give: a way

..

something’s gotta,
so we give
it our best
good ol’ rosambo,
paper our way to some
-thing greater, scissor
out the parts
we cannot keep,
rock our own tired
worlds to tattered sleep.

 


{day 1 of 31 poems in 31 days on Facebook} 

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Pulling, Over

..

They’re only about halfway
to Heaven
when they realize the trans
-mission’s broken, and neither
of them has spoken for a couple
hundred miles. When steam and ex
-pletives come streaming out in
equal measure, she begs the graying
sky to play her something new,
something louder than The Boss
who’s barely breaking through
the static out here in NoWhere’sVille.

It seems they’ve got nothing left
but time to kill
and a pen
-chant for chili cheese Fritos
and jerk
-y.

There’s no telling
when that last gasket’s
gonna blow.

There’s a tug
at her heart
and she needs
a tow.

 

.

Prompted by Poetic Asides.

 

 

 

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Poem Found by the Side of the Road

(an Ovillejo)

This poem is broken
……….(here unspoken)
down and drowned,
……….things left ’round
their own square pegs. Don’t play;
……….just stay.
It’s choking, held at bay.
It’s gone all pensive
and defensive.
……….Here unspoken, things left ’round just stay.


 

 

Prompted by Poetic Asides.

 

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Relief Map

One of these days the sky’s gonna break
and everything will escape and I’ll know…

- Civil Twilight, Letters From The Sky

 

..

I have finally fired the cartographer,
as he has just about successfully un
-mapped my heart.

I will make my own small sketches now,
mirror-image cursive monsters
spitting fire, enamored of the ten
-sile strength of wire.

Call me the Laughing One,
waiting. The flying machines don’t come
but at the third hour of the night,
when sleep has broken
open. I find myself

double hulled toward dawn,
heart pierced by an arrow
of my own design. Some small thing

has dropped from the sky
and I cannot catch it. Cannot
beg nor borrow its wings.

 

 

 

 

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When Fall Falls

.

She calls herself poet, crisp apple
keys calling. She’s falling into the
page, leaving pieces of herself to
crunch crunch crunch new paths.

Do the math; you’ll find she’s half
-way to winter, about to hibernate
her way into some wordless cocoon.
Don’t wake her too soon – she is still

……………………waiting on her wings.

 

..


Prompted by dVerse Pubtalk. 

 

 

 

 

 

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Aubade with a Broken Beak

…..

The goose is cooked, as we
have grown tired of waiting
for the gold. We split
her in two, but inside
we only found a string
of things we dare not say.

We shall use what’s left
of the breadcrumbs
to stuff her full again,
as all trails toward hope
have gone cold,
and damp and gray.

As the last of the wishing
stars faded, all we wanted was
a few more pages and
a little laughter, broken
with the dawn.

It’s time to bid hello to
the nevers,
and new lands.

And adieu to ever,
………………..after.

 


Prompted by Quickly in September, day 30.

 

 

 

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Fall

….

The smell of burning leaves
just won’t go. Listen –
we need to talk. I burned
the bacon, and the cake’s
no longer any kind of
walk what
-soever. It’s time you
parked your stupid Chevy
on somebody else’s
lawn.

I’ve done all my sacred
yoga poses, all the whatifs
and supposes. I played eeny
meeny miney moe, plus also
roshambo; the con
-sensus is you
-nanimous:

I’ll be landing
without you.

Now, leave me
alone
to practice
my kazoo.

 

….
Prompted by Creative Bloomings.

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