At the Helm

At the sound of a distant bell,
I emerged—shaken like a heavy drop
from some grey storm cloud—
to find myself plopped aboard a barge,
well appointed with cushions, cats
and flagons of tea.

Of any flu suffered,
this surely the most benign,
ranging from cloud-like
to ocean-going,
aching limbs creaking
with each rolling pitch.

When, from this voyage,
I emerge, perhaps
it will be to discover
my cloud was the one
that burst upon our damply
blooming flower-beds.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Unexpected Rains II

The clouds had indeed come swiftly,
full and wet and black they were,
strewing tears of agony and grief;
it was truly a solemn occasion,
and they knew, better than I,
who and what had been lost.

My own tears now follow theirs,
and our comingled sorrows
soothe a world road-weary
of the march of pain and death.

This journey never ends,
‘tis true as true can be,
but this path we have washed together
shall be rendered clean by our service,
and will be lined with early flowers.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Cloudy, with a chance of rain

With the waters,
I rise and,
under the burning sun,
dissipate as steam
until I am no more than a cloud,
flowing through the sky
as a grey mass
of moist energy,
waiting to be unleashed when,
tickling the ground,
my flourishes
shall paint rivers of brightness
upon a parched land.

Flow onward, my soul

—I drink to thee,
sweet life,
so full
of endless
possibility.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen