By J.J. Tindall
Every Cloud a Sphinx
They stray across the white-blue sky
In pieces, like classical statues
Of old gods and bitter generals, or
Streamlined griffins and soft sphinx.
I infer the nearly-unmediated sublime,
Mediated only by mind.
Then suddenly, an anomaly
In the blue, suburban sky:
Every cloud a sphinx!
No Anubis, no Crazy Horse,
Nor a single John Brown!
No crocodiles, Gojiras, genitalia,
Himalayas, no Venus nor Laocoon.
No Kalashnikovs, no suicide belts, no dirty bombs . . .
Just a flotilla of sphinx
Above the broken world.
And this sky, too, is
Everybody’s sky:
From Berwyn to Burma,
Bron-Yr-Aur to Bryn Mawr,
Some other mind
Sees what I see,
In the highest definition,
This grand armada of chubby
Sphinx.
Not an illegal Glock in the hands of a child
Nor a digital rant fraught with rancor and bile.
I love the clouds, the drifting clouds, over there,
The marvelous clouds.
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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
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More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* Kindled Tindall: The Novel
* The Viral Video: The Match Game Dance
Posted on November 16, 2015