Orographic
Wedgwood bluea vain traveling
whimsy, top
pling the black
dogs of fate, these worried clouds,
seeding the sacral
departure.
Beyond cumulus,
altocum-
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.]
Labels: a sailing ship, northern skies, remember
posted by murat11 at 4:22 PM
2 Comments:
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.
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.
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