We meter them out in fire, scaled down
to last treble-clefted flick of
tail and trail of smoke.
The syllables sag and drag
-on winded sails, caught between
embered teeth.
We store them in caves, and sand
-castles, vessels of wind
and wave. Salted. Sung. Saved.
..
It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse, and I’m hosting. Come play!
..
cuz my belief
is pithy’s nifty.
i’ll be quick,
just one fast flick
of pen and wrist.
oh, i’ll be brisk.
just one last tryst.
small words, my bliss.
..
we’re happy to report
that though they snap and snort,
they’re all smoke
and they keep it short.
…
Written for Poetic Asides.
He loosed
my muse
from hair
to shoes
,
gave me the will
for wubulous whim
and star-bellied glee.
He had the Rx
for making a mess
of noun-sies
and verb-ootles.
He gifted me with
oodles and oodles
of ways to play with
words on page
;
silly the syllables,
ribbon the rage.
..
Written for Poetic Asides.
..
We chase the algorithms
of the breeze, form a premise
for the gibbous moon. Speculate
upon her glow.
We have formed a hypothesis
or two, or three,
about these shattered
scattered stars.
We can wax forth eloquent
and strange about the
scarlet spill
of sunrise.
But we’d rather
put on tutus. Dance
in the rain.
Merril’s got an awesome prompt over at dVerse. Come play!
,
the world comes at us,
fast and fierce and long and loud.
we lower our voices,
raise our (s)words.
..
