DragonSong

They speak in fiery tongues
and burning Braille breath, the

taloned syllables of sky. Sanskrit
scales and trails of scarlet smoke.

We listen with our outstretched
hands, our hearts, our will and whim

and why, and wonder how long be
-fore we understand we’re all broken

pieces of the same slang. We sigh
and sign our own names, fingers

flying, laced with ache and the lava
-lake spill of their echoed hum. Some

day we’ll trace our own scars with
hungry fingers, and know the bump

and bruise of mourning, a calling from
afar. The shattered languages of stars.

 

..
Prompted by Poetic Asides. 

 

 

 

 

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Cauldrons Calling

..

Oh, we’ve got spells.

Woo him.
Thrill him.
Kill him.
Spill
him to the moon, she’ll hold
him fast. Bubble-bubbled,
toiled and troubled
here in all this midnight
mass.

You only need bring
a broken kite string,
your sharpest longing,
crimson rage. A page of
poems. A leg of poison
frog. A pinch
of fog.

..
twiglet #113. 

Silver Bells, Cockle Shells, Pretty Maids

my blood approves
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers.
– E.E. Cummings

 ..

She’s fussing about out there
in the garden again, cussing

out the flowers. Loves me, loves
-me-nots, forget-me-dids. Shattered

petals and lost bliss, and that one
murmured kiss that muddle-muddied

her sky. A wink, a leap. A crunch. The
kicked-in burn of heart’s last twist.

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

A song of the stairway

(an invisible poem in the key of C)

..

This poem cannot be
seen, only sounded
out one
syll
a
bull
at a time, sung
in the key of clouds
and candy-caress
sighs. She’s wise
in the ways of spirals,
the celebration of breeze.

She’ll seize this day in
Braille stars, the crease
at the center of the
moon.

..
Written for twiglet #112. Also making up for a missed dVerse prompt this week. 

 

 

Skewing Toward the Sky

This poem is a fair
…….(maiden)
in a bright tower,
sticky with cotton candy
clouds and crowds
of dark (k)nights in
dashing star-spilled skin.

She’s in it for the pop
-corn, you know, the equality
that only comes from tumbled
things and strings and strands
of crunch. She’s as neutral

(balmy, sunny, pleasant un
-biased) as it gets, until she lets
that tangerine fireball get under
her skin. She’ll win

you a prize, if you stay long
enough. Hang tough as she
hollers blue expletives out
the window, makes a scene this poem
………of storm.

Her new normal is
a gable
(a gamble,
a tablescrap-scramble)
above the rest. A test of whim
and will. A spill of sigh and song.

Can you see her flaxen light?
She’s a sprite, a ghost. A
middling-middle-most
mad and moonly boast of
midnight rain.

If you’ve gotten quite
whisperclosenow
and you still can’t tell,

Then
fair
thee
well.

 

..
Written for Poetic Asides. 

 

 

(th)inking in thirds

..

 

She is still left mourning this
powdered sugar skin, frozen limbs,
a hush of snow.

 

 

inkin’ in thirds on thursdays. 

 

Skeleton Moons in Dark Closets

Crave her. Save her
as a nightlight,
lighthouse
beacon for the sea.

Hold her fast
between these hanger clouds,
the hush-loud sting of stars.

Turn that golden knob.
She’s waiting.

 

..
For twiglets.