Not gloriously, but sadly, hanging on,
the White Ship shivers at the cusp of dawn.
The paper albatross dips, and reveals
(in the White Wings) a Whiteness that conceals.
"No way home against the wind!" taunts porpoise,
the while sharks nibble madly at the corpus
delicti, and some whalejudge from a Black Sea
steams at the universe of poetry.
Words whirled, the White Words, vanish without trace.
Moray's a bailiff with a gaping face.
Anemone greets Hydra in the jury:
both bored, they stifle yawns. It's an old story,
Breughel's Icarus uttering once again
(this time in verse) the solitude of pain.
The judge, of course, has heard it all before;
he thinks, in fact, that poetry is a bore,
And has no business standing at the bench.
He wanders. He dreams of some flukey wench
and hears, at a great distance, his brothers singing.
He is the whale, and the White Ship winging
its hapless course is surface-bound forever,
chaste in the wind, the wind that whispers "Never!"
to all who plead the case of the raped poem,
the word that, wounded, cannot find its home.
So, how was the day that started your week?
Was Monday quite kind? A day full of grace?
Or did it bring tears to both of your cheeks?
I trust that remembrance smiled o'er all your face!
Good morrow to thee, a Tuesday it be,
a workday of lessened duress,
May blessings you see! Creations be free,
and ART spring from ev'ry slight test! :)
From 'cross the net my ears did burn
as if a thing 'bout me someone
did seem to need to learn
so to my 'puter I did walk (not run)
I sat and read the post above
in which Stan had made false claim
Though 't might not be me he was speaking of
I thought I'd answer just the same
Though twas not true
since time of birth
but as older that I grew
through recklessness and added girth-
Let me just get to the point I'm trying to make
about that line, well here's the thing
This "Art" whose body creaks and aches
it shuffles, but does NOT "spring" ...from anything. :P
True grace in living SPRINGS from love, not ART,
and he lives best who loves best in his heart —
so speak not to us of ART's aging bones
and sagging flesh. Instead, in dulcet tones,
regale us with all your hopes and dreams:
convince us that ART is not what he seems...
I know a young ART Roflmao,
Who's really not shaped, like potatoes,
He's made it quite clear,
That he has no fear,
Of those who throw red, ripe tomatoes! :)
Poetry of Cats,
Haiku, syllables, no rhyme,
Sensible the same! :}
-----------------------------------
We have a male cat who's named, Tiger!
Amazing young man,...best I can figure!
His birth was unkind,
For he was born a feline,
But he's almost a dog for my pleasure!
And when it is too soon and long too shortly short,
It is much further than so far.
Is it a cloud one cannot carry.
Blue dust and not a sunshine likeness
Wears the skyline for a brow.
And Larry went without a lamp.
And Mary went without a lamb.
Aunt Mary.
And when it is so in the calm and cool of heaven,
there is then a very long forever in.
And every little lamb is king.
And every little king is guest.
And every little pin is blessed.
And in the beginning thus the end commences.
What end there is beyond the hill , a fence and starry stalks.
The spinner spinning from his spool a glass.
The weaver weaving by a pool.
And what is left is weft to chance, and then,
among the poison Maries, mercy, ivy walls
the jaded powdered night ignites
such fingered filigree, it stars
the shore, the sea-shelled continent.
And when it is so blue and black
that every little thing means Jack,
there is then beyond the moon a hill.
What then is there, is then is so,
And every Jill is Mary, Jack is Jo,
And in the beginning it was so
And then it is too soon too short or low
to enter heaven.
And what is weft is left to Jim,
To line a cloud and wear it thin.
