the year has taken
much, and left
us hollow.
we count sorrows
on both hands and watch
the cold doors close. i suppose
of all these wayward things,
i miss my
-self the most.
i search the sky for rain
and other groovy ghosts.
It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse and I’m hosting. Come play!
Tin man’s on the hunt
again. She stole his Oz
-heart, wrenched it from
his metal chest and
smashed it all to bits. It’s
amazing really, how soon
these creaky limbs
bounce back, on track,
reach for something new. Glue
-thick as thieves. Red as poppies.
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, and I’m hosting. Come play!
For another tin man adventure, see also:
we are reborn
in these deluge moments,
heavens cracked open and booming
sudden protest of all this desert
dry. in drops of liquid hope
from broken cloud,
redemption falls from sky.
we unfold our hands
and
rejoice in
water only thrown,
streams without stones.
It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse, and I’m tending bar. Come play.
until legs and lungs are sore
until you’ve evened the score
with your busy, bossy brain.
just get up with the sun
and put on the shoes
and choose to run away.
a bit abused,
but still in working
order. beats fine. runs
sometimes, but only races
the breeze. resuscitated in
’96, now clicks and ticks to
the rhythm of true. slightly ask
-ew about the world, and words.
often absurd in both size and scope.
a little tender, thin-skinned. inquire within.
Written for Poetic Asides. Come play!
i.
squish that sucker
with your thumb,
purple-golden pulp
oozing through your
hungry hands.
ii.
chew your way through
until your lips are blue
and your tongue is tanged
and tinged with indigo.
iii.
plonk! it against the wall
an unresponsive ball
once so sweet and so cold,
now begging for forgiveness.
Kim’s got a sweet prompt for us over at dVerse today.
And how can I speak of plums without (always) a small nod to William Carlos Williams?
after we’ve said all
there is to sigh
we stand
,
scooping fallen stars
into our cupped hands.
written for twiglets. come play!
it gets curiouser and curious
-er, her fascination
with that sky
sand dollar,
that noble star
scholar, mama moon.
she swoons at crescent
smile, a fine fool for full.
you can question her
about it some, but she has
no words. only hum,
and shine.
It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse, and I’m bartendin’. Come play!
this poem is a tightly wound
spring. she’s a
taut wound caught
up in clacked-black things.
she’s got unspoken
broken and unscattered seed,
unpolished corners
and unmet needs.
she’s a wayward kite
on a fragile string.
let’s unwind her now,
and let her sing.
Lill’s given us a fun word for today’s Quadrille. Come play!
