Lucy and Ferdinand



1

Lucy loves all daisies
that shoot from the hip.
She never looks back.
She is a handful,
she never breaks the lamp,
she is concluded.

Lucy never dips her fingers
in the pot long revered
by important tribes of weird vision,
she never leaves surrounding space
to its own making.

Ferdinand drives an ominous bus
down self inflicted avenues
with a solar certainty,
mooning the gutter
left behind.

Seascapes drips of dark blue,
waves smell of gulls
and gargled rocks.
Ferdinand finally washes his worries
with clove and thyme,
with dark corals and sand.

Liquid nights never saw Lucy
stumbling over cobblestones
in a wintry November rain
full of dreams and kites
soaring high above roofs and chimneys.
She never pointed her fresh finger
to the damp, dull sky.

"I wish you could see me through,
as I once saw the coming afterbirth,
the second coming behind bars,
never knowing where
fierce visions might go.
Ragged tears come with years
of truth seeking,
never pondering petty pilfer,
nor skies never perceived."

In a world of many speakers
Lucy is the one
in a pulsating reach.

A minaret singer, a surging cry,
Ferdinand on the radio,
all is in pieces...

At times there is peace
inherit in conceiving.

"So let it be said that I
would not stop at the end of the day."




Poetry by Bob
Read 500 times
Written on 2011-10-14 at 20:00

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