Details |
Space Cadet Poem
The dervish whirls—
deserts fable
over candles,
atop mantle fires,
wings for life.
Salient, a moth
labors over no lands,
exists in The Great,
extends her wings
to The Wide,
middle-age night
to flutter near the floor,
flit in the rafters—
a lamp,
her vessel for ballet
on night’s broken stage.
© 2017 | June 13 | Wesley T Cutlip
Edited June 30
REVISED - July 7
Copyright © Space Cadet | Year Posted 2017
|
Details |
Space Cadet Poem
Replicas of calibrated handshakes,
captured screen-shot
search engine eyes,
silent in the deep darlings
of purple prose,
canons of instant articles of diction:
Taoists aren’t too quick to judge;
Machiavellians have mothers, too. But,
stirring anger to prance
in the unknown
is not in our nature
to prevail.
So Be without expecting expectation,
try while not trying,
and take nothing
to keep no more than now.
A minute steak for breakfast everyday,
cut and pastes a concise future
in a poem from,
predicted, or taken
from an abandoned URL.
Copyright © Space Cadet | Year Posted 2017
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