dubious she


longs for sea;
salty feathered songs
in wee poem pockets.




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Renovating Dawn

(an aubade)


There weren’t quite enough clouds
to stir up that crimson purple rose
blush sort of sky cauldron, and the
tangerine shine of rising yolk sun
was acceptable, at best. Cue more
birdsong. Cut the traffic din.

Maybe a crowflight smudge or two
to keep us humble.

And perhaps tomorrow,
if we might begin
an hour or two later?

would be great.


Prompted by Poetic Asides







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the warming of her skin
by sunburst sky


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flotation devices

some things are not meant to be
(unthrown stones,
dusty mirrors, aching sky)

but left to her own,
she is simply learning
the intricate architecture of
these landlocked limbs.


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including (s)laughter

the rhythm
of her metered feet is off
and she scoffs at rhyme
but these words still
want to bleed
so she heeds their


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Give her a low and guttural flow,
the way a small stone fits in her palm, the skip
(of heartbeat); the burbled psalm of going somewhere soon.

Shiver her the language of moonspill breeze,
the sway of treesong and silence,
the calm of curve and towering green.

River her a lullaby,
a painted sky of blur and blue,
the slow and sure translation of her own small sigh.



Prompted by guest host Paul over at dVerse Poetics today. Come play! 

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tangerine sky

it floats up slow,
like it’s got no place
to be, no sea of blue
to spotlight and sizzle.

it breaches mountain top,
climbs upupup,
apricot fingers sticky
with a new day’s hope.




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