and the sky played on 

she never knew 
the moon was made 
of music, 
orion belting 
out the blues. 

and then 
she flew

mad as midnight, 
wild as stars.

In November, we poem.

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beach sand 

if you hold it 
just right 
(in pocket, in hand)
it’s magic 
fairy dust. 


Quickly, day 30. I may write more later, but today’s nuts.

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The Sun’s Up Again 

And the world keeps turning 
and the sky keeps squawking 
and I swear you 

just keep talking

while the geese fly by 
like little white lies. 

Catch one for me, 
and wring its neck. 
I dare you. 

In November, we poem.

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The Fox & the Gazelle 

(Do tell.) 


They gaze and graze and guzzle,
stopping over the winter stream. 

Somebody wished on a star, 
but put a stopper in the jar. 

Don’t ask the geese, they’ve 
got enough flop. (Full stop.)

Corn pops
then stops.  

How do I love these? Let 
me stop this bullybreeze. 

Keep the change, I’m 
all soul-shopped out. 

I’ve got this, and
how. Stop it now. 

Quickly, day 29.

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True North and Other Quiet Lies 

The compass says we’re there
but I still feel the pull of something 
greater, some crater 
in my soul that says we’ve got 
a ways to go. 

We wake. We give. We grieve. 
We take. We’re born. We mourn 
all those lives
that could be ours. 

And we must 
ask ourselves
what’s truer than the stars. 


In November, we poem.

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Giving Ourselves a Host of Titles, Each in Turn a Song 

We are ancient trees of longing
saplings scrabbling sky
bark holding breath for morning 
limbs reaching for wayward stars
roots thirsty for darker water. 

We are head-down growing
full crunch 
hollow halfmoons 
turned to stone
alone in our soil-sigh wanting. 

Jinx us with juniper branches
small black curses of shadow 
hexagon spells of hope 
faux-fortunes in winter fabric
butterfly kisses of death. 

We are but a scattering of seeds 
a smallish smattering of soul
the loose thought floating skyward 
the spark-trail of snuffed wish
the swish of something unpocketed. 

We address the dawn
return folded edge to sender
stuff moments of splendor 
deep with seated bliss, 
sealed with a kiss. 

Quickly, day 28.

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(the one with all the titles) 

for want of wings, 
here in the resolve of remaining, 
(with Poe, of trees)
we are 
shaking out the down 
placing deliberate storms 
in bold pockets, 
found poems of Icarus waning,  
moonsquabble myths of moon.  

(come, o better fates)

assessment: after all that rumpus, 
(and this besides),  
we are
loose thoughts, caught 
(oh, blackbird with a crooked wing) 
(oh, story held tight in syllabled fist) 
all candlelit windows and a roof of dusty red 
all sonata scribbles to my someday self
all those things we said in the storm, 
and other sky shenanigans. 

no wonder we are struggling with stars,  
birds of a feather palming psalms 
for our preflight check. (too soon) 

well she is waiting 
on her wings while clacking b(l)ack 
(extra, extra) 
poem in peril, in the in between 
truer than north, yet un 
nothing ventured. back 
to square one.  

{last call for a wayward moon} 

In November, we poem. This one contains at least one title from each day so far this month.

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grey balloon set in a painted sky 


don’t you 
embrace all that 


Quickly, day 27.

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Shaking out the Down 

“I am a feather for each wind that blows.” William Shakespeare


Look up, 
the sky’s a fluffered song
of promise. A float of hope. 

Let’s make ourselves a small 
and quiet 
place to gather 
these loose quills caught. 

**Cue the lightning.**

On second thought, 
let’s not.


In November, we poem.

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Sometimes I’m terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it stops and starts.
– Edgar Allan Poe 


We’ve got this hunger, see? 
These walls around 
our chambered souls, 
these syllables overflowing. 

Our veins are showing
and we need a place to 
flow. Let’s go. 

We’ll climb this oak 
and build a floor

and spill our stories 


Quickly, day 26.

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