Steeple Sign



Drive her past the church,
and she just might
confess all, the small
things she hid all these
years, and the big white
one she wore on her

She’ll take the ashes
with a swelling throat,
a critical narrowing of her
brow and soul, cry
hoarsely toward all
things pointed sky

She’s addicted
to the drooling sensation
of absolute bliss;
knows she wears a collar of
greater severity than

Prompted by an awesome word list from my Shawna.




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they scooped out a spot
high on my thigh that used to be
shaped like a

and i know it’s all going to come
back clean because nothing
ever amounts to anything
but $50 copays
and our share of the bill,

but i miss it,
that little tiny heart
I found just a few months ago
on my own



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Crimson Blur, and Gray

My lashes and lips
are petals fringing my
heart-vase face.

Do you like
my jaunty flow
-er antennae hat?
Imagine that,
a window looking
out over all this
wispy nothing

Have you any
music? Oh,
let’s dance.


Prompted by Shawna‘s link to a cool visual piece.





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The Inevitable Failings of Falling

Oh, you fickle, fragile law
-abiding citizen, you. Consider
stars, rocks, rain –
all things bright and right
and sane, each and every much
things teetering on crum
-bled edge. Consider
the ledge, the decision
to stay and fight, the
long and quiet flight with
folded wings. Hold all things
loose and free and fine,
knowing some will stray
and others,


Prompted by Poetic Asides.

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Wild Sigh

Did I
ever tell you about
the light? The way
the truth shone
bright and strong
out over the blue?
The way
tamed my savage
song, but left the
low notes fierce
and strong and

I gulped up that
moon, Love. She’s
part of me now, the poured
glow between the slats
of this center cage, the
simmered sage and
cloud-smacked sky
of my very own scatter
-ed storm.

You should go now,
unchain the last of
these same small
bitter creatures,
let them fall.

I’ll start slow,
and pour the last
of my scalded salt.

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Stars are Just Sky Flowers in Disguise

When the moon ain’t nothin’
but a nail mark pocking this
ebony sheath, a crescent slice
of golden glow,
that these painted
secrets are still too much for you
and me to keep, silver linings
saved for other wayward souls.



Image prompt over at The Mag.


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Foundation Course (Laying Down the Rift)

Polly Jean is an occasion
-al artist, primarily known
as a fine guitarist.
Give her an auto
harp, a sharp
eponymous start
she’d rather rename,
a same small lame
version of her former
silent self.

Her bandmates
call her Jane,
and she says
(have you seen this,
have you seen that?)
this flat stage won’t
do, and she’s moving
and soon.

She maintains
a rotating line-up of late-
October fans who learn all
the words, but never
how to unwind her heart.

She’s the second child
of Dr. Dorset and his
pretty wife June, and
she’s writing her own
prescription for a quiet
new start.

She’s carried these boot
-leg versions with her
all along. But she’s a stub
-born soul, nobody’s girlfriend.
Ask all you want;
she’ll never tell you
the source
of her song.


Words from my Shawna.

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