approaching.

And while they will hide,
cover and fear for themselves
I’ll be ready to march again.
Because this ain’t my first rodeo.
I won’t let a storm break me.

I’m a stormbreaker

I wait for the inspiration to strike.
For the lightning bolt to hit me,
for that satisfying boom of thunder
to be the music in my enlightened mind.
But it doesn't come.

Day after day, I sit idly
and wait.
As other crackling lights fill the streets,
I am stationary as ever.
"It will arrive," I say, "When the time is right."
But it doesn't come.

Dawn turns to day, day turns to dusk.
Twilight seeps into the once bright sky
And I know
My time is coming to an end.

But still, inspiration evades my waiting mind.

And then, as the soft light of the stars flicker into view,
Something finally comes.
I stand up and look around, the profound realization lighting my fading sun.
There never was and will never be
a thunder god out there to help me.

Because I am Thor.
The inspirer,
the creator
of my own lightning strikes.

I smile, contented,
but still, I know
I will never create that shock of energy,
that blinding light
or world-changing view

For now,
it is too late.

Like a hammer that’s too short.
Like a wall that feels lacking.
Like a land of giants, vanished.
Like a god among gods who aren’t your own.
Perfect in an imperfect world or

imperfect in a perfect world;
your imperfection shown.

Yggdrasil overgrown and all the options leave you empty.
At first nine worlds seem plenty
but soon you hope for twenty,
finding no treasures tempting.
Your desires in the waters 

of three holy wells reflecting
a thing that seems calm and collected:
an ending to the ending;
soft but not,

like a pillow made of rock,
you rest your head upon
the thought of Ragnarök.

When the Earth made you, she flecked your skin with seeds,
Tossing handfuls of black soil all across your shoulders
And sowing in your body the strength to thrive.
Your hair grew like man’s first fire,
Red and thrashing like a fish in the sea,
The sea where, now and then, your mother feeds you the flesh
Of the scorched men whose ships fear your fanned red skies
And find their burial mounds in the deepest sands
          under the flash of your light;
Men who feel your firm black soil again at the doors of your hall
And make themselves full with food and drink
And Hellos to friends so long and fervently missed.