Gauze Clouds, Rising

Oh, we’ve got ghosts. Smoke
screens and silence. Violence
in the streets and fences. But
hey, let’s watch these wisps,
will ourselves to scramble this
denim sky. Why not? These
thoughts are waning like that
old bone moon. Squiggle me
a song, Love. Patchwork me
some hope from my mama’s
old dress, my first communion
veil. The sails of a ship sent
to scrim my salt. A fencepost
totem. The tail of a sun
…………-swallowed kite.



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Breaking Blue


here’s the thing:

Shape-shifter, soul
-drifter, wayward wandering
gypsy skydragon. White wisp.

You’ve got a thousand
other places
to be, and I can see
them all through
cloudy eyes.


Prompted by Miz Q. Quickly.


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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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