This is how the world was
lightning on the rim and a small boat
moving away forever
lantern swinging over a veiled sea.
We had the world to ourselves.
I was the boat, you were the shore.
You were the lighting, I was the swinging.
We were the horizon.
You were the sea. You were forever.
I was small. I was moving away.
You were how. I was the veils.
We were the storm.
asha
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5 comments:
A poem strikes home when you hear the scratch on the matchbox. You lit up my world with your poem and it flared so elegantly bright.
Bob, you made my day. A reader is to a poem as a reflection is to a lake. Indispensable.
You would know that poetry is hard to do. But you have the gift: your words are so startlingly evocative. --the way of the poet is a road where you're brought up to a halt and forced to examine something so fine, so charged with merit, that your thoughts are banished, and you are compelled to search this one thing.
I'm embarrassed that I never followed your link here, Asha ... only noticed that Bob had a link. So sorry. Love the poetry. This one, the last one of your mother. I'm especially drawn to poems about moms lately (my mom died 4/13/08). And I immediately noticed what you did with the name. Anna Sadhorse. I love that. I hope you post more poetry. Thanks for sharing.
Hi Paula. Thanks for visiting. I really appreciate your comments. Yes. Mother poems.
That's some eye.
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