little word freaks

..

we squeaks in syllables,
speaks in rhythm and rhyme.

we knows how to blows
a phrase about in breeze.

we sees ourselves as scribblers,
ink-dribblers of divine.

we frees the words from white,
and writes our wrongs.

we sirens songs to sky and sea
in bright bold streaks.

 

..
In April, we poem. And sometimes we just play around with words. 

 

 

 

 

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Because the sky was such a sinister shade of blue

..
That was the day you told me this could be
e  v  e  r  y t  h  i  n  g
and I knew it was true.

That was also the day you broke
my soul
…………………….in two.

 

 

..
In April, we poem. This year, some days, belatedly. 

 

 

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how to woo a gypsy heart

 

..

catch me if you can
(but not too soon).

own me for awhile
…………………and then
release me to the moon.

 

..
In April, we poem

 

 

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Nostradamus Sneezed

,
and the world was pleased
to be ending
in a ball of fire, a slash
of apocalyptic rain, be
-ginning again.

There was a holy
-cost, atomic bomb,
earthquake, ground shake;
men would fall.

And he
…….(in apothecary glee) pro
-claimed that he could see
it all.

He poofedthem from the stars,
these deeds of ours,
these battle scars
by land and sea.

A hiccup
was enough
to make the future rough,
to make the present
worry. A cough
would cause a flurry
of fret.

And yet,
he was still fast
to confess ’em.

God bless ’im.

 

 

 

.
In April we poem. As you might have predicted. 

 

 

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Oregon Origami

Please,
fold me over
into the map,
and take me
to the sea.

 

..
This one snuck out, too

 

 

 

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of being

this poem is typing herself
into a state of
…………..(Nevada, Texas, Idaho)
mind.

she’s left behind
her fury
and her furry bunny
slippers. sip her

slowly, and you’ll see;
she’s full of grace
and glee and a wee
bit of powdered sugar
glaze. she’s been folding

the map for days and days
and don’t you see? we
all can be
together somewhere
in this middle place.

she’s facing that yellow-dotted
road rage fear, the years she
spent in silence. she’s racing
the clock, her pulse
and praising the fact that
the answer to
are we there yet
is yet
no.

she’s got some
-one to be,
someplace to
go. this place to start.

later, she’ll
be
just a bloody, pulpy
mess

of beating
hearts.

 

 

..
In April, we poem

 

 

 

 

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sitting here, softly

 

.. 

ruffled trees
busy bees
wandered breeze
baby, please

who knew
we two
made the
ultimate view

 

..
Yesterday’s poem for Poetic Asides

 

 

 

 

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