Bipolar Sky


Make up your mind, woman. Indigo
silk dress, or syringed star scars. You

get to decide both color (blue rasp
-berry cotton candy, ink stain, ebony

charcoal curmudgeon smudge) and
texture (wisp, willow tree, wallow). You

wave your birdless hands, cloud phalanges
stretched toward an arrogant stop sign sun.

Remember to breathe, blue lungs and golden
gills rising and falling like scales from azure

eyes. Surprise yourself with a crimson blush
brush dawn, a quiet hollow-boned apostrophe

marking possession of the addled horizon blur.
Concur with last night’s fading-now moon

mother, orphaned softly by her leaving, be
-lieving only in the last etched trace of her

papery skin. Begin again, crushed against
the jagged claws of land, cradled to the salty

curve of sea. You get to choose. The joy of muffled
silence, or the shaky thumpsong ache of blue.


Prompted by Toads

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Most Mad and Moonly

She’s craving crescent, effervescent
sliver, silverfish shivered into indigo
sky. She’s carving her full self out of
ivory, dipping low into crimson sea
and wondering how she came to be
quite so

She’s amphibious, breathing strange
in her own bright skin, beginning to
wander deep and just slightly left of
center. She’s longing for the pinprick
of stars, the constellationesque haunt
-ings of
distant things.

Give her a face, the space to move
across this sky without the gossip
prying of telescoping eyes. Give her
her privacy, a dressing room with a
darker scrim. First, give her the naked
ache of sigh.
Hunger. Thirst.


Prompted by Poetic Asides



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Summer Salt



Had I told the sea of my longing, my
wanting, the quiet haunting of my heart

for wave and salt, it might have prepared
itself for these feet. It might have treated

my tumbled edges less like seaglass and
more like fragile wings floating. Had I told

the breeze that I needed a sign, a sigh, a
reason why and how (and what the hell) to

spell myself in fragments, shells, it might
have sent me something softer than all this

sand. Had I bid the land adieu (to you and
you and you)
and willed these limbs to fins

and breathed in bubbled bliss, I might have
missed the pieces of myself that wash ashore.

If I hold the sea with quiet hands, collected
tears, these salted years of summer just might

add themselves up to more than sorrow. If I
borrow one last low spelunking moon, golden

in its own dipped head, I might just find my soul
in all that’s left of crimson thread-etched song.



Prompted by Walt’s summer starters over at dVerse. I was inspired by a line from Nizar Qabbani’s “In the Summer.” (Check out Walt’s post for some great summer writing inspiration.)



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We’re driving into a Monet painting. Crimson, gold, apricot, amber swirled all around us in one dizzying blur. We are Leaf Peepers, a name that still cracks us up on day 3, transported into this east coast masterpiece from our desert land for a few more days. We didn’t have kids yet, remember? No double tow-headed 16-months-apart “Are we there yet?” or “when’s lunch?” or as we know now, teenaged eyeroll: “You guys, this is so boring.” Just you, and me, and the trees. Color everywhere. And the rain. Oh, the rain, a fine light mist at first, and then a quiet drizzle, falling sliding slipping from these color palette branches as if it were translucent paint. Wish we’d known just how free we were when we linked hands and walked through all that autumn magic.

A lone loon calls
across an orange patchwork pond
trickled in sky



Toni is our Haibun Monday host, where we’re writing about shades of rain. Come play! 



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moon lonely and murmur wild

Screenshot 2016-06-19 18.52.58


play magnetic poetry here

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cloud dragon

Screenshot 2016-06-19 18.29.25


play magnetic poetry online here

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pneumatic bounce


by the alphabet nectar
of her own skin, the thunder
-pulse of her imposter collarbone,
she begins to once again comprehend
the sound of rain. the space between stars.
the way scars both sting and sing. the untraceable
impossible of every thing. the frisky glitter of sunrise
painting its way sharp and silent into a stained glass sky.


wordbumps from my shawna. 



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