Talking to Myself Again


Shhhhh…see? The world’s an okay place;
the world’s got quiet grace and open sky.

The world’s my (okay, not oyster, but per
my seashell, echoed ocean. The

world is full of good, and good people, and
good books to take you away when it’s all

gone bad. The world’s sad, but it will smile
again, the sun will shine again, our hands

will bind again and the world will know it
-self again, once the dust settles and we

all look up and see that we can hold our
world in silent, steady hands. And stand.


Victoria has us playing with repetition over at dVerse today. Come check it out. 

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Slanted Aubade

{It Dawns on Her}


that damn sun comes up
again. And coffee fills her

cup again and one day’s
not enough again and it’s

all kind of getting under
her skin. The adieu of

moon, the tilted sky. The
where, the always, and the


Miz Q has us writing aubade-ish today. If you search “aubade” in the search box to the right on my blog, you’ll see I am deeply enamored of these, in all their many possibilities and off-beat irreverent forms. 😉 

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Befriending the Dragon


Nothing better than discovering her (s)word,
her own strength and song. Realizing the fire

was coming from her own center and just
needed a spark to give it flight. Whispering

her wings to life, her heart to breeze, her
embered breath to something more than

scattered skin and wayward sky. Give her
a quiet cave, some sequined scales, a small

stone place to call her own. A home more calm
than castle. A wrestled wish; a claw-caught star.



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Five tiny stories in poem pockets


Nothing bitter. No coffee, no cold
-heart stare, no chairs without
comfort. No root. No soot.

Nothing batter. No waffles. No pan
-cakes, no average. No pitch
black night with softball stars.

Nothing bit her. Not the love bug
or the mosquito moon or the
quiet cold. Nor the sun.

Nothing bets her. No double-down,
no quiet frown poker-faced goon.
No flush. No hush.

Nothing better. Than the way the
sea rushes against the shore; fills
her, stills her soul.


Prompted by Poetic Asides


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Holding Up the Sky


We were only lying
there, counting stars.

I think.
(After all, it was dark.)

Ursa Major was the
brightest spark, with a
crow or two besides,
a ram
(and one small flicker

88 of them in all,
(infinity twice, sideways)
there since the dawn
of time, or perhaps
just last Tuesday the
10th, because what’s
time anyway?

Maybe we were savoring
the sweetness of clouds,
the aroma of rain. Pondering
worlds beyond. The sky. Your

Telling each other stories,
glories. Fears. Years and
years of who we are and
might someday be

Pondering life
some misty place between
Venus and

Meantime, we’re just counting
…..on here,
lying to the stars.


Miz Q has multiple demands today, all of them fabulous. My favorite way to go, really. Come play. 



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Promenades and Hammers


He died because he wanted to dance.
Had a girlfriend named Mary, love of second chances;

(Gran left him for a banker years ago). They loved
square dancing, and he had those Dougherty knees,

perhaps from kneeling on the job for all those years.
He built houses, duplexes, furniture, dollhouse tiers.

A tiny doll cabinet, which now holds books. My heart.
He went in for a little tweak, with the promise of new start,

no more pain; came out different. Less. Shrinking. Weak.
I think of him, when I listen to my own knees creak,

when I smell the scent of wood and think of good men who
just want to cut a rug, hold a hand, shape something new.

At dVerse Poetics today, Kim asks us to write about a craftsman or artisan,
with an added challenge. Come play! 



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See it at center. We walk around it
in concentric circles, wonder-wandering. Hear
the tock; we are the clock, arrows pointed out
-ward as it stands, anti-time. Sublime.

You sketch it all you want. I shall paint
only with word, phrase, syllabled song. You see
a shadow, a golden light, a flicker. I hold its
warmth toward my own soul. Howl.

The sculptor at six? He can’t even handle
its heat, the soft flicker-beat of wick, and will. The
way it somehow fills the room. He shapes
it with pondering palm, a ghost. A shadow.

The architect (nine) holds out his hands
and hammer, stammers on about angle, vector,
perspective. How light is a bridge. How this
wax cylinder might be a pillar. Cornerstone.

We watch as it melts, pools of time cooling,
rivers of seconds spent and hours breathed in,
leaving nothing but wax behind, the quiet
wordless waning of our own design.

Prompted by Miz Q, day 17

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