let it go — the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise — let it go it
was sworn to
go
we smoosh them between our
hungry fingers like chalk,
smudge them to the sky.
you and I,
we’ve got them right
were we want them
now,
and how.
we taste them on
stuttered tongues
,
until that wayward golden sun
is going
going
gone.
I’m hosting the Quadrille over at dVerse this week. Come play!
We had a deal, you
and I. I’d just look
up, and you’d bring
the stars.
No matter how far
we’ve come, I can find
my way home by those
light-stung shards.
But tonight you’ve got
something darker in mind:
Discombobulated me,
left behind.
I’m late to Lisa’s Quadrille this week at dVerse.
It’s a shadowstage holding up the outside-sky,
a trampoline bouncing laughter
light, conversation
dust.
It’s a blank sheet waiting for my words,
a sunshine-slatted hope.
This smallbox universe
of our own bright building,
where I
am both fan
and sometimes-star.
Mish has us writing object poems over at dVerse Poetics today. Come play!
She tastes the new year slowly
pondering clouds on tongue
sacred slices of sky,
tabasco-tang of sun.
,
The world’s got a way
of craving falling
-stars, symphony wishes.
She swishes in a ninja star for
good measure, a babble of brook
,
a dabble of moon.
It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse, and I’m hosting. Come play!
Crack open
that bright blue dawn
and watch the sun
yawn and stretch
again, begin to light our f(l)ight.
We raise wings and sing, abide
in deeper things than the morrows
and sorrows of this place. This day,
we find grace in the staying.
::
it’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse, and Lisa’s got a great word for us. come play!
we outta here with our pens and our plans
and our cramped-up hands and our scrib
-bled dreams. these syllables are our last
gasps and death-rattle rasps of lyric, lung
and ripped-at-stanza seams. this means
our scribbles are all scrabbled out, and
there’s no doubt we’re through (and through)
too tired for poem schemes. these prompts
and circumstances, these crazy iambic dances
and last-ditch stitches and stashes of phrase.
for days and days and days (and daze), we’ve
inked. we’ve thinked. we’ve blinked and blinded
ourselves and binded our shelves with craft and craze.
we’re done. it’s been fun. it’s been real and we’re real
tired. expired, without a doubt. retired poets, out.
::
written for poetic asides November chapbook challenge.
congrats to all who completed this always-crazy month in this weird pandemic year.
this year’s gone all heavy again, lead
-bellied belligerent bossypants and
i long to tutu and tulle, rule the school
with taffeta promises and stripey-socked
glee. you see, we’ve got some giggles that
need loosing. some bubbles that need
blown to sky. some secrets that need whisp
-ered to these trees. come with me, and we’ll
fingerprint that foolish moon, smudge the
sun with hum and hope. i’ve got a jump
rope and some pickup pixie stix and a way
-ward mix of angry chick music and oompah
band bluster. buster, we’ve got to go and mud
-lucious ourselves silly, build blanket forts
and faerie lands of dandelion fluff and broken
stars. just daisy petal ourselves away and change
our names to Squib and Squee, and stay some
-where where this crazy world is (once, again) ours.
::
written for poetic asides November chapbook challenge.
we ate them all
(the plums, not the dragons)
so cold,
just waiting there in the ice
-box. we left none for the dragons
(so hot).
they’re left with nothing but wasted
thought and witch
-craft and hungry tums and fiery
hums.
::
a quick remix for poetic asides November chapbook challenge.
we count them daily
these gifts, these rifts that allow
our worry to rest. we wrestle them
into our pockets and let them over
-flow. we know they heal fear and
draw us nearer to true: we’re blessed.
::
written for poetic asides November chapbook challenge.
and what’s next is breathing
and believing the best
and getting some rest
and communing with sky
and not asking why
and holding on to Who
and breathing in Blue.
::
written for poetic asides November chapbook challenge.
