Dry Spell

The moon’s got a river
of promise running through
her milky skin, a vein of
waning soul. I’ve got a
fallen-scar wish that
says she’s willing
to die for that ocean.

And really,
aren’t we all
just bodies of water
and bone?


Written for Poetic Asides and twiglet #147




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i hate you…
– E.E. Cummings



she longs to shed
this weary skin,
…….begin again
in stars.



twiglet #145



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and the moon slips by, in silence

she’s focused on her own un
-doing, the waning of her wiles,
the extinction of her ink.

she thinks the world is flat,
forgotten. rotten with unstirred
souls. she’s sure of

nothing. she’ll salt you clean
with ocean sway, the way
the sky cracks open.


Linda Lee has a great word for us for today’s Quadrille. Come play! 





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scribbling her scales

she tries these wayward voices
on for size, pens up and down
the ivories to see the light
and seize the dawn. she

cries when the words won’t
come, when they flit and fray
and tease her from the
shadows. she’s gone

the way of dragon skin and
longing, calling herself sane.
calling herself torn. small
-ing her self. she’s

trained and rained and tamed
her own veins to spill with ink
and smoke. she’s flat broke,
but tilted toward sky.


Written for Poetic Asides



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Magic Beans

{Pandora Prays}

I have traded stalks
and stockings for bright
boxes that open
if you twist
and turn
and yearn
just right.

You call me sister,
daughter, queen,
nick my name
for your want,
your disaster,
your separation
from stars;
for the way the dawn


A second offering for today’s Quadrille. I’m hosting. Come play! 

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Cliff’s Notes Left in Wayward Drawers


Do you think we have finally
held them long enough –
these tangled things,
our breaths,
our hands?

I’ll scribble you a sunrise
if you’ll loan me one
small rhyme.

Let’s sell this sky for
cobalt scrap;
swallow dry that broken
-bone moon,
nick some time.


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


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dragon dna



they’re two parts
moon, i think, a drink of
shimmered scale and waxing fire.

where do their wings come from?
starling murmur? darling’d breeze?
the breath of trees and song that comes
……………(what may)
from long stray veins
of talon’d silence.

we query not
their gator teeth,
the brief singed scent
of flight.

For Misky’s twiglet this week. Come play. 



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