,
we
(bold)
blow our breaths loose
and wonderwish a way
to say
the stilted
phrases,
scattered
phases
of our long-lost
selves.
we sold our souls
for a star,
and we’re sorry.
we hold our breaths
for a silver-sliver of moon,
a shiver of silence.
::
It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse, and Merril has an awesome prompt for us. Come play!
She’s a wily one
-der, all curled up crescent
like a soon-hiding moon.
She swoons at sea,
sirened only by salt. (But she
can barely swim and gets con
-fused.)
Eyes closed, we clack.
For our own
(sanity)
sake, we eat cake.
And are not a-mused.
::
It’s Quadrille Monday over at dverse, and I’m hosting. Come play!
this poem is the alpha
(dog
-gerel)
-bet against the house,
the unquiet mouse
(or wheel)
who squeaks first.
at worst, it’s a squawk
-stab in the dark, a tent
-ative spark to start
something new. a cool
blue sky awaiting
scribble.
wiggle it a little. giggle
to the moon, she’ll swoon
you into some scribe-sway,
some way to connect-the-dot
stars to make these phrases
ours.
draw a starting line. draw a
small fine string for a kerned
-kite opening, a magic wand
-ering fling.
let it wonder-wander awhile.
let it smile.
let it style
itself against the cracked
-egg horizon glow. let it know
it might never be finished,
but will never dim
-inish the ember within.
hold your horses,
your breath,
your pen.
and let’s begin.
::
In November, we poem. And on the 30th, we finish. Whew.
After
the rain
(before the moon),
they hum their free
-dom tunes to a storied sky.
The world whirls by with a
royal flair, but they’re
just happy to be
here with the
trees.
::
In November, we poem.
They’ve gone wild
(these wayward princesses),
bored of bibbidi-bobbidi boo,
tired of titles and
weary of woo.
They’ve decided to
break it all down
lose the shoes
and crack their crowns
into a mosaic of glitterglee.
See?
The world shines better
broken. Spoken. Free.
::
It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse and I’m hosting. Come play!
{Abbreviated version, with happyness hangover}
Crown hula hoops spun.
Dragon hearts won
(wrangled, spangled).
Howling’s begun
with freedom sung
(bare feet, loose lungs).
Sipping happy tea,
steeped in glee
(whiles, smiles).
::
this poem is the snailish one,
the long slow
hum of something
not yet said.
it’s not quite ready for prime
time, in fact
some of its syllables
are still in bed.
::
Catching up. Day 28.
That’s where they gather the most,
the moss
and the moments
that remind them they’re free.
There are three small pines
where they’ve cast
their shoes. Here they
pause to remember their past.
And then there’s the moon.
Eyes and swords skyward,
they whisper thank you
to stars, and know they’re home.
::
Catching up again, backwards. Because in November we poem, even when things get crazy busy.
this poem is the thankful one
the one that bows in gratitude
and readjusts its attitude
each time a new line flows.
do you suppose it knows
how fragile it is, in its quiet
paper skin? how any one
line might be its last straw?
so it casts its syllabled shadows
as far as it can, holds the
day in both inky hands
and stands still, still in awe.
::
The water’s clean and cold
and good, pulled straight up
from a lower spring.
They sing as they go,
not the high princess ah-ah-ah
of their former selves,
but a low high-ho of work
well done and freedom won
and stories spun,
laced in laughter and woven
-whim’d through the trees.
They squeeze their eyes
shut and seize the day
in joyful sway and grateful
hum. Another one, well done.
::
In November, we poem. Sometimes four days in one.
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