Mirror Me a Moon

Ask her to hold back those tides,
allow me a little slumber,
a little folding
of the hands,
a wane
from these skies.

She’s borrowing light again,
and so am I, steadfast
and longing.
A tiny slice
of lemon
in black tea, unsweet.

She’s leaving footprints on her
darker side – hers,
mine. We’ve been
going somewhere
for a long
long time, and perhaps

We’ll arrive. If we untie these
moonlit tresses, shed
our dresses of midnight
skin, and start murmur-
minding our own
small shine.


Day 23 for Grace’s 28 Days of Self Love. 

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ask her who she is, she’ll tell you

She is as moon, and does not hold her own full light; still, sometimes, she shines.

An American Sentence poem for Day 22 for Grace’s 28 Days of Self Love. 

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a balancing of stones


precariously held
by wayward sky.

Day 21 of Grace’s 28 Days of Self Love. In honor of actual self love, I’m not even gonna try to get caught up (took a fun long weekend off to spend with besties.) I’m simply gonna write the ones that come. 



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Another Broken Song

this one’s letting a little light
in through
the   c   r   a   c   k   s,
taking back
some of its former vows
of silence.

Slice it quite thin,
layer in some amber sky
you just might find a strain
or two that’s useful
for the way
tomorrow always
seems to rise
in too-bright skin.

Prompted by Poetic Asides


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aubade wrapped in tomorrow’s skin


before the sun stretches hot
and bold, we hold
one last gaze at the nothingness
of fickle fallen stars.

twiglet #64



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Drink this Poem

This poem is a rum
-bled mess, a stress
of syllables and too
much (be)gin. Absinthe
makes its heart grow
fonder. See? It wanders,
over yonder.

This poem is on a bend
-er. Did you find it in a
ditch? I’m not surprised;
it’s bewitched by its
own stupor and super
-iority. Pour it three fingers
of tequila,
with lime. Sans salt.

Drink me,
it says. Shrink me
down to something
that can stand
on its own,
something I can stand
to hold. Tumble(r)
me down some rabbit
hole and pour me a
cup of
-tea. Two lumps
of sugar, please.
(You know what?
Make it three.)

This poem is me
-andering about the streets
smelling like a fine Malbec
and a cheap cigar. It’s far
and away the dumbest,
drunkest thing I’ll pen
and peddle today, but
it’s all I’ve got. Shaken.
Stirred. Shirred at edges
by burn
and bitters.

Sip the sky. Gulp the
guffaw that wants to slip
out onto the sidewalk and
crack your funny bones
right through. Tell me this
new numb is nothing
new. Tell me last call,
see ya later, closing
time. Pour me one last
poem and tell me it’s a four
-leaf clover.
I’ll believe you.
Until tomorrow’s hang





Over at dVerse today, Paul has us drinking (in) poems. Come play!  





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So she’s holding herself together with both arms

Because stuff wants to fall out. Worries, and fears and all the nonsense of life. Because if she pulls her arms tight (just right), it all stays in. Impossible stardust, contained in cloud. Scatterings of tired brain, not said out loud. She’s got a million kindnesses, small heart kisses, to fill herself sane. She’s got names she knows, and some she needs to cast away. She wishes on stars, dandelion kite fluff, and just enough of this one last spill of ocean blue. That crazy moon.


Day 10 (finally catching up) of Grace’s 28 Days of Self Love challenge. 




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