poem: plenty was / slices of you
lay down the sensible dinnerware prime the portals this
vagrant day demands
chillier vocals a dream
in the five-time
of whimsied vagaries
I could ask for
nothing more than fancy
green fairy queens,
if the bees murmur, cane them
seek the past tense
the miniature orbits
bring them &
the feeling's back
that was song for love
simplified access
to sliced milky ways,
down the higher
ways, the golden wheys
tittering on the dismal
couches,
this venture wiggles
the yammering hearts,
it was all so isosceles
in the triangular days
we feast-festering
lingering in tangents gold
the simple line of a back
in the merry woods
the cut back
to partially civilized time,
inferences splayed by
desire & wonder
you in your &
eye in mine
silvering languor
under pines
beds of plenty
was in the roses
we found the stain
of mirrored days
the wisping names of
who you were then who
we are now
why we will
be
ever.
Labels: casting
posted by murat11 at 2:19 PM
6 Comments:
this poem is super cool. I loved "It was all so isoceles / in triangular days" and a lot of other lines. It does not feel like winter at all in this poem.
Teresa: I liked the writing of this one a lot, too. It may not feel like winter in the poem, but it sure as hell felt like it outside today. Brrrrrr. At some point, local weather said 50 degrees: clearly, "local weather" had not been outside. Chilled to the bone.
But, you're right: this poem came from much warmer climes.
Did you have a white Christmas? We have pouring rain again, so a wet Christmas.
Teresa: Not white; grey, for sure, which is pretty in its own way. We were wet for Christmas Eve. My sister reported snowflakes in Jacksonmiss.
holidays are no time for sensible dinnerware, but whimsy? Sure. And green fairy queens are always appropriate and it would not matter anyway because they go where and when they wish!
I would sing for sliced milky ways (that is unless you are not speaking of candy - I only sit and daydream for solar systems)
I love the triangular wiggly ventures and yammery hearts - they always make the feast delightful. Languor under the pines? Well, where else?
Another delight
It's all candy, Dee; even when it ain't. Glad for the delight.
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