Poeticness

            I apoligize in advance. I am feeling poetic. If you are confused by this term let me clarify. I'll ramble about the skies color for a few unchecked sentences and then, feeling satisfied with my proper dramafication of the cosmos, tell you about my very uneventful and unpoetic day (the sky by the way is a timid blue with deep, set clouds).
Or maybe I won't. After all, I'm feeling poetic I might do anything.
Or I might, just maybe, go against my standards and actually stick to the subject which I put next to the demanding Title and angry semi-colon. I make no promises.

I once decided that I'd like to learn a poem for every moment. A poem for when I looked at the cloud whispering mountains outside of our kitchen window, a poem for sunny days, a poem for stormy nights. I have memorized a few poems amongst them this poem by Jack Prelutsky.

Never, never disagree
with a shark,
beneath the sea,
lest you feel a sudden crunch,
and discover you are lunch.

I'm so glad that I have a poem for that type of situation.
My favorite poet is Pablo Neruda, although I do love Jack Prelutsky and his whimsical rhymes. But with Pablo Neruda I feel like words are delicacies to be spoken in a rich whisper of a voice. This poem, In the Wave Strike Over Unquiet Stones, makes my heart soar. And for a dramatic affect listen to this as you read:

In the wave-strike over unquiet stones the brightness bursts and bears the rose and the ring of water contracts to a cluster to one drop of azure brine that falls. O magnolia radiance breaking in spume, magnetic voyager whose death flowers and returns, eternal, to being and nothingness: shattered brine, dazzling leap of the ocean. Merged, you and I, my love, seal the silence while the sea destroys its continual forms, collapses its turrets of wildness and whiteness, because in the weft of those unseen garments of headlong water, and perpetual sand, we bear the sole, relentless tenderness Poetry is beauty scattered among syllables. And cellos.