Under the White
Poem
- You are this heart's force, Tthis face of moon's unction; Ringed by shrieks of joy, By your child, and your lover. You are the blue boy, Laughing from the high window, Calling to the lid of the morning; A sailor, looking for his sea. A dark sloop beats in the harbor. She is beautiful in her white wings, Under the falling stars, Rocking softly as breath. -- Lisa Dewey
Isn't a poem only as long...
as it's intended? Hubpages, insists it must be substandard, due to the length of this poem. So, I feel compelled to blather here to add text willy-nilly until Hubpages leaves me to my own devices.
Until then, I could write about cats: how they pee in guitar cases, leaving a bleached spot on blue velvet lining that serves as a pungent, offensive reminder to never have a cat, again. Cats have a sense of entitlement that's indisputably unfounded. And, there's nothing reminiscent of joy, or mere contentment, with this slight association.
Or, I could write about how how dogs are far more pleasant than the majority of people I've encountered during any given afternoon--even after Pad Thai, and some scintillating conversation. Even after spending hours reading Roethke under a Banyan tree. The oldest is in Maui, I believe. Even that. I love Banyan trees.
And, you?
