Holding the River in Unquiet Hands

{Aubade for a Softer Sunrise}

Shattered, we slow our hearts and let
dawn’s waves wash over, taking with them
our deepest wants and fears, but not
the ability to call them back, or make
them stay gone. Falling moon told me
a story, a trickle of whispered song, a
tale of her longing for other than stone.
Yet she bows for sun and I do, too, and
soon here in all this early light, we let
the petals of worry fall, hold them
loosely with open hands, still but not
silent. Colorless, equal, our feet spill
secrets to sand, promises that hold me.

We must steep this dream deep, otherwise
each new bright day might pull, and kill
it. Am I perhaps the hope? No one told me.


We’ve got a new pub tender over at dVerse, the beautiful Amaya, aka Gospel Isosceles, and she bids us to be bold today. Won’t you join us? 

Mine is a golden shovel form poem using this quote:
“Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
Otherwise kill me.”
– Louis MacNeice
from Prayer before Birth

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Under a Scalded Sky Scrim

we begin
with praise and prayer and
a parade of midnight kisses
and we ask our

(those future folk,
those wandered wisdom souls
dangling their toes off the edge of the world)

only the stars can answer.


twiglet #59.

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Rock Me, I’m a Daisy


Kick-bounce me off of your
bubbleballoon knee, your skip-shimmered
glee, your whisper-peppered hopebreeze. I’ll flicker
you something drizzled in shadow-song,
sound-stormed dawn
, and you’ll knock that bliss-moon free,
leave her breathless, spice-curled and

know she’s been {still}
all along.

A second Quadrille offering for today’s dVerse, where I am hosting. Let’s call this The One With (Almost) All the Words. 😉 



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the most wonderful thing

about springs:
(as opposed to these quiet win
-te(a)r chills,)

is the way they
b    o   u   n   c   e
clouds off a stirred-up
sky, the way they pry
their wily, wiry petaled
fingers into my funnybones,
trounce about
on trampolines of dandelion
kisses and small slow
wishes and

It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse, and I’m hosting. Bounce on over and play with me! 


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Busy as a bee{sting}


Pooh’s got a red balloon
and a hankering for honey
like nobody’s business. Be a cloud
be a cloud be a cloud
he saids
but we all know some
-times the ground’s closer
than we
hope. And inside
all that buzzbuzzbuzz
and honeyed talk,
there’s some harm
-less thing
than idea;

more sting
than song.


Prompted by Poetic Asides



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Cold Florida Moon

New Year’s Day, 2018
Venice Beach

It’s not the state we’re used to, this time around – of the union, or of being. The breeze is less than balmy, the palms nearly as frozen as our own. We’ve come back every other year or so for more than ten, and this, by far, is the coldest it’s ever been.

But that fat moon’s full and so’s the sky – of clouds, of promises for another year together, of more laughter and love. And the ocean still beckons with her salt and spray, shark teeth sprinkled throughout the sand for treasure hunting. We bundle up and find the fun and play near the shore and pray for more sun but marvel at that full-figured glowgirl still rising strong against this chilly chalkboard sky.

Pelicans trace stars
hollow wings feathered against
the winter moon’s face.

It’s Haibun Monday over at dVerse. Come play! 




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like water for sky

Casperson Beach, January 2018


the sky’s on fire
and so’s her soul,
so much foam and salt.

she’ll leave a piece
of her
self here, take some
peace home with her.




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