And if, in a lifetime, one walks a total of 13,640 miles by increments,
Where are you headed, traveler? is a valid philosophical question to pose to a man, I think, along with
Why does the blood in your veins travel endlessly?
Once when our souls were gypsies We stood teetering on the lip of the horizon Like a lingering kiss. The taste of our souls Must have been sweet to her, with all her roads Tumbling like veins over her breasts Yearning for us to touch them, to tempt her, And to see whether she would allow us to go any deeper.
Oh my wife, why do you and I And our tiny child-friend (whose name is The thing Anne Boleyn was afraid of forever ago) Put our lives into horseless caravans and leap Like stags to answer her seduction? The horizon Is our third-wife and second-mother to the bud we bear.
Two night ago, I told you how I used to dream of owls, And I dreamed our child when I was still a child, I knew her name, her face, the little songs she writes now, And how she wore blue, always blue, bright cerulean, The sky in her eyes and all the meanings of the stars Cocooned in stillness on her red lips Waiting for the day we would give her Another world's horizon to write roads on.
As owls are the only birds that can see the color blue
the ocean is bluish, along with the sky and the eyes of that boy who died alone by that little unnamed river
in your dreams one blue night of the war of one of your lives. (Do you remember which one?)
I did write it. I tend not to advertise that fact because I do sometimes respond to poems here with my own poetry and I don't like to give the impression that I'm hunting for attention or anything, my only intention is to respond to the poem posted in my own way, and share the fact that it inspired me.
And if, in a lifetime,
one walks a total of 13,640 miles by increments,
Where are you headed, traveler?
is a valid philosophical question to pose to a man, I think, along with
Why does the blood in your veins travel endlessly?
Once when our souls were gypsies
We stood teetering on the lip of the horizon
Like a lingering kiss. The taste of our souls
Must have been sweet to her, with all her roads
Tumbling like veins over her breasts
Yearning for us to touch them, to tempt her,
And to see whether she would allow us to go any deeper.
Oh my wife, why do you and I
And our tiny child-friend (whose name is
The thing Anne Boleyn was afraid of forever ago)
Put our lives into horseless caravans and leap
Like stags to answer her seduction? The horizon
Is our third-wife and second-mother to the bud we bear.
Two night ago, I told you how I used to dream of owls,
And I dreamed our child when I was still a child,
I knew her name, her face, the little songs she writes now,
And how she wore blue, always blue, bright cerulean,
The sky in her eyes and all the meanings of the stars
Cocooned in stillness on her red lips
Waiting for the day we would give her
Another world's horizon to write roads on.
As owls are the only birds that can see the color blue
the ocean is bluish, along with the sky and the eyes
of that boy who died alone by that little unnamed river
in your dreams one blue night of the war
of one of your lives. (Do you remember which one?)
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i learn so much here.
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I'm glad you liked it, though. :)
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