Another Pin-Pricked Sigh Sky 

I can’t think of a better medicine than stars for a ceiling. 
– Yellowstone 

::

Now I lay me down 
                 (to sleep) 
my fears 
my tears 
the tired 
trappings of my heart. 

A quieting restart,
this midnight sky. 

My wayward soul to keep,
counting 
        (blessings) 
clouds as sheep. 

Standing still, 
I wish upon the fallen. 

Twinkle
twinkle 
nightlight peace. 

::
Sarah’s got a great Quadrille word for us over at dVerse this week. Come play!

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is there anybody out there? 

when the tree falls 
                 (in the forest) 
for the sky 
do you and i hear 
it, across all these miles? 

i know not
of timbre falling 
,
but the stars are full of static 
electricity and the moon is all crescent 
cling and zing. 

::
I’ve been gleefully out of Dodge this week, so late to the Quadrille.
Mish had some fun for us on Monday.

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the way the moon slanted her smile at me last time 


,


and we’re out there standing on the beach 
and my toes know sand is fairy dust, 
and I trust my heart to this evening breeze 
and she’s teasing me with this closed paren 
-thesis of gold and so i’ve gone 
and told the earth i love her once again. 

but see, 
she’s a tricky one 
(this earth, this moon). 
just when i think her murmur’d shine enough,
she disappears too soon. 

::

I’ve just come from a couple nights in Lake Tahoe with my Love. This is prompted by Poetic Asides.

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moving on

(in the key of clack) 

::

we’ve left our black 
smudges on the pages 
of each other’s hearts. 

we’ve flirted, 
we’ve fallen.
we’ve phrased. 

we’re right here last callin’
glasses raised for one more
round, glass syllables clinked
and 
jackets donned. 

and now as we soldier on 
(as these letters, these words, these lines), 
we say not goodbye, 
but write on. 

::
With thanks to all poets and generous commenters for another awesome April.
Because in April, we poem. And on May 1, we rest.

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ghost heart 

you have been living 
with my ghost. 

the rest of me is gone,
wisp’d way by grief. 

all that’s left here 
are remnants 
hanging in the air 
,
words not said 
old smoke rings 
and other barely there things. 

::

In April, we poem.

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anyone’s any was all to her

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart: 

when you sing in your whisky voice 
when the world is mud-
luscious, the little 
bird by snow and stir by still
when the world is puddle-wonderful 
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

since feeling is first, 
in every language even deafanddumb
,
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy

and what i want to know is
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
far 
and 
wee

Fleeter be they than dappled dreams
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

sky lavender and cornerless, the 
children guessed(but only a few
are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds 

all by all and deep by deep
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
but
the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls 

when by now and tree by leaf
paler be they than daunting death 

And death i think is no parenthesis
running from marbles and 
piracies and it’s 
riding the echo down

for life’s not a paragraph
while Spring is in the world
and
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(sleep wake hope and then)they
laugh, leaning back in my arms

how do you like your blue-eyed boy
Mister Death
she laughed his joy she cried his grief

sun moon stars rain
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
will never wholly kiss you;

(though love be a day
and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).

I’d rather learn from one bird how to sing
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
how children are apt to forget to remember
how much said she
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance

.

::

This was a time-consuming BLAST. It’s a Cento, cobbled solely from poems by E.E. Cummings.
For day 30 for NaPoWriMo.

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Last-Chance Gas 

We stop
against our better judgement, 
even though we’ve barely got 
a dime between us and we shoulda 
used it for laundry because your last 
t-shirt is starting to smell like that 
rest stop two towns back. 



The black 
black pavement just keeps on 
moving and that dot-to-dot line is a 
golden ellipses to the next thing but 
we don’t know what that is and so 
maybe we should just keep cranking 
up the Stones and keep on rolling. 



But we’re 
on E, see? And it doesn’t stand for 
everything or anything, really, except 
that everything’s a mess and even 
with a full tank I’d be empty 
of common sense and still endlessly 
edging myself into eventual eclipse.  



And maybe 
here’s where I get out. Get off this 
crazy ride and hide and find myself 
again right here in the middle of…
Kansas? Nebraska? Where are we? 
So maybe not. Not quite yet. But 
it’s fuel for thought. 

::

In April, we poem.





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the last poe-hum 

except it isn’t, 
really. 

this is just 
the one
they call the pen 

                               -ultimate. 

::

In April, we poem.

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birthrights

a faithful family. a good map jaunt. 
her dad’s green eyes. her mama’s smile. 

the firmest of foundations. 
a fair shake, a good start. 

but
sometimes she carries her gifts like burdens,
small curse words on curious tongue: 

fingers that crave ink,
and a two-sizes-too-big heart. 

::
Day 29 for NaPoWriMo.

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Sigh(t) Words 



We commit them to 
memory, wear them as articles 
of faith, don them like habits. 

Sky. Sea. Tree. Wild. Breeze. 
We take the ones that move us 
and groove them into our skin. 

We close our eyes and paint our fingers cobalt, 
emerald, saffron. Count stars by memory. 
Braille freckles into poems. 

::
In April, we poem.

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