I Believe You, Poem.

When you say that you are
strong, and beautiful and wise
and sure. When you say that you are
not. When you fill the snow
with silence.

I believe
you, poem. I know
you can heal
the world with your
-bled breath, with your
long slow deaths, with your
and clacks.

I believe you
believe in me.

In my heart. In my stuttered
starts and slanted skew. In my too
too strong heart thrum,
in the scumbled mess of
all I am. I be

leave you
with these words:
……….be free.



Written for Poetic Asides



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two ghost moon girls, clad only in snow and silence

we dance in bubbled skin, gossamer-grin shimmered
strong; twist all day long with clouds. spill loud.

we giggle, spring-drizzle our storm-bliss on hungry
tongues; spice sky with jars of whisper. kiss dawn.

haunted shadow-souls breathed
brilliant blue and echoing dream. streams. hope.



You might call this One With A Whole Lotta The Words, for dVerse Quadrille





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For My City, as It’s Falling

My City is aching.
It’s taking one breath
at a time, holding love
at center and knowing
……………..it’s enough.

My City is reeling,
kneeling. Begging for healing
and a glimpse of
something that just
might be Light.

………………………..We fight.

Name us: Grace,
hummed hope.

This is for today’s Quadrille over at dVerse.

This is the first thing I have written in more than a week. Last Sunday night, October 1st, something unimaginable happened here in Las Vegas. My kids’ school, our church and our little Henderson community have been significantly impacted. But in the past 8 days, I have watched my city come together in miraculous ways. Blood bank lines wrapped around the corner. Our churches reaching out to victims and their families, first responders and hospitals and their families, and anyone affected by that terrible night. A memorial park built in just four days. People are visiting the Strip to look at crosses. We have mourned and we have prayed. We are still mourning, and still praying. But there is always, always hope.

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spicing the moon

tonight she’s all
a saffron-shimmer
in a cardamom sky.

melt her center,
spent. bent towards
some semblance of jazz
-mine grace, her face
a swollen
slice of stolen
nutmeg pie.

sprinkle her in crater
-cradled stars. sp(l)ice her soul
in two. this half is ours.


A late entry for the Q44 over at dVerse this week.

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We Regret to Inform You

This poem knows nothing new
of note. Nothing notable nor news
worthy. Nothing even slightly south
of sane.

It’s got no goods, not even on

No get up and go when it comes
to bending an ear. No here and
now. No whowhatwhenwherewhy

This poem is so out of the
loopy, it’s soupy with extraneous
scutt and the
……..(like, big)
butts of its own jokes.

If you’ve got the 411, good
for you. This poem’s got none.
Not one fancy thing new
under the sun.

Its deets? Incomplete.
Its facts, stacked in sand.
No scoop. No poop. No dirt.
No dope.

One tiny iota of knowledge?

This poem is clueless.
(Like, totally.) It’s useless
to try and make it care.

Close your eyes
and listen.

It’s barely


Written for Poetic Asides

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What have we done?

Did we dance? Did the stars
etch our path, fallen and pure
and lost? Did we toss the right
things to sky, and keep the
rest? Or did we hide our best
faces for those rainy days?

Have you smelled the snow?
Did you know it knows the
deepest things our hearts
are too frozen to say? If we
taste it, will it thaw the center,
for love’s sake?

And how many
licks does it


Bjorn has us pondering questions over at dVerse Poetics from yesterday. Come play!
{I am a bit down for the count as a bad cold turned into walking pneumonia…trying to play some catchup today.} 

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The Throatstone that Wakes Her

This fear
is the long slow heartbeat of that clock,
the tocking of hours and
the clicking of keys.

It seizes the day in fits and
starts and sputters, utters vapor
words to a chalkboard sky,

blows desert wind,
breathes fire;
a dragon moon in dilapidated skin.


For Bjorn’s Meet the Bar prompt over at dVerse. Come play! 



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