Gatherings

We shirr ourselves together
from invisible
strings, clustering in flocks
and crowds
like birds, mustering
our faith. Colorful chairs
unfolding, holding our
memories. Our laughter,
like bright awnings
from the street.

We swear by flowers,
mosaics, the smell of pages.
We sit. We stay. We pray
and cry and wonder
and we hold each
other. We

are here,
and dearly be
-loved.
..
Prompted by Miz Q. Come play! 

 

 

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The Nopebook

..

She writes the things she does not want
to do. A “chuckit” list of sorts, a way of

stretch-scribbling her soul, working out
the nots. Her thoughts spill. Fill these

pages in intricate stages of naw and never
-lands. Some in pencil; some in pen. She

draws the lines in broad and fine, in ink
and sand. She supposes her nays might

leave more white space, more room for
praise. Sun-tumbled songs. Breathing.

..

..

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Ms. Moon Waning

..

She’s straining
her golden eye to see
the last good in this night,
the last gold in this fight,
the last gild for her flight.

She’s danced all night
across this star-stung scrim,
whirled at her whim
to ebony’s shadow song.

She’s longing for dark
-ness, midnight cloak.
Oh, the way her broken
-open heart tacks up
the sky.

She wanders by in style,
and scope. Gives the day
a great big
…………………nope.

 

 

..

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Because I could not stop

,
ghost me a whisper-dawn,
scar-curled meltmoon setting
in her shimmercloud sway.

shadow me a sonnet-grin,
an open jar of sparks,
spilling bubble-breeze.

this rose has thorns.
(cue tattered leaves,
green,
twisted in
melted breath.)

my friend,
fool death.

skip the journey,
…..seize the end.

 

..
The One With All the Words, for Quadrille #26

 

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Hidden Hearts

..

Hear the breeze?

She articulates her
whim. Her will’s
another story
altogether.
Hear the beat?

The art we are
(our center)
doesn’t have a color,
……..creed,
…………….or size.

Oh, we’ve had it.

We’re going out
to make some
(progress)
…….(noise)
 ………………mudpies.

 

 

..
Prompted by Lill’s Poetics over at dVerse. Come play! 

 

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Duncan Imperial Dawn

..

here’s the thing:

time’s nothing
but a spinning
kite-top blur,
with
(out)
a string.

 

 

..
prompted by twiglets number 11. come play! 

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Princess Waiting

..

She’s finally
let down her hair,
bit both bullet and apple,
grappled with gadgets and gizmos
and thingamabobs galore, tamed beasts.

The least
he could do
is show up.
On time.
With a little
glint of hope.

………..Nope.
 

..

Prompted by Poetic Asides

 

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