small blooms

thou answerest them only with spring – E.E. Cummings 

too soon,
these skies will make themselves
known as pirate waters: tumultuous,
stirred dark and deep. steeped in
skeletal clouds and masthead thunder.
we’ll wonder how we ever found the sun.

but today,
we swallow all this distant gray and
unearth the laughter bursting from soil,
these petaled breaths that stir us into
something more. these startled songs
of crimson, yellow, scarlet as a sunset.

we hold
these tiny things, these quiet-budding
hopes and grounding dreams, in hearts
that just begin to thaw, still raw and sleepy
in their winter coats. still puffy-eyed and
mostly silent, waiting for the kiss of spring.

Prompted by Poetic Asides




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shadow sky

(a shadorma)


fog me in
with sky and silence;
cold wet clouds,
amber rain.
these little cat feet know things.
are you listening?



Amaya at dVerse has offered us a form I love, the Shadorma.
My fifth line refers to a poem by Carl Sandburg


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Let’s Get Ourselves a Phone Booth


(circa 1984),
and become something we’re not,
or wish we were.

Let’s ditch the glasses
and the classes
and all that harasses us
deep. Let’s keep ourselves
sane with super
-lative breeze,
and capes of daisy
chains. Masks of sigh
and song.

A dime for your
(long distance)
thought, perhaps.
Here’s mine:

Let’s watch our worries
fray, go



Loving this prompt over at dVerse, from yesterday’s Poetics. Come play! 

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Refresher Courses


Today, we will be reacquainting ourselves
with the logarithms of this breeze, the angles

of these trees and the squint of sunray-slant,
perpendicular in the sky. Parlez vous francais?

Me, neither. But the way the lavender is calling
and the rosemary petals are falling, I think we’re

going to sing fa la la, anyway. Dangle me a part
-cipal or an irregular verb, the verve with which

to handle this particular curve of moon. Swoon
with me over silence. The science and alchemy

of light-stained stars. Let’s pinprick our own map
with new places to be. Let’s free our minds. Follow.


Prompted by Poetic Asides

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and all that’s left is
…………..a crash of clouds
my broken voice
………………………..a slash of rain.


twiglet #67



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Ash Sky, Falling

The dark creeps deep,
steeps my poemed breath in
star-skin and silence.

Once upon a time, you might
have waited here with me,
among these falling cherry blossom
kites. This one last night.

I rise,
leaving nothing behind but
muddled moon and fire


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





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Aubade with Broken Fingers


She’s doing some aching
again, greeting the day with open
hands and a moaning heart,

starting a song on this sky piano
with knuckles lost
to greater fights.

She’s right at the center of that
rising sun, mourning
loss of full
moon, the way
the ceiling
of this world lights up
just a little too soon.


Written for Poetic Asides


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