put some moth
in the (corner) pockets (pooled), jang
-led and ready to un
-stinkify all that junk
and other dang
-ly things. sing
a hol(e)y tune
and hope the twig
buries the tree, snaps
just right in two. just
under,where no (one) eye
can see, a place for
a butterfly




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Take me down to the river, we say
and we mean we want to be washed
clean, freed from all this pain and
salt and shame. Un

-stain us from these words we’ve
said, these lies we’ve spread,
these things we’ve pledged
under the duress of

time and tide and the end
-less tirade of our own skin.
We begin with the tributary
of truth, tribulations

loosed to these raging waters
of our own making. We’re for
-saking nothing more than
our own souls and

nothing less than each bright
dry thing. Fling them in and
watch them float, bloat them
-selves on sacred flow,

slow in their own undoing.
We cast stones and hope
they’ll hold, grow old as
we wait for morning.

We shed tears, years,
baptize our own faces; trace
these blue veins to
a place we can rest.




prompted by poets united





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If you give a Scarecrow a Paintbrush

will he
have the

to stain
his own

painting and prompt from over at Toads


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pallid palette



these wings could use
some color be
-yond the pale-pooled
milky moon murmur
of their own skin.

let’s shade ourselves
in indigo and jade,
play up our verdant
eyes and surprise
the world
in saffron ver
-million splendor.


i think
i might be ready
to crack open
this sallow sky

………………….and fly.

prompted by margo roby.


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counting down this particular slant of sky

hold my breath,
because i know she’s up
there somewhere, new
and waiting.

waned her own
melted wax, burned her
self out from both ends,
slid across

inky rink on
crescent skate. she’s
late to the party (mine)
but always

on time for
her own, sometimes even
pausing to kiss that pesky
sun good

……………….– bye.

prompted by poetic asides.




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blue as moon

Screenshot 2015-08-31 19.54.13

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we need some space, ya’ll

(for shawna)



and a place to call
our own, crawl
to for hope and
healing – sans ceiling,
wide sky.

we need a deep breath
and enough depth
to steep ourselves
in words and tea
and sea.

we need a quiet place,
the slow trace
of salt on skin;
the spin of small
wheels, jingling.







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