Anti-Love Letter

{Dear John, I’ve moved on.}

 

You might want to sit down for this,
oh most distinguished one. By the
time you find this note, this mid
-night rote, I will be gone, lost
among the stars. See these,

my scars? They’re where you’ve
burned me once too many times,
broken through the lines
(crossed, uncrossed,
and snapped
in two)
and Buddy, I’ve got news
for you: you’re toxic.

I’m tired of apologies and roses
(by the way, they die)
and I think that I
shall take a pass
on your last offer. I’m starving
for something more, some quiet
private place to store my dreams
before you’ve seen them,
turned them into dust devil
disasters and threadbare storms.

I am warrior now, and brave.
Saved by some small glimpse of moon.
She waxes and she wanes, and still
we love her.

Forgive me for the loss of marbled childhood
crush, and adolescent flush,
and August rush and hints of con
-strained shout. Without a ceremony,
pause or doubt,

I’ve flushed it all down the John.
Now, moving on…

..
In November, we poem

 

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Daisies Chalked on Broken Sidewalks


He loves me 
……(loves me not)
and I am drawing
petal after petal
to prove it, remove
it from my brain that
he might love
another.

Also, please
don’t step on
the cracks; I’m afraid
he might not
come back.

 

 

.
In November, we poem

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Behind Bars

Con
-vince me if you can that broken brave is
no oxymoron, that we can be swayed toward

forgiveness in these silent burning days. That
one last glimpse of praise might save us from

our midnight sorry selves, our fallen findings,
the too-tired bindings that have held us fast.

At last, perhaps we’ll befriend bones and skin,
glorious within our own blood lust disasters.

Hopscotch chalk me an unbarred sky, a private
why that just might pass for truth. Let me be

tween these cacophonies of clouds, clacked proof
that rain will come and all is not so lost. Herein lies

the rub, the doubled rainbow hula-hoop of toxic
troubled souls: we are but warriors against concrete

walls of our own making. Flush with fear, but here.
Drink up. Stay thirsty, friend. Break through.

 

..
This is the one with all the prompts. These are getting to be utter nonsense, but it’s still amusing to try to get all the thoughts in there, and I plan to see this thing through to the end. 😉 

 

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Con Artist



He makes a pass
and paints her flush,
blush rub
-bled toxic skin.
She calls him ox
(y) moron,
and the dance
begins again.

 

..
In November, we poem

 

 

 

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Papering the Sky

..

Be
-hold the sun,
flush with first
blush of day
,
an unquiet con
……….(artist)
-trail of clouds, pass
-ing by too soon
,
the dry rub spark
of dark stars,
this toxic oxy
-mo(r)on.

..
In November, we poem

 

 

 

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Ro Sham Bo

 

.. 

I am paper
-proud, running
with scissors, clinging
to the rock.

 

..

 

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Pick Up Sticks

..

One, two
Grab your shoes,
we’re about to head out
into the forest. And there are
wolves.

Three, four
Shut the door. The
boogeyman comes out
……..(hungry, quiet)
after darkest night. And we
just might fool him
into thinking we’re lost.

Five, six
Pick up sticks. Walk
soft, be still. These are the
colors of our childhood, the
sharp edges of our adolescent
storms.

Seven, eight
The path ain’t straight. It’s
crooked, gloriously tired in its
sorry spill. We’re never growin’
up and we’re brave enough to
stumble, smart enough to fill
our pockets with tiny sticks
and stones.

Nine, ten
Broken bones. Again, again.
This is our secret graveyard, the anti
-thesis of our ghosts of thought. We
are the haunters of these here woods,
born of fire and found in glimpse
of moon.

Soon, we shall banshee
our un
-forgiven hearts,
call it a day.

And let those sticks
fall
where
they
may.

 

 

..
In November, we poem

 

 

 

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