she never knew
the moon was made
of music,
orion belting
out the blues.
and then
she flew
,
mad as midnight,
wild as stars.
::
In November, we poem.
she never knew
the moon was made
of music,
orion belting
out the blues.
and then
she flew
,
mad as midnight,
wild as stars.
::
In November, we poem.
if you hold it
just right
(in pocket, in hand)
it’s magic
fairy dust.
::
Quickly, day 30. I may write more later, but today’s nuts.
The Sun’s Up Again
And the world keeps turning
and the sky keeps squawking
and I swear you
just keep talking
,
while the geese fly by
like little white lies.
Catch one for me,
and wring its neck.
I dare you.
::
In November, we poem.
(Do tell.)
::
They gaze and graze and guzzle,
stopping over the winter stream.
Somebody wished on a star,
but put a stopper in the jar.
Don’t ask the geese, they’ve
got enough flop. (Full stop.)
Corn pops
then stops.
How do I love these? Let
me stop this bullybreeze.
Keep the change, I’m
all soul-shopped out.
I’ve got this, and
how. Stop it now.
::
Quickly, day 29.
The compass says we’re there
but I still feel the pull of something
greater, some crater
in my soul that says we’ve got
a ways to go.
We wake. We give. We grieve.
We take. We’re born. We mourn
all those lives
that could be ours.
And we must
ask ourselves
(again)
what’s truer than the stars.
::
In November, we poem.
Re:Mused
(the one with all the titles)
for want of wings,
here in the resolve of remaining,
(with Poe, of trees)
,
we are
shaking out the down
placing deliberate storms
in bold pockets,
found poems of Icarus waning,
moonsquabble myths of moon.
(come, o better fates)
assessment: after all that rumpus,
(and this besides),
we are
loose thoughts, caught
(oh, blackbird with a crooked wing)
(oh, story held tight in syllabled fist)
all candlelit windows and a roof of dusty red
all sonata scribbles to my someday self
all those things we said in the storm,
and other sky shenanigans.
no wonder we are struggling with stars,
birds of a feather palming psalms
for our preflight check. (too soon)
her?
well she is waiting
on her wings while clacking b(l)ack
(extra, extra)
poem in peril, in the in between
truer than north, yet un
nothing ventured. back
to square one.
{last call for a wayward moon}
::
In November, we poem. This one contains at least one title from each day so far this month.
::
why
don’t you
embrace all that
blue?
::
Quickly, day 27.
“I am a feather for each wind that blows.” William Shakespeare
::
Look up,
the sky’s a fluffered song
of promise. A float of hope.
Let’s make ourselves a small
and quiet
place to gather
these loose quills caught.
**Cue the lightning.**
On second thought,
let’s not.
::
In November, we poem.