When the sun goes down and tomorrow isn’t promised

we 
(bold) 
blow our breaths loose 
and wonderwish a way 
to say  

the stilted 
phrases,
scattered 
phases 
of our long-lost 
selves. 

we sold our souls 
for a star,
and we’re sorry. 

we hold our breaths 
for a silver-sliver of moon, 
a shiver of silence. 

::

It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse, and Merril has an awesome prompt for us. Come play!

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Black thrones waiting for finger strikes {Wooing the Muse} 

She’s a wily one
-der, all curled up crescent 
like a soon-hiding moon. 

She swoons at sea, 
sirened only by salt. (But she 
can barely swim and gets con
-fused.) 

Eyes closed, we clack. 
For our own 
  (sanity) 
sake, we eat cake. 

And are not a-mused. 

::

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

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(pre)amble 

this poem is the alpha
(dog
-gerel) 
-bet against the house, 
the unquiet mouse
(or wheel) 
who squeaks first. 

at worst, it’s a squawk 
-stab in the dark, a tent
-ative spark to start 
something new. a cool 
blue sky awaiting 
scribble. 

wiggle it a little. giggle 
to the moon, she’ll swoon 
you into some scribe-sway, 
some way to connect-the-dot 
stars to make these phrases 
ours. 

draw a starting line. draw a 
small fine string for a kerned
-kite opening, a magic wand
-ering fling. 

let it wonder-wander awhile.
let it smile. 
let it style 
itself against the cracked 
-egg horizon glow. let it know 
it might never be finished, 
but will never dim
-inish the ember within. 

hold your horses, 
your breath,
your pen. 

and let’s begin. 

::
In November, we poem. And on the 30th, we finish. Whew.

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Happily Ever 



After 
the rain 
(before the moon), 
they hum their free
-dom tunes to a storied sky. 

The world whirls by with a 
royal flair, but they’re
just happy to be
here with the 
trees.  

::
In November, we poem.

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Breaking Point 



They’ve gone wild
(these wayward princesses),
bored of bibbidi-bobbidi boo,
tired of titles and 
weary of woo. 

They’ve decided to 
break it all down 
lose the shoes 
and crack their crowns 
into a mosaic of glitterglee. 

See? 
The world shines better 
broken. Spoken. Free.

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

 

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Dragon Dance Remix 


{Abbreviated version, with happyness hangover} 

Crown hula hoops spun. 
Dragon hearts won
(wrangled, spangled)

Howling’s begun
with freedom sung
(bare feet, loose lungs).  

Sipping happy tea,
steeped in glee 
(whiles, smiles). 

::

Day 27.

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adagio

this poem is the snailish one,
the long slow 
hum of something 
not yet said. 

it’s not quite ready for prime 
time, in fact 
some of its syllables 
are still in bed. 

::
Catching up. Day 28.

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Next to the Oldest Oak Tree 


That’s where they gather the most, 
the moss
and the moments 
that remind them they’re free. 

There are three small pines 
where they’ve cast 
their shoes. Here they 
pause to remember their past. 

And then there’s the moon. 
Eyes and swords skyward,
they whisper thank you 
to stars, and know they’re home. 

::

Catching up again, backwards. Because in November we poem, even when things get crazy busy.

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collecting thoughts, connecting dots 

this poem is the thankful one 
the one that bows in gratitude 
and readjusts its attitude 
each time a new line flows. 

do you suppose it knows 
how fragile it is, in its quiet 
paper skin? how any one  
line might be its last straw? 

so it casts its syllabled shadows 
as far as it can, holds the 
day in both inky hands 
and stands still, still in awe. 

::

Day 25. Caught up. Whew.

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Well at the End of the Wood 



The water’s clean and cold 
and good, pulled straight up 
from a lower spring. 

They sing as they go, 
not the high princess ah-ah-ah 
of their former selves,

but a low high-ho of work 
well done and freedom won 
and stories spun, 

laced in laughter and woven
-whim’d through the trees. 
They squeeze their eyes 

shut and seize the day 
in joyful sway and grateful 
hum. Another one, well done.  

::

In November, we poem. Sometimes four days in one.

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