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Back at base bugs in the software Flash the message "Some thing's out there", Hands do what you're bid; Bring the balloon of the mind That bellies and drags in the wind Into its narrow shed - Yeats, Suspended under a twilight canopy We'll search the clouds for a star to guide us on
Balloons by Sylvia Plath
Since Christmas they have lived with us,
Guileless and clear,
Oval soul-animals,
Taking up half the space,
Moving and rubbing on the silk
Invisible air drifts,
Giving a shriek and pop
When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling.
Yellow cathead, blue fish —-
Such queer moons we live with
Instead of dead furniture!
Straw mats, white walls
And these traveling
Globes of thin air, red, green,
Delighting
The heart like wishes or free
Peacocks blessing
Old ground with a feather
Beaten in starry metals.
Your small
Brother is making
His balloon squeak like a cat.
Seeming to see
A funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it,
He bites,
Then sits
Back, fat jug
Contemplating a world clear as water.
A red
Shred in his little fist.
Esme's Cloud 
I would like/ my poetry better/ if someone/ say Sylvia/ were to write it for me
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It is the highest of compliments to have a poem, or novel, written for one. Or two. So you better had like it or Sylvia would kick your sorry (if it is a Saturday) ‘ass’ all over town and back with kitten heels still in place. Or she would were she not dead, which is always a sticking point when these things are hoped for. Your ‘Poetizer’ does a fine job when he’s a full shilling laughs. The basic upshot is that you like the poem yes?
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Yes, I like it.
The Prez…
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