A little giddy gets hungry.

Poverty turned pink
in the beds of strangers,
arranged to meet
several someones
for drinks, with

earnest. Oh!
what a nice long
(slightly soft)
chat, that afternoon pass
-port into the surf.

Foreign service
she’s left in a hotel
lobby in her skimpiest
bathing suit.


Fun wordlist from my Shawna. 

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This poem might never have been written

, were it not for a message
from a distant friend:
Hey! Thought of you! Check it out!
(insert link to poetry challenge here.)

Sure, she’d dabbled. Had inky fingers
all her life. Seasons of indigo flow.
Teenaged angst, divorced diatribes,
the occasional decent trial and error
of keys. But no practice. Now,

she dons it like a habit,
a black
on white
robe, a weeping
willow shade, a
s t r e t c h i n g
of fingers as important
as that of lungs. She’s familiar

with flutter, the utter
nonsense of speaking in tongues
that requires no sound,
only voice
and the choice to bruise
and bash and batter herself
against the ebony thrones
of sometimes unlockable keys.

And sometimes,
in the scars
in the stars
in the surface of the moon
in the silence:
a small and quiet knowing,
and the whisper of wings.



Written for Toads

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pull them

how else do you
suppose we’ll hide
these faded grays,
the ways the days
fray around the edges
when no one’s looking?


Prompted by Toads





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It’s all in the way
her eyelashes fall
over emerald green,
the slant of her smile.

He knows.

She winks,
thinks nothing
of scar
-let swirled halls,
white sheets;
dreams of
peacock feathers,
plums, and
lit just right in
significant ballrooms.


Playing games with Poetic Bloomings. Come on over! 


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Aubade with a Broken Song

The day’s got yolk
on her face again, all orange
yellow sun-splotched and watched
by gossipy doves, first loves
who wish they’d slipped away
while the sky was still a scrim.

There’s a slim chance
she’ll voice herself in full
……..(voice herself a fool)
today, syllable her way to
more than maybe
but less than silence.

She slants. She rants
in crimson dress, her early
light rays laser sharp and
pleading. She’s reading

the moon
(the stars, the indigo sky)
the riot act, the how and why
and where
–withal of wandering.

She’s done
squandering her gifts
and bearing busheled light,
fighting back the dark.

She’s on fire,
one unspoken
broken spark.

Prompted by Poetic Bloomings. We’re writing aubades. Come play! 

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Make this Easy on Me

My heart has perhaps
one last millisecond beat
for you,
so go ahead, quick –

smear her lipstick
on your


holler her name
instead of mine,

these thin-veiled vows
down to dust.

By all means,
stay, if you must.

But please,
give me just
one last good
……….to leave.


Prompted by Poetic Asides


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Make Me

out of something more
than tired skin and silence,

into something less
than list, and twisted brow.

Origami me a swan
-song smile, a last parchment
mile to tattoo against my wrist.

Christen me
whisper nothing less
into this disappearing.

You can’t.
Or can you?

Fashion me
an ink-dipped sky;
this place,
a fallen star.

(I know you are,
but what am I?)


Prompted by Poetic Asides



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