..
they scoffed at us for
swallowing that sun
-flower dream, for holding
our breaths in the snow.
we’ve gathered so much
more than loose-leaf scenes;
we know these syllables might
just stand on their own.
and so we pick our phrases
gently, from the breeze. we
bouquet them into bundles
with ribbon, time and twine.
we hold ellipses loosely, fake
a sneeze, and know that all
these letters will flitter, flit
and f l y.
>>
Prompted by Poetic Asides.
..
Pahrump Valley High Cheer Squad, circa 1987
..
They provide the skirt;
the smirk,
she’s already got.
She’s caught
between childhood and
the world,
wielding nothing
but a pair of pom-poms.
She’s got
cheers for fears
and all the too-loud
seasons. She’s got
some years of sorrow
comin’,
reasons
for her tears.
..
It’s Quadrille Monday, and I’m hosting. Come play!
…
in december,
the poems are
…w h e w
……………………..{and far between.}
.
..
we’re told
we don’t have to go home,
but we can’t stay here,
and so we disappear
,
soaked in
star-spilled scrim
and rum
-bled phrase.
..
Whew. And November is through. Many kudos to all who wrote. Many thanks to all who read.
{a remix}
The moon’s in a mood,
(imagine her wild, midnight
-maroon)
shaky-swoon-spooned over
sturdy skinned knees,
driven breeze.
This is her
hour of burning hunger,
quiet storm. She’s ivory sea,
and I can’t quiet see
her center.
Praise these tiny voices
of the sky, these hellion
sighs:
(loves me, loves me
knots) tied toxic
to the con
-fines of a morning’s
flush, the blush of sun.
Simon says we’re broken:
unspoken brave against
this fractured loud. Rub
-bled forgiveness, in be
-tween. We’ve seen
hints of silence. We’ve held
the tiny findings of our hearts
to long lost phrase. We’ve raised
our just-us league of sorrows,
swallowed deep. We’ve
begged your pardon, trust;
hardened tired veins.
Forced our scars into a sembled story.
……………………………………………Glory.
………………………………………………Us.
..
In November, we poemed. This is the one with all the prompts.
(A praised day found)
.
Please forgive me for the song
that loops around us now,
this quiet separation
from
the
……….stars.
We raise
our tiny voices
to the sky –
doodler of dragons,
an unsolvable equation
of puberty and pain,
lost marbles in onion
-skinned silence.
Listen,
I’ll tell you a secret:
We are warriors in waiting,
tired of sprawling loose and long
in this bright sky. We have been here
for hours and hours.
most of them black as night,
reveling in the glory (of)
-us.
We know we are
stained glass. A glint of sun. A moonlit gasp,
too really loud, too much
for my unquiet heart.
But here’s a hint
(a further protest of the dark,
with all the pomp and circumstance):
…………………….it’s nothing new.
We’re still here
just waiting for the stars to fall,
hungry for that unrepentant moon
and her jagged smile. (She
makes a pass
and paints us flush,
blush rub
-bled toxic skin).
I think it might be my fault;
I can’t erase these words,
so burn this before they find us.
(And please, forgive my salt.)
Midnight, and we’re still here
in the privacy of our own
………..(shaking, sturdy)
raised palms,
with nothing left but dust.
(Five, six, pick up sticks. Walk
soft, be still.) He loves me
…………..(loves me not).
Soon, we shall banshee
our un
-forgiven hearts,
,
…………………………smudge
…………………………tiny poems.
..
In November, we poem. Today’s prompt calls for a remix. This is a cento made up of one line from a poem from each day this month. It also still nods to all the prompts.
{mood ring: forgiveness, and other disasters}
i.
midnight-maroon,
for her darkest hour swoon,
her great craving for protest and anti
-hate, war.
ii.
gun metal gray
for her weary worn heart
and its shaky veins, brave un
-broken beat.
iii.
crimson apology,
long-lost blood red tears, toxic
love worn on furious
embered sleeve.
iv.
a giddy green,
a game of springtime hop
-scotch, paper-scissors-rock and all
the glimpses of grass between.
v.
ivory pearl,
for the younger girl, for the quiet
curls ribboned and the laughter,
bubbled loud.
vi.
bright sky blue,
like a praised day found, con
-cealed in private stream and flushed
in sea.
vii.
tangerine sun
driven steady to ground, rub
-bled and risen and prismed for this
dream-dancer to see.
..
In November, we poem.
