whatever is true


she longs to stand beside
the ocean
feeling significantly small,

where the only color
that matters

………………….is blue.

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poem reparations

she wishes
she could fix her muse,

air her out in clothes-pinned
sunshine, breeze away these blues.

perhaps she’ll braid her
through dragonclouds

or button her to the moon.
here, won’t you glue

her brittle-broken pieces,
shake them loose,

fasten her
to a star.


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


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in praise of finish(ed) lines

we inky finger
tappety-key the words
across these snow drifts
day after day after day after
even as the world is ending
even though our kids are home
even though we’re torn, and tumbled
even though the world is closed.

we scribble to the tune
of crickets,
night sky. heartbeats.
wandered veins, roadmaps
somewhere, soon.

we mumble to the moon,
and sing syllables off
key. we braille our fingers
loose to trees. we listen
for that iambic breeze.

we start with the all the energy
and the passion and the how
and the why. halfway through,
we stumble and wonder
what the hell we were thinking,
what the hell are we doing
especially this


we fear we nouned too much
or verbed too few
or loosed the same words
in a different order
one too many times
or rhymed, or un
-rhymed, or shouted
when we should have
whispered soft. we send
a few aloft, knowing they
carry grace, afloat. we crush some
under tired thumb,
hope they might later
make wine.

moves more
slowly than any other year,
but we smudge and sting
and stay in this thing,
struggling for that one last
line to fall the way
we weighed it.

and with one last battle
-worn syllable-sigh, we
            (drop, full stop and)

……………………we made it.


in april, we poem.
this year the month felt longer than ever. happy to be done. in may, we rest. 



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total loss for words

The sky’s a sheer black slate of broken stars, a cold moon holding her tongue.




An American Sentence. {in april we poem.} 


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of rearview, and regret

this poem
wishes she was just
a little longer
more open
more hopin’
or maybe just
closer than she appears.

in april we poem




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a poem


is a massive thought
sometimes caught
in a tiny box.



in april we poem




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Here There Be Giants


Big ones, with teeth.
They’re massive, and they’re angry
beyond belief.

They’ve got spikes and scales
and dragon tails and fangs that
sink in deep.

They’re  .HUGE
and they’re scary,
(so better beware-y)
when simply walking
down my street.

They’re wickedly fierce
and they’re ready to pierce
your soul with their dark,
red eyes.

Walk alone at night, and
you’ll find quite a plight
as they claw you to
digestible size.

They’re horrifically hairy
and terrifically tall,
and quite factually,
they’ll squash you
like a bug.

What’s that?
Oh, wait…They say, actually
all they really need is a


in april we poem



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pocket change


let’s stuff some hope in there, and
some kindness, too, a little sun

-shine and some promises that
just might fight these denim blues.

we’ll need some unity and a quiet
few who are willing to break through

and embrace the truth. we’ll bring our
fill of faith and an understanding heart,

gentle hands reaching for a slow, safe start.
we may be threadbare, but all we need is here.


in a
pril we poem


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17 cents


just two
….(call ’em lucky)
pennies and three
…….(rub ’em all together)
that say
she just might make it
that this sky might turn
from black
and blue
to sunrise tangerine so sweet,

that these dirty feet
might take her farther
than around that corner
and past this lonely street.


in april we poem


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re:mix’d and mashed

some days, 
she takes her potatoes
…..(and her love poems)
smashed to smithereens,
brave new world view things
cleaving, leaving eyes
and peelings
in this social rebel breeze.

she is
the scribbler who scrambled
her words, the girl
who talked to trees
(because the sunlight doesn’t
quite reach her skin);
one lone falling intricate howl,
an anti-love poem
…………digging in,
barefoot and belonging.

name her selah
……(#crazy talk)
poemdemic moonshine
in protest of these most
ridiculous times.

she’s a
blue-green marbled mayhem
orbiting its own moon too soon,
building a better enough
and distancing herself inside
poem exotica.

she is
eyelash flutter,
waving palms in Sunday
best. This tree
that says we are together,
(and then Lady Luck takes a rest.)

it’s now day 22,
……(or 52, or 102, who’s counting?)
and she’ll follow that yellow brick road
(follow it down, add sugar)
into the why and wherefore
into the sequence of time
………..(keeps on slippin’)
into the unknown tomorrows
of smallish dragons
into the blast of it
into the last of it.

………………………………{force quit.}


in april, we poem. sometimes late. this one’s remix-built of all my poem titles so far this month, with just a few extra words mixed in. 



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