Wayward Thrones and Pocket Stories 

Weary of glass 
(ceilings, slippers, houses) 
,
we turn ourselves 
to stone instead, 
our bare feet mud-luscious 
in their riverbeds. 

We pebble stories, 
toss 
them in. 

The moon’s a diamond we are tired 
of rolling uphill,
so we cut her 
into slices 
and shine. 

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

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umbrella heavens

the year has taken 
much, and left 
us hollow. 

we count sorrows
on both hands and watch
the cold doors close. i suppose  

of all these wayward things, 
i miss my 
-self the most. 

i search the sky for rain 
and other groovy ghosts.

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

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Follow that yellow brick

Tin man’s on the hunt 
again. She stole his Oz

-heart, wrenched it from 
his metal chest and 

smashed it all to bits. It’s 
amazing really, how soon 

these creaky limbs 
bounce back, on track,

reach for something new. Glue
-thick as thieves. Red as poppies. 

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

For another tin man adventure, see also:  

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occasional storm

 

we are reborn 
in these deluge moments,
heavens cracked open and booming
sudden protest of all this desert 
dry. in drops of liquid hope
from broken cloud, 
redemption falls from sky. 

we unfold our hands 
and
rejoice in 
water only thrown, 
streams without stones. 

It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse, and I’m tending bar. Come play.

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#run one more



until legs and lungs are sore
until you’ve evened the score 
with your busy, bossy brain. 

just get up with the sun 
and put on the shoes 
and choose to run away. 

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slightly used



a bit abused,
but still in working 
order. beats fine. runs 
sometimes, but only races 
the breeze. resuscitated in 
’96, now clicks and ticks to 
the rhythm of true. slightly ask
-ew about the world, and words. 
often absurd in both size and scope. 
a little tender, thin-skinned. inquire within. 

Written for Poetic Asides. Come play!

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three ways to smash a plum

i.
squish that sucker 
with your thumb,
purple-golden pulp 
oozing through your 
hungry hands. 

ii. 
chew your way through 
until your lips are blue 
and your tongue is tanged
and tinged with indigo. 

iii. 
plonk! it against the wall 
an unresponsive ball 
once so sweet and so cold,
now begging for forgiveness.

Kim’s got a sweet prompt for us over at dVerse today.
And how can I speak of plums without (always) a small nod to William Carlos Williams?

 

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pilfering wishes under a pockmarked sky


after we’ve said all 
there is to sigh
we stand

,

scooping fallen stars 
into our cupped hands. 

written for twiglets. come play!

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the sky’s a curio cabinet of stars, with her at center

it gets curiouser and curious
-er, her fascination 
with that sky 
sand dollar,
that noble star 
scholar, mama moon.

she swoons at crescent 
smile, a fine fool for full. 
you can question her 
about it some, but she has 
no words. only hum, 
and shine. 

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

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an etched scratch scrape in a twisting sky

this poem is a tightly wound 
spring. she’s a  
taut wound caught 
up in clacked-black things. 

she’s got unspoken 
broken and unscattered seed, 
unpolished corners 
and unmet needs. 

she’s a wayward kite 
on a fragile string. 
let’s unwind her now, 
and let her sing. 

Lill’s given us a fun word for today’s Quadrille. Come play!

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