He’s got a big ol’ watch and 
some kind of (very important) date. 
We don’t know what 
(we’re all mad here.) 

Frankly, he’s quite 
frantic and perhaps it’s 
pedantic, but we’d really 
like to help the poor fella 
hop along. 

We’d ask Alice, but she’s 
currently wee, 
and Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee 
are sitting around just twiddling 
their thumbs. 

The Queen is on another 
rager (heads are about to roll),
and it seems our long-eared friend 
has lost his pager…
if anyone has seen 
the White Rabbit’s day planner, 
come on down 
and meet us at the Hookah Lounge. 


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Giggles at 3, Guffaws at 5

It’s happy 
(ever after) hour 
in the forest 
of the wayward 
princess wildlings. 

They’ve been shaken 
by trees, and stirred 
by breeze, and they’re 
ready for another round 
of pixie pickup sticks. 

The river’s flowing fine
and so’s the blackberry 
wine, and they’ll share 
if you dare to shed 
your crown 
and stick around. 

Last call’s a star
-ling’s song. Take another 
and sing along. 


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Midnight on the Steps at the Ball

She’s due 
to throw a shoe

but she’s thinking 
about saying 
(bibbidi bobbidi)
boo to the whole thing, 
and just making a fine 
pumpkin stew. 


PAD, day 23.

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The Princesses Finally Rage Quit {And Form a Nature Society}

You might find them in the woods, if you can get past 
the nymphs (who are on their side). They only want the 

kiss of breeze, the romance of trees, the squeeeee of mud
-lucious squish between unadorned toes. They’re done 

with spells and slippers and steps. They’ve stolen steeds
and turned them back to wild. They’ve abandoned lace 

and silk and satin and corset squeeze for the dance 
of wind across skin, and quaint cotton trousers that allow

them to climb. They’ve got forts and swords and all devil
-ish sorts of dragons, trained not to fight, but fly. They 

only sing when they want to, and bow to the moon. They’ve 
learned to speak sparrow, read bark, spark sunlight into 

quiet fire. They’re unshaven, uncraven, and gravely serious
about getting the giggles each day around three. You see,

they’re betrothed only to friendship and laughter and 
spending their ever afters in unfettered glee. 


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She’s really just a princess in a greenblue gown

The poetry of earth is never dead. 
– John Keats 


She laughs in flowers
strikes the violin strings of storm
hums in birdwing 
to remind us life’s a song. 

Her dance is treesway
shimmered moonspill on the sea
the thrum of heart 
to ocean wave. 

She speaks in whispered wind
and Morse code wink of sun
the drumbeats of hooves 
and rain. 

She stains the sky in crimson 
spill and emerald hills and 
gulps her fill 
of rivered vein. 

She’s silent as the morn is born
holding her breath 
and bowing her crown 
to stir each day. 


Happy Earth Day.

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Aubade with eggshell shards

The day cracks open 
(again) too soon, all broken 
yolk goo and too-bright sky. 

She wasn’t quite finished 
with that silken moon, the silver
-blackeyed promises of stars. 

It’s got sharp edges and a bird
-song sting, too many things 
and not enough salt. 

PAD, day 22.

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There’s no place like ho(me).

We’ve danced these saffron cobbled streets, 
somehow summoned 
and (sorta stolen) a fine pair of crimson shoes. 

We’ve pulled back the curtain and seen 
for certain that 
aren’t worth their weight or worry. 

We’ve clicked our heels and scurried 
away from  
and all manner of nonsense from earth and sky. 

We’ve dreamed big sigh-cloned dreams 
and so it seems  
that you 
and you 
and you 
were there, but there’s no place like here. Goodbye. 


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Save Me

See, here’s the thing: 

I’m no damsel in distress,
just ridiculously dressed
to the nines when I should 
have worn sensible shoes

but this damn ball was the end
and be-all of my stepmother’s 
crazy squall, so I tried to comply. 

And now (I can’t say exactly why),
the princes
just keep on coming 
and all the knights have lost their shine 
and so I am sitting here 
talking to myself
(save me, me) 
in the dark. 

Bare feet are better, anyway. 

And when the morning comes, 
I’m gonna spark 
up this here dragon 
and remember how to fly. 


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fill me, quill me

for my fingers are feeble
small sisters that cannot say
anything by them

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muse me

say hey 
won’t you please pour me 
a straight up shot 
(in the arm) 
(in the dark) 
of some rum
-bled phrase? 

fuse me 
(shaken, stirred) 
a word or two 
to spill, some cocktail 
napkin poems to fill 
the time. 

lose me 
to the page, the space 
-bar rage of fingers flying 
and syllables 
in broken keys. 

ruse me 
into happy hour 
when letters clack 
to sky, before it all blows 
by and the hang
-over begins. 

In April we poem. Today is day 21.

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