We meter them out in fire, scaled down
to last treble-clefted flick of
tail and trail of smoke.

The syllables sag and drag
-on winded sails, caught between
embered teeth.

We store them in caves, and sand
-castles, vessels of wind
and wave. Salted. Sung. Saved.


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





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i’ll be brief


cuz my belief
is pithy’s nifty.

i’ll be quick,
just one fast flick
of pen and wrist.

oh, i’ll be brisk.
just one last tryst.
small words, my bliss.




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smallish dragons in boxer shorts

we’re happy to report
that though they snap and snort,
they’re all smoke
and they keep it short.



Written for Poetic Asides




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He loosed
my muse
from hair
to shoes
gave me the will
for wubulous whim
and star-bellied glee.

He had the Rx
for making a mess
of noun-sies
and verb-ootles.

He gifted me with
oodles and oodles
of ways to play with
words on page
silly the syllables,
ribbon the rage.



Written for Poetic Asides




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wealthy ghosts

thing is, they’ve made the most
of all this gossamer spirit-song,
perhaps longed for gold, but found
the sunrise to be the richest
of all. and now, their needs are
small, their voices proud – all
banshee promise, spilled aloud
in fractured silver sliver shiver.



Super late to the party for the Quadrille this week. 

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Theory of Nothing Whatsoever


We chase the algorithms
of the breeze, form a premise
for the gibbous moon. Speculate
upon her glow.

We have formed a hypothesis
or two, or three,
about these shattered
scattered stars.

We can wax forth eloquent
and strange about the
scarlet spill
of sunrise.

But we’d rather
put on tutus. Dance
in the rain.


 Merril’s got an awesome prompt over at dVerse. Come play! 



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standing in the middle of all this deep dark sky


the world comes at us,
fast and fierce and long and loud.

we lower our voices,
raise our (s)words.




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