Be Right Bach


the stars are calling, a sonata
-storm of sharp and shifting

sky, and I am all fugue and
fear. But there’s a cantata

playing in the next universe,
my dear, and we’re invited.




Written for Poetic Asides.



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won’t you spirit me away
to moon or mountain
or ocean sway,
that salt and sea
are all we need?

see, let’s just feel the breeze,
squeeze ourselves
into some smaller space,
erase the fears. lace hands.
scribble our names in
shifting sands.





It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse, and I’m hosting. Come play! 


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fireflies dancing
on fir branches;
a fairy gala of stars.


Me n my Shawna are penning tiny poems all december long. Wanna play? 



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This Poem Ain’t Over

’til it’s over there.

So hand it to a friend
or fiend or your worst
enemy or the girl next
door or the guy down
the street.

This poem still has
lots to say, to sway,
to make hay while
that golden stun still

She hasn’t got an end
-ing, see? Just a pocket
full of rhythm, glee and
stardust. The last crust
from her pb&j.

Make of her a paper
airplane, a simon says,
yes or no. Fold her at
center, and center her

Origami her a happy
ever after. Some laughter.
An iambic tale, a fairy
wing. Sing her some
-thing low.

Hand her a flour-leafed
clover. Red rover her a
somebody to tug. Say
-onara her a hug and
send it high.

Shrug her shoulders,
ink her skin. Beg
-in with a hearty hell
-oh,and wave her page


In November, we poemed. And now we are done. 




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Have nightshirt, will travel. {Mr. Midnight & Mrs. Moon make the most of free will}


Once upon a time,
they danced. Graced the stars
from A to Z, poemed in tercets.

An opening act of smile
and frown, they dip and weave
in all dog star sirius-ness,

watch their reflections pen
prime haiku in inky (anti)-form.
Pretend Orion’s watching.

They’re Persephone and Hades,
earth and fire, centered storm –
a vital heartbeat’s symphony.

She’s good, he’s bad. Or is it vice
-versa (major), minor shine along
these star-struck traveled streets?

How to win her over? He says
my step and sway should say
it all.

she says it’s all in the way we
dine upon this feast of love and
hate, stir it still

and bow, in thanks. He dips,
she stands. Still holding hands,
they bend. The end.


In November, we poemed. This remix is #TheOneWithAllThePrompts. 






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Storm’s End

We have been hailed on
and snowed in and torn
-ado tumbled.

We’ve hollowed hurricanes
and braved the rain
and cycloned half past one.

And now here we sit,
in the sun.



In November, we poem






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Have you seen this poem?

She’s smallish and smiling
behind one shy hand
and she just might be
standing under a
wise old tree.

She’s three
white sheets to the wind
and tangled in breeze,
treasoned by the whispers
of a shadow’s scoff.

She’s wandered off,
I think,
to drink the sky,
and I
am left behind
with just so much


In November, we poem.



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