Introducing a new series of poems by Julian Matthews. Julian is a writer and Pushcart-nominated poet published in The American Journal of Poetry, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Borderless Journal, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Dream Catcher Magazine, Live Encounters Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and The New Verse News, among others. He is a mixed-race minority from Malaysia and lived in Ipoh for seven years. Currently based in Petaling Jaya, he is a media trainer and consultant for senior management of multinationals on Effective Media Relations, Social Media and Crisis Communications. He was formerly a journalist with The Star and Nikkei Business Publications Inc
Link: https://linktr.ee/julianmatthews
By Julian Matthews
A white cloud floats by my window –
If a grey cloud suggests it’s about to rain,
what does a white cloud contain?
Has it no purpose but to drift by poets’ windows–
inspiring us throughout the ages to capture its form in innuendo?
Perhaps in a rhyme with proud, bowed or cowed?
Or for a songwriter to see it from both sides now?
Does it only have two sides then
– one silver-lined and another, presumably, “darkly” maligned?
Or perhaps, this particular white cloud is Cloud Number Nine
I should be extremely happy then for its emergence
Even over the moon like a leaping astronaut
or a heifer about to prance
But why nine?
And what ever happened to the eight clouds before?
Did they drift sadly by while I wasn’t looking?
Are all white clouds sequentially numbered then
like levels in a game?
Being stuck at Cloud One would be so lame
Cloud Two, Three or Four no acclaim
Five or Six would be a shame, Seven or Eight, perhaps, fleeting fame
And if angels exist, do they appear on Cloud Ten then,
when my number is up?
For that matter, I never, ever noticed clouds in my coffee either
They’re all foamy latte art now
Little hearts and stars, swans and smiley bears
Unlike my own coffee in my usually hurried morning
Random swirls in a hasty teaspoon twirl
Art takes work
You can’t fake it with a twerk
Maybe, I don’t see them in my coffee, because I am often told
I always have my head in the clouds
But that would make me a giant, wouldn’t it?
A clumsy, blind giant towering over a wasteland
Perhaps, standing on the shoulders of other giants
blinded by their own white clouds
But sniffing me out suspiciously from below
For isn’t being under a cloud likely to cause that kind of labelling?
And so my white cloud fades out of the window frame
as clouds are wont to do, and I’m left with nothing lyrical
nor poetic for having experienced its passing
Just the cliche of a bright blue sky
And weary, weathered words conspiring to once again
Rain on my parade
But that’s another poem
First published in Delhiwallah Poetry Collective Anthology 2026.
