A painted lady on a fine white horse,
What Freudian edicts do there so convene—
But too enunciate aloud, of course,
Would be at best a slight, at worst, demean;
Perhaps to sit side saddle would invite
Rebuke from psychoanalytic eyes
Yet who of balanced conscience would indict
A belle upon a steed with open thighs?
Of human purpose when we so propose
Subconscious method unto every act,
There reading thus between taut lines disclose
Attempts to thrust in bias, or redact;
Where courser stands a stallion or an ass,
More truth’s revealed by how we so assess.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.
Loubert S Suddaby poems 