Self Portrait in Shadow

You can’t see it, 
but she smiles 
with four miles 
the hill 
and the sunrise 
behind her. 

seven new ways of looking at the moon

I.
coin 
(flip) 
her a phrase 
and she’ll lend you a phase 
to describe her darkest side. 

II.
abide 
in her spill,
a tea saucer tipped 
sideways, sugar still 
dripping from the rim. 

III.
pull 
back the scrim 
from her spotlight 
flare and bask in the 
glare of her galaxy bow. 

IV.
now, 
catch the 
gypsy moth in your 
waiting mouth, her wings 
still sticky with Icarus wax. 


VI. 
form 
a cast from 
what’s left and seal 
that firefly jar, then peel 
it open and set her free. 


VI.
taste 
the honey 
of her bee-stung 
lips, the raw eclipse 
of significant storms. 

VII. 
run 
your fingers 
over that crescent 
scar and feel her 
pain as you see stars. 

::

Writing for a fun new (to me) prompt site today. Come play!

What’s Going On.

And I’m doubly mad and moonly today, if you want to also check this one out: 

shooting for the moon 

shooting for the moon

“Why, sometimes I’ve believed in as many as six
impossible things before breakfast.” – Lewis Carroll 

::

(finger-guns cocked and ready)
, 

we sing 
pew-pew-pew 
as we bask in the view of her 
heady haze, the ways she 

woos us, brews us 
a cup of golden tea
and spills out all 
that milky way 
sky. 

she’s a gallery,
a galaxy 
       (gaunt in gloom); 
a roomy storm waiting, 
no debating her fill
or the sheer will 
of staying. 

::

Note: I wish I could take credit for “gaunt in gloom.” It’s the opening line of James Joyce’s “Nightpiece.” 

Prompted by Poetic Asides.

5am

she rises 
surprises herself 
feet hit street 
to the steady beat 
of conquered hills 
and birdsong hum. 

sun rises 
hypnotizes 
whispered trees 
hazy breeze
of many miles 
and more to come.

::
Prompted only by my morning miles.

Dragon Food

Turns out, 
they enjoy a big ol’ slice of cake 
as much as the rest of us 
(extra frosting, please). 

And when they’re in the mood: 
fish tacos, garlic fries 
and peppermints. 

Sometimes at midnight
they get the munchies, 
and that’s when they feast 
on the occasional rude prince. 

(They like ’em extra crunchy.) 

::
Prompted only by dragon thoughts on my morning walk.

The (Morning) Glories of Getting Up Before the Sun

The pounding of feet, 
the call of the trail. 

A ruffle of breeze, 
a kerfuffle of quail. 

::
Unprompted. (In May she poems just because.)

Factory Settings & Other Fiction

This poem doesn’t have a reset button. 

She’s a glutton for 
punishment 
phraseology 
graffiti 
and grace. 

She’s coming over to your place 
with some fingerpaints 
and a smile. 

She’ll walk 1,000 miles 
and then cha-cha-change 
things up a little and ska 
her way home. She’s roam
-ing about the country 
in bare feet and complete 
denial. 

She’s wild. And wily. 
And moon-mad and 
wobbly about the knees, 
fingers splayed to grasp 
inelegant pens and 
the hopeful hands 
of wayward friends 
with funky names. 

She’s claimed 
her baggage
and declared 
her war. 

There are
wor(l)ds 
worth 
fighting for. 

::
In May, she writes on Wednesdays, at least. Maybe. We’ll see.

Ever After (The Inevitable Consequences of Lonely Dragons)

They were just minding their own fiery business, 
see, and we 
were sort of waiting in the wings, wee faeries and 
      (wayward)
princesses with bare feet and no further need to 
please the king. 

If it please the court (and you judgmental sorts),
they’re cuter 
up close than they look in the sky. We tried to 
resist that 
embered breath, but it was no use. No excuse, 
but that’s that. 

No pause for claws, no scare of scales. Even 
their tails 
are more winsome in the light, bright with 
turquoise 
and jade, a sway of sapphire. A swish of scar
-let sun. 

Come, we’ll introduce you. Though it may confuse 
you to know 
it’s a friendship carved of trust and trees, a breeze
of winter snow; 
no matter when the forging’s done, this love affair has 
just begun. 

::
In April, she poems. Sometimes there be dragons.

full stop?

we plop 
down our pens. 

         {breathe} 

believe.
begin again. 

::
In April, she poems.

Less Taken

There’s a quiet breeze whirling 
west today and these boots 

are made for walking on cloud
nine while the sun is high 

in the sky and standing still. 
I feel like raising cane today. 

Hey, let’s throw away 
our maps and blaze a trail. 

::
It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse today, and Mish has a fun word for us. Come play!

Quadrille #200