To paint a cloud,
apply colors, ethereal
and pure. Translucent
like white powder
misted onto silk.

Wield your brush
into the heavens
so your clouds
heave, like an ocean’s
great waves

or stampeding horses
soaring into the sky,
a gambol of dragons,
swirling bearers of rain.
Raise up mountains —

fill space with dreams
of silence, until
they drift away.


at 3AM,
the first lines
of the poem
wake me.

Still clothed
in the haze
of half-sleep,
words drift

before my mind.
Strange, in this darkness,
a brief moment of light,
a bleary gift of words

that, in the morning,
will pose the task
of rescuing them
from this dream.


A heavy morning
slogs into a sweltering afternoon.

One thousand, four hundred
and fifty-four words.

The day’s work,
and now I stop

to watch a nut hatcher
flit along the deck’s railing,

pause and sing out
in a few notes

more meaning
than my day-long efforts.


It was at the Friday night dances —
BC High or at Holy Name in Rozzie —
doesn’t make a difference —
it was where we went in the late ‘50s,
not so much to dance, but to meet girls.

We were hip. Real cool.
Tommy, with his Bill Haley curl;
me, with the Elvis pompadour and DA.
We prowled the edges of the gym,
eyeballing the chicks in their poodle skirts.

We weren’t into jitterbugs;
Rock Around the Clock
or Shake, Rattle ’n Roll.
We waited for the slow ones
before making a move —

tapping a girl on the shoulder
and leading her onto the floor,
just as Sam Cook crooned
“Darlin’, you send me…”
or the The Satins slid into

“Shoo-doo, shooby-do
Shoo-doo, shooby-do.”
But it was the last dance
I wanted — Sammy Turner’s
smooth and smokey Lavender Blue,

where our bodies melded,
and her head rested on my chest.
We barely moved to the song,
nuzzling against each other,
until everything around us
became Lavender Blue.


This room is so damn quiet,
I can hear a fly buzz,
disrupting the peaceful stillness
of the air

the painful rise and fall of its pitch,
more than an annoying diversion
in its persistence,
in its ability
to distract,
to irritate.

Saint Augustine believed
god created flies
to punish human arrogance
and that he, god,
existed within each fly.

I wait and watch
god’s creation
settle in silence
at the top of page 8
and then,
slam my book shut

Russell Dupont, poet, artist, novelist, has published work in the albatross, Spectrum, The I, For Poets Only, The Anthology of South Shore Poets, Re-Side, Oddball, JerryJazzMusician, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Rye Whiskey Review, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, the new post-literate and the Northern New England Review. He is the author of three novels: KING & TRAIN, WAITING FOR THE TURK and MOVIN’ ON. He is also the author of four chapbooks — two non-fiction; UP IN WISCONSIN: TRAVELS WITH KINSLEY and THERE IS NO DAM NOW AT RICHFORD; and two books of poetry: WINTER, 1948 and ESTABLISHING HOME PLATE.