Friday, January 18, 2008


Wedgwood blue
a vain traveling
whimsy, top
pling the black
dogs of fate, these worried clouds,
seeding the sacral

Beyond cumulus,
ulus. Is
disease the soul or soul the
other? We fashion our

plenty un-
der a blue sky, but
the gods are
ever nerv-
ous. Visionary phlebo-
tomists knead the vein

to complete
the answer. Second-
ly, there is
no longer:
I breathe and a world dissi-
pates, calling with news

of the be-
gone. Practical? Na-
tural? Thirst
quenching? I
was established but I’ve lost
my memory: list,

less sprung, apostolic.

[Response to the Last Saturdays' prompt.]

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Blogger alt said...

You wrote in response to one of our topics; I do believe you have just met all the criteria for being inducted as a member of Last Saturday. Congratulations! (Your decoder ring should be in the mail.) And a very nice entry indeed. “list, less sprung”—most lovely to those of us tightly wound.

11:34 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

I am deeply honored, ye of the LS Triumvirate. Look forward to the ring - no uniforms just yet? At least bunny slippers, surely.

Funny you zone in on "list, less sprung," intuitive writer you. To preserve the "shadorma" syllable pattern, I needed to break the penultimate line at "list," so the poem originally read "list- / less, sprung, apostolic." That less by itself was just plain goofy, "less sprung" plenty mo betta.

1:01 PM  

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