Highways and Byways: Clarity from the Swirling of Clouds

By Maik Strosahl

I owe much credit to the individuals who have inspired me through the years. Take these last four years in Missouri, for instance.
    After a few months alone in the truck, I was starving for fellowship with creative minds. I found a writing group in Columbia, but their focus seemed more on prose than the poetry I longed to write. My wife and I saw a notice of a local author book sale in Jefferson City and decided to see if we could find like-minds there.
    Working our way around the room, I encountered Michael Brownstein. I bought his book and was hopeful that we would talk again someday.
    That meeting has led to many conversations and beneficial exchanges. Michael introduced his friend Bob Boldt, and both encouraged contact with Moristotle and this site.
    I really feel these connections have led to growth inside me, and I hope the others have benefited as much as I have.
    Bob and I have especially drawn from each other since the pandemic started. It began with an occasional phone call to make sure we were all alive and reassure that we will meet again “when this is all over,” but as the miles in my truck have passed and Covid has continued to plague the world, our conversations have also increased. Many times I find myself writing down different things to look up or a phrase that was inspired from these calls.
    This poem was inspired from a recent call, where we discussed consciousness dispersing when we die and then it being gathered back into some grand consciousness or energy to be reused as a building block for further life. I wrote down one note: “The drop of water to the sky.”
    Thank you, Michael, Bob, Moristotle, and the many others who keep my brain working while these wheels keep moving down the highways. And this poem is especially for Bob, as thanks for some really great conversations.

Clarity from the Swirling of Clouds

Grandpa once explained
to my unseeing ears

how time is a gravity
in constant pull upon us:

“We are but raindrops
from a cloud,

spirits hurtling toward
our date with the earth,

living as if tomorrows
will never end

until we are dashed and
scattered in the dust,

brought back
by the rise of the sun,

gathered again to the cloud
as it brews another storm

that will sprinkle,
then pour

new life across this
world of green and blue.”

Sometimes I can understand
the pull of the grave

with newly opened eyes—
the words that I heard

becoming words that I speak
into the heart of my daughter

while we are pulled together
these few moments of falling

Copyright © 2022 by Maik Strosahl Michael E. Strosahl has focused on poetry for over twenty years, during which time he served a term as President of the Poetry Society of Indiana. He relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri, in 2018 and currently co-hosts a writers group there.