the view above the clouds

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Que
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Sun Apr 12, 2026 3:23 am
Que says... · Sun Apr 12, 2026 3:23 am
xi. Hood

I catch glimpses of his many faces
through the billowing clouds.
A cap, then a cloak,
adorns his proud shoulders.
When he is fully revealed,
he is severe, he is beautiful.
his gaze is punishing,
but on my knees in the snow,
gazing upward,
I find mercy.
On a blanket of soft snow,
I sleep at the threshold,
the footstool of the throne,
In two weeks’ time,
I will return to plea my case
and beg admission to the crown.
My preparation is moot:
the Mountain will decide my fate.
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alliyah
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Sun Apr 12, 2026 4:24 am
alliyah says... · Sun Apr 12, 2026 4:24 am
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@Que your poetry has such clarity it is really enjoyable to read - I feel like I can follow the images you are painting so easily, and then enjoy the layered metaphors and allusions you are writing between the lines - the fire / burn-out poem was a really clever pairing - and your avalanche poem that incorporated the sort of "rules" / technical jargon interspersed with the narrative was really interesting - there is so much depth to this activity that has so much poetry within it - I would really have no idea, but it's making me think of mountain climbing in a whole new light.

Also really resonated with "plans" (especially as a type 1 enneagram - like YES, please give me rules, a schedule, an itinerary and let me know what the purpose and expectations are!)

The theme of responsibility / expectations and how they sometimes conflict with our dreams and hopes is one that comes up repeatedly in the thread - I really liked these lines on that theme:

my dreams chirp at the windowsill like birds
but I don’t have time to let them in,
to feed them,
to teach them how to fly again.


Another really fitting metaphor for what you're describing.

Enjoying reading along this month! Thank you for writing!
you should know i am a time traveler &
there is no season as achingly temporary as now
but i have promised to return
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Que
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Mon Apr 13, 2026 4:55 am
Que says... · Mon Apr 13, 2026 4:55 am
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@Calamity thank you!! I'm glad you are able to relate/resonate to some of the themes in my poems. :) I feel like my thread this year turned out darker/more depressing than I expected, so I'm glad to see that it's still meaningful/enjoyable. <3

@alliyah awww thanks! Yes, I am finding so many metaphors in the mountaineering I am doing and it's been fun to think of ways they apply in other life scenarios! Hahaha and your reaction to the plans poem makes me smile. :)

<3 Thank you for reading.

xii. self-arrest

it’s not about never falling:
it’s about knowing how to self-arrest,
to stop your wild slide down a snowy slope
once you’re falling.
it’s not something you can understand
just by reading it,
even seeing it:
you must fall.

throw yourself down
feet first, head first, on your back and belly down.
practice the motions,
digging into the snow and spinning around,
kicking your feet into the ground,
your face against the snow
until you stop.

you practice, because
it will be harder in real life, they say.
probably unexpected,
steep,
icy.
sometimes stopping
isn’t possible,
but the knowledge, the practice
gives me the faith and the courage
to try.
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Que
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Tue Apr 14, 2026 6:14 am
Que says... · Tue Apr 14, 2026 6:14 am
xiii. the truth

the truth is getting harder and harder
to parse with each passing day;
I’m getting slammed on both sides
and the more facts come out, it seems
the more they slip away.
everyone loves to hate on “the media,”
only I thought the whole time
I was protected because I was with
the good guys.
but anyone can be a target if
they spend too much time in the
spotlight.
I try to tell myself that my first angry call
means I’m a real journalist now.
but the truth is,
it just hurts.
the truth is, I didn’t do anything wrong
in trying to tell
the truth.
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Que
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Wed Apr 15, 2026 6:26 am
Que says... · Wed Apr 15, 2026 6:26 am
xiv. giving up

I snapped in defiance 4 weeks ago
when you told me I should quit.
You didn’t read the room, didn’t trust
my stubborn spirit.
Just another naysayer, I told myself.
It only fueled my determination.

No, giving up happened slower.

First, with time constricting
like the coils of a snake, I let go
of things I thought tangential:
the reading we were about to go over in class,
the runs that didn’t seem to be making me fast.

But in the end, it didn’t matter.
What isn’t meant to be, won’t be.
Admitting that, however, is a different thing
entirely.

I can feel it in my shoulders:
defeat. A sad smudge against
the rising buzz of anticipation,
preparation. But I have none left to give.

So I give it up.
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Que
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Thu Apr 16, 2026 7:13 am
Que says... · Thu Apr 16, 2026 7:13 am
xv. relief

I forgot what it felt like
to see a piece of stress through
to the end, and find
relief
on the other side.

For an hour, goofing off and
holding your hand,
I remember
resilience, and hope,
and kindness.
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Que
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Fri Apr 17, 2026 6:26 am
Que says... · Fri Apr 17, 2026 6:26 am
xvi. self

I’m a gazelle among rhinos, sometimes.
Other times, I’m a snowflake
on a sunny day, a shiny penny in the drain,
a weed among the rhododendrons.

Difference is not badness; it is not shame.
It’s just not the same.
I tell myself this, because I still look
so much to others to tell me
what to think, how to be.

Like a gemstone, I turn different colors
in different lights, temperatures.
Beautiful to some, harsh to others,
I forget my core is still the same:
I am myself, whatever color you paint me,
whatever setting you stick me in.

To hold the controversies of myself
without hiding:
that is calmness.
It’s almost there, just out of reach —
that place from which
peace flows.
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Que
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Sat Apr 18, 2026 3:36 am
Que says... · Sat Apr 18, 2026 3:36 am
xvii. flight

This airplane flight is the only
view above the clouds I’ll get
this weekend, maybe this year.
And yet, it’s the happiest I’ve been.
While my compatriots prepare
to summit at sunrise,
I’m free and flying away.
I didn’t know that pursuing
something I meant to enjoy could put
so much weight on my shoulders.
And for a moment, I am released
from all obligations, even fun ones,
even the obligation of
you.

Maybe the sky really is
the best way to see a mountain.
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Que
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Sun Apr 19, 2026 5:59 am
Que says... · Sun Apr 19, 2026 5:59 am
xviii. betrayal/ghosts

There is a couple standing with
their arms around each other.
Blue jeans, his thumb
tucked in her back pocket,
hers hooked in his belt loop.
No wedding ring, but
their stance feels comfortable, quiet,
intimate.
It’s the end of a long day, and they’re
staring out at the city lights,
together.

My heart beats a quiet betrayal at the sight,
like it has for everything else in this city.

The vibrations of buses through the
soles of my boots; the sun shimmering
on the water; the brightly colored houses
clustered in hills; the food and flavors
of home.
It’s a new city, but
in all its coastal glory,
my old heart still calls me home.
A heart that belongs to a different seaside city,
a heart that once belonged to
a different boy.

Although I miss a version that no longer exists
of a person I left far away;
although the place I called home is
lifeless now without friends, loveless;
I cannot deny that
these are ghosts I’d gladly resurrect.
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Que
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Mon Apr 20, 2026 4:56 am
Que says... · Mon Apr 20, 2026 4:56 am
xix. living city

galleries of green gardens,
guitars & grocery bags.
we tumble down the hills,
music leaking from windowpanes
and clattering across the cobblestones.
the flowers flow, folding into
the faces of the flats,
lining the streets and sidewalks.
this place is
alive.
Last edited by Que on Tue Apr 21, 2026 4:01 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Que
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Tue Apr 21, 2026 4:00 am
Que says... · Tue Apr 21, 2026 4:00 am
xx. snails

when it rains,
all the snails come out.
they line the shining sidewalks
in the dark, damp evening.
some part of me uncurls
from its shell, too.
a part that senses home.
a part with confidence I thought
I’d long forgotten.
floral fragrances drift
through the foggy air
and something settles
inside.
the snails begin their
pilgrimage.
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Que
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Wed Apr 22, 2026 4:17 am
Que says... · Wed Apr 22, 2026 4:17 am
xxi. desires

the scent of the city still lingers on my lips
when i kiss you
the tales of my adventures die on my tongue.

that city was the embodiment of everything you hate
and i loved it.

i unpack my clothes so i don’t have to unpack
what that might mean.
i throw myself into work so i don’t have to reconcile
the confident me striding through windswept streets
taking pictures and writing poetry,
with the small, timid, tired me i crumple into
when i see you sleeping on my bed,
surrounded by a cage of debris
of my own making.

the sadness seizes hold of my heart again,
and i turn away.

this weekend reminded me of what it is to dream,
to reach,
to want.

coming home reminded me
i don’t want
this.
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Que
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Thu Apr 23, 2026 6:53 am
Que says... · Thu Apr 23, 2026 6:53 am
xxii. map and compass

it’s the concept of declination
that gets me:
maps will point you true north, but
compasses will point you to
magnetic north
and they aren’t the same.

magnetic north is wandering,
shifting around from year to year.
maybe it’s trying to find its way home,
to true north, I don’t know.
more likely it’s chance
and geography and space.

but there’s something about that distance,
the declination marked on maps
so you can realign yourself
the proper way this time.

how long have I been following my own
magnetic north and believed it to be
the truth?
it doesn’t feel different, not really.
we’re all wandering in the same direction,
groping towards a gentler slope, a taller peak.

but in the long run, your mark could be
way off without that extra
adjustment.

compass, but also map.
magnetic north, and its degree away from
true north.
that’s how you find the right route.
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Que
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Fri Apr 24, 2026 6:27 am
Que says... · Fri Apr 24, 2026 6:27 am
xxiii. lullaby

don’t cry, love.
you’ll make it through this yet.

I try to hold you, but
you’re swaddled in fast food wrappers and
receipts, ensconced in a doomscroll
you keep hoping will protect you from reality.
my arms can’t quite reach around you;
you’re too far removed to feel my touch.

I sing in your ear of sweet things,
of spring, of sunsets and silken clouds,
but I can’t sing away the darkness in your heart,
and my words don’t lift the weight from your shoulders.
I try to remind you of kindness and love, but
you vent and rant and unleash your anger
at everything in this world,
even me.

last, I try to give you
time, and space, and energy,
the things you crave and can never truly
find. the time slips through our fingers like sand
the more I try to spend with you, the less you have.
no amount of work can recapture all
the water that’s slipped through the sieve.

still, I try to hold you.
still, I say, ‘don’t cry.’
tomorrow will come, and tomorrow again,
and one of these days will be the end.

until then, all I have are foolish lullabies
to sing against your suffering.
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lalalucky
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Sat Apr 25, 2026 3:41 am
lalalucky says... · Sat Apr 25, 2026 3:41 am
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the metaphors throughout your poetry are wonderfully written! the way nature connects to, and is used to express, human behavior & emotion in your works flow together so well (ex: slips through our fingers like sand; some part of me uncurls / from its shell, too. / a part that senses home.). much of your poetry are so specific to your perspectives, emotions & events in your life, even down to the way nature is used as a tool for metaphors and expression; i find it lovely how distinct this style of writing poetry is so distinct to you despite the many, many topics and shift of tones touched in this thread! your poetry is quite recognizable!

there is something about your word choices that can be intricate. such as "to sing against your suffering." it's particular wording that makes you specifically think of rocks sliding against each other--very reminiscent of the common theme of nature being used as metaphors. it's a small choice that makes a big impact, and does so well in expressing the tension, roughness & frustration, this poem portrays while somber and heartbroken for somebody else.

this thread has been wonderful!!

sunny
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40 posts1, 2, 3


A good artist should be isolated. If he isn't isolated, something is wrong.
— Orson Welles