A pigeon on the trampoline,
a blackbird in the hedge;
a butterfly to flutter by
sparrow on gutter's edge;
hover flies and fruit flies,
little dots with wings,
but mostly children's voices:
screams and squeaks and sings.
Around, around the roads roll,
until all kingdoms fall;
till Jack and Jill have run away,
and Humpty's off his wall.
Dogs slink in their thin packs,
scavenging edible mess;
grass grows through the sidewalk and
my heart's still in distress.
Sing a song of Sinbad;
the sailor's on his Roc;
amber moons with cinnamon gapes -
strange faces of the clock;
and we must ride a morning dream,
to let the darkness chide:
'Though you deny your fate, my dear,
yet I have left your side.'
The little flies play whirligig;
the chicks are feeding now;
a hawk flies high at four o'clock -
pear blossom blanched on bough.
The toddlers' play it holds all sway,
though harder voices gall.
Since all is well,
no further tell,
how skies could ever pall.
..
YOU ARE READING
Bare Shouldered
Poetry"The difference of high Sensations with and without knowledge appears to me this - in the latter case we are falling continually ten thousand fathoms deep and being blown up again without wings and with all [the] horror of a bare shouldered Creature...
