A Cloud Prescription

Poetry Collection No. 5, includes How to Feel Small and Vacuuming: A Meditation on the Mistiness of Life

Hey friend,

Thank you so much for the kind words on A Brush with Instagram. I was genuinely surprised by the response to an essay about trying to hustle, ending up in comparison and what God taught me. It has been the most popular essay I’ve written by far.

This poetry collection was inspired by Sunday evenings at the beach and the unexpected quiet in my mind from putting my phone down for longer stretches. It’s been surprisingly good for my poetry. The themes seem to be awe and silence. Thank you for reading.

Photo by Amanda Klamrowski on Unsplash

How to Feel Small 

Stand in the ocean, watch

sunlight ripple and reflect 

silver off the waves, wonder 

how far the ripples stretch.  

Realise you can’t comprehend 

the size of the Indian Ocean, 

the sun in the sky, or a God 

without beginning or end. 

Cuddle your three-year-old 

to you in the waves, feel him 

kick with joy, smush his face

into your neck, his heart 

beating against yours.

Realise you don’t deserve 

your children, you did not 

make or earn them. They 

are a free gift of mercy from 

a God without beginning or end. 

Vacuuming: A Meditation on the Mistiness of Life  

Riffing on Ecclesiastes 1:1-11 

The fridge fills and empties, 

but hunger remains forever. 

Dishes come and dishes go, 

hurrying back to the cupboard. 

I vacuum the living room, 

the kitchen, the bedrooms, 

around and around, but

the floor is never clean. 

All laundry flows into the basket, 

and yet the laundry is never finished. 

To the cupboards the clothes 

come from, there they return again. 

All things are wearisome, 

more than one can say. 

What has been will be again, 

what has been done 

will be done again; 

there is nothing new under the sun.

A Cloud Prescription 

I wish, when my doctor clicks and taps, frowning 

at her computer, she prescribed clouds. I wish

she would say, “you need a fluffy, meandering 

cloud, you must lay on your back to see it.” She 

would highlight the correct technique, gesturing

to a laminated poster on the wall. For more serious 

problems, she would prescribe a pink morning cloud, 

briefly available at 5.30am, or the dotted dregs 

scraped on cerulean above the ocean, before 

the sun falls into the depths. She would specify 

one must pause on the grass or stand in the ocean 

to obtain maximum therapeutic benefit. I wish 

my doctor prescribed silence, ordained by a letter, 

entire minutes alone stretching into hours, no 

pings or notifications to desecrate the holy quiet. 

You can read previous poetry collections here:  

A Prayer for a Grudge | What Discontent Says | Nice Girls Don’t Get Angry | More