The Life Force of Clouds

By Andrew Hubbard

Andrew Hubbard brings you a collection of poems from all avenues of life.

 

He writes about what everyone feels, thinks, and lives. His words are sometimes morose, sometimes rueful, and sometimes bittersweet.

 

Hubbard pours his lifetime experience into his poems, touching your heart and your thoughts. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scarlet Leaf Publishing House
• Release date: Jan 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201015374

Book preview

The Life Force of Clouds

Poems by

Andrew Hubbard

Scarlet Leaf

2022

© 2022 by ANDREW HUBBARD

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, with the exception of a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

Scarlet Leaf

Toronto, Canada

This book is dedicated to all the people, real and imaginary, who have told their story in these pages, and to my family, and xxxx.

Table of Contents

The Life Force of Clouds

The Locals

The Gnome of Nashville

Apples

From the Past

Winter Rain

The Family Ghost

Granny Neauville

Look on the Bright Side

Scraping By

Titanic

Long Time Passing

Camping Trip

Family Matters

Deep in a Rut

Easter Parade

Disconsolate Child

Lying Awake

Geometry

Double Thump

On Turning Sixty

Satisfaction

Raking Autumn Leaves

Paying the Price

Two Families

Heat Lightning

The House on the Hill

Belinda’s Home

The Dollar Store Shoplifter

Centering

Houseplants

For Your Service

Revenge

Turn Down the Lights

Passing the Baton

Indecision

After the Storm

Looking in the Mirror

Out of Nowhere

Benson’s Bridge

Spanish One

Wit’s End

Officer Thompson

Sharing the Bathroom

The Owl Thing

Raggedy Ann

Barbie Meets Raggedy Ann

Pier Fishing

Another Ghost

Looking Back

Cold and Patient

Frank’s Story

Loneliness

Encircled

Coming to Terms

Turning Tide

Wolf Eyes

Moonrise

Aftermath

Running Aground

Bittersweet

Vacation

The Hot Bath

The Gin Mill

Final Grace

Grace Beyond

Leaves

Prize Cat

There You Are

In the Fishtank

Almost Halloween

Prayer

Still in the Game

Winter Afternoon

The Ghost of my Father

Snow Globe

Easy Work

My Grand Daughter

Long Drive

Daisy Prophet

Lost in the Woods

Erratic

Poet’s Bio

The Life Force of Clouds

I TRUST MY DOG’S SENSITIVITY

More than my own,

And when he thinks

The dark, turbulent fall clouds

Need to be stared at,

I stare at them too.

What a pair we would make

If there were anyone to see us:

The giant malamute and me

In our autumn coats

On a rocky hillside

Sitting side by side

Wind ruffled, muzzles to the sky,

Intent on the streaming shapeshifters

As they pass our field of vision

Perhaps oblivious to us,

Perhaps not.

They have a cycle, perfected,

Of rolling overhead with their fellows,

Coming together, growing, falling,

Tasting the earth, rising in joy

To begin again.

Don’t tell me they have done this

A million times without learning

The meaning of their brotherhood,

The meaning of their cycle.

Of course, they have learned—

How could they not?

If I were a betting man

I’d say they know their cycle

Better than we know ours.

And I’d lay money they’re willing

To share their wisdom.

In fact, I think they try to

In their way, mostly by example.

The challenge is...

We have to do our part.

The Locals

THE BUM AHEAD OF ME at checkout

Has tattered pants, a scruffy white beard

And a torn, Gandhi T-shirt.

Poor guy, I say to the clerk.

Not really, she replies—

Twenty-eight years with the symphony,

First cello.  Now he raises prize chickens,

Takes first in the state every year."

I say to myself, as I have

So often since I moved here,

"Damn.  If I missed that

What else have I missed?"

The answer is not long in coming.

Next stop:  the post office.

The trailer-trash woman ahead of me

Has a gray ponytail hanging below her waist

When she finishes her transaction

She doesn’t say, thank you,

She says, Namaste.

Fooled again.

I whisper to myself,

Everybody here is cooler than me,

And chuckle, and think

Of my wife’s excellent advice,

Don’t you go being a judger.

The Gnome of Nashville

IT WAS A PERFECT, STILL, mild summer night

With an almost full moon just up

Behind the village gazebo

Where a ragtag bunch of men and women

In bib overalls, with more energy than teeth

Are sawing away on some down-home music.

Lincoln Center – South I whisper to myself.

The little old guy beside me on the sidewalk

Looks exactly like a garden gnome brought to life.

He is so cheery, tubby, and old, I say to him,

Kind of hillbilly-trash Americana, right?

He chuckles kindly and says,

De gustibus non disputandem.

I say, What?  What did you say?

He chuckles more and says, "It translates roughly,

‘No point arguing over matters of taste.’

Today, in America, we’d say,

‘Different strokes for different folks,’

But I think the Latin is so much more beautiful,

Don’t you?"

STILL CHUCKLING, HE wanders off down the sidewalk

Tapping his feet and combing his beard with his fingers.

I look after him and say to myself feebly,

I don’t think I’ll ever talk to a stranger again.

Apples

I’VE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING as beautiful

As fresh apple blossoms drinking sunshine.

When they brown and blow

To the ground with a final gasp

I think I die a tiny bit.

But there are so many things

That need a little death

To light their fuse,

And after apple blossoms

The apples take their turn,

Pale at first, and small as cherries

They bulge and glow, and bulge again.

They glisten in their ecstasy

And weigh the tree limbs low.

They plead for us to pick them,

And we oblige, with care,

And a little reverence

Because apples are happiness.

They tell us so when we touch them.

And after the blossoms,

After the apples,

Then what happens?

Don’t ask—it’s not gentle.

Apples are happiness.

That’s all you need to know.

From the Past

New Harbor, Maine

MY GIRLFRIENDS AND I walk in mild sunshine

Out the long wooden pier

Under the seagull cries

To the slightly kitschy restaurant.

You sit at long wooden benches

Where you can watch the cooks

And they bring your clams and lobster

On sheets of butcher paper

With rolls of paper towels

And enough melted butter

For an instant