The Liberation of Longing

.

A long, slow howl is sometimes best,
the holding of your head up high, and

still. Keep your eyes on the moon; she’s
seen too much, and if you let her go,

she’ll spill your secrets from here to king
-dom come. Crack yourself wide open if

you must, release the Kraken and the
brackish water of your most scalded fears.

Call the wild to stay awhile. This sky is
vast and slow and small enough to hold you.

 

..

Prompted by Poetic Asides.
 

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I’ll Never-Land This Day

Did you say
……………………………………….the pixie dust is gone?
….I shall fend for myself,

…………………………………….fly

……………..by the seat
…………………………………of my own
………………………………………..dance.

.

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cherries and rum and tum

-bled words:

chalk and talk
of gypsy-girl
travels. bangles and jangles
and unraveled in
-digo string just waiting
to be stretched long and
pulled periwinkle proud.

the singing of 80’s and 90’s
music out loud, and the sound
of our own hearts
remembering
to
(skip a)
beat.

rosemary and mint
and juniper embers

and peaches and blossoms
and long moon hollows.

tea parties in turquoise
hair and long polka-dot
dancing socks.

small rocks,
for throwing at the world.

deep burgundy swirls
of fading
henna
ink.

.


 

 

 

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The Saltier Perspective of the World


Her empire
is a sea,

see?

We
let her swim
the outlands, free,
through the dark
ages of our friendly
coasts.

She boasts of having
known Lombard, having
been ravaged by Neptune
himself, given distinguished
naval supremacy by jet
-sam, flotsam notwithstanding.

(She’s got no legs to stand on,
see?)

But with great glee, she’ll flip
you a fin, dig in
extemporaneously.

.

 

Prompted by an awesome word list from my Shawna.

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True North

(Advice for the Directionally Challenged)

 

.

When all other maps shred
and the tread on your
borrowed shoes has grown
thin, spin
the globe sideways.

The beat of your own
heart is best, the rhythm
of your own caged chest
should guide you home.

 

 

.
Prompted by Poetic Asides.

 

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I’ll Never Tell

you
think it’s swell
that I sway to the beat
of my own jagged tune,
smash my favorite records
under a dying moon
and rid the world
of one small gumdrop
at a time.

the way
the rain finds
the curve of your face
divine, the last words
you said
as you were
leaving:
Be well.
Be mine.
 

 

 

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The Invisibility Cloak of Hope

.

She’s the quiet one
in the corner, waiting for you
to notice she’s arrived.

If you listen soft
and slow,
she’s got a low hum
-bled soul you can hear
with your whole salty
shattered heart.

She’s got feathers, and
can only sometimes

………………………….fly.

 

 

 

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