we can battle awesome

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img_4050-1John Sloan


Another hairy day,
Love. Too much to do,
not much to say. But may
-be if we just play, sway
with words and let the
rhythm hold our fears
at bay, we’ll find a way
to embrace it all, fall
into the still, small
voice that says, It’s
all gonna be okay.



Written for Quickly

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poem ignoring a marmot


this poem cannot wait
for spring, early
or otherwise.

it has winter things
to spill. snow and what
-not, from its icy quill.

no flake the same, they
say, but they
have not met her
frozen side. how much would

would a woodchuck
chuck, if he passed the buck,
shucked wood
(paper covers rock, after all)
and called it a day?

give the varmint
a pen, an unclouded sky,
let her shed her shoulds
from heavy shoulders,
let the day spill by.

it’s cold inside this Feb
skin, and she doesn’t know
where to be




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Waiting Rooms & Measuring Spoons

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. – T.S. Eliot



Holding quiet breath and pouring another
cuppa. Hear the clock? It’s mocking us.

Tick tick ticks me off, really, all these little
boxes awaiting checks. All these unbalances

breathing down our necks. All.this.weight
-ing. Emergency! (Oh, no, not really. Just

triage, a little spilling of skin.) Recovery: two
steps forward, three cups back. A lack. A tea

spoon. An angry moon. Nothing more than
one more click of silence. A spoonful of sugar,

a swirled black sting. Just the thing: a band
-aid and a smile. Two itchy inky fingers of rum

-bled phrase. A vein. Perhaps a smallish gather
-ing of crows, or prose. I suppose limbo is just

another place we pause, gather ourselves back
into puddles, from rain. Stop. Spill me, again.



Linked up over at dVerse, for Open Link Night. Come read some amazing poets! 




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upon waiting


she’s (de)bating
her breath and skating
on thin, and icing her skin
with ink.

she’s stating
the facts, and then taking
them back, and aching for lack
of drink.

she’s dating
her days, and fating
a phrase to breathing beyond
the brink.

she’s hating
her skin, hesitating
within, and willing her soul
to sink.

Written for Poetic Asides

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Give me gills.

my inky indigo heart to sea,
free me to the waves
I longed for in my
legged days,
then let me

Pour me
out a
siren’s song,
some syllabled
strain of
half light
and liquid shadow.

Barter me some
and a color tangled
shimmer spangled
tail that swims



Abhra is hosting over at dVerse Poetics today.
Come play! 



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The One Where Her Antediluvian Phase Comes to an End

img_4644Amazing photo courtesy of Gabriella at dVerse.

It’s a lonely place, this skin. We have gathered ourselves in small puddles, quiet drops. We’ve got no place else to go, but the trenches of these city streets. I have reached the end of myself again, stunned the eyelids of these building bones with my longing. Songs, unsung. Streetlights stung by silence. You say we’ve got about a million miles to go, but I know objects through these windows are closer than they appear. Hear the pitter patter of these tiny liquid stars? Someday we’ll know them, deeper than fingerprint or pane, stain ourselves with their knowing.


we are slow-spilled sky
and skeleton trees, sighing.
the wind has teeth.



Oh, hai. We’ve got haibuns in the oven over at dVerse today, hosted by Gabriella.
She’s got some gorgeous photos to inspire you. Come play.



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