purple diamond delirious

Quadrille #2. Come play!
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Borrowed Light

All this time
The Sun never says to the Earth,

“You owe me.”

What happens
With a love like that,
It lights the whole sky.


We wonder
if we’ll ever get the hang
of it, this bartering of
glow, this tamed slow
tyranny of waiting.

We’re wanting
something more,
some evening
of score.

But look
we forgot to ask that lone
bone moon, and these sky
-scraper stars.


It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse, and I’m hosting. Come play!  



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bitter sky

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stone stroll


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After the Rain

You say you want to go into the city to see the lights
and I’m all about that smile, and so I say yes, and we

are on our way with nothing between us but the sway
of the radio’s jazz. I’ve grabbed the map and done the

math and perhaps it’s farther than we should go, but
the gray sky doesn’t care and the gathered clouds show

us the way. There’s a spill of blue and green and orange
where the storm has pooled; we’re not fooled by the neon,

only the twinkled white, the city’s eyes winking that we’ll
be alright so long as we just keep moving. We’re grooving

to the puddled promise, the music-muddled miles. And
the old man on the corner snaps his crooked fingers, smiles.


Written for Poetic Asides



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Eve’s Dropping

And that full fierce moon
is rising again,
untying again,
setting herself
loose, a balloon

She’s got a whole new
helium-heck of hallowed
and those trees are setting
their limbs for (l)eavesdropping,
finding new space
for whisper-listening
to the sky.


Kim’s got us Quadrille-ing over at dVerse this week. Come play! 





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write your war

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smooth freedom face


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write crashfire awesome


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whether we write, or knot 
(daisy-chained phrase)

we tie ourselves to moon
too soon, to storm 
too late. we debate ink 
over ocean swell. we tell 
ourselves the words won’t 
swim, fair-weathered whim 
will ragequit in mid

we find ourselves a-dangle, 
participles waning. verbs 
complaining, tangled in their
own bright skins. we wish 
upon a star, a jar of fire 
-flies, the flicker of a candle, 
the whoooosh of if. 

we love it. love it not. it’s caught 
on tired tongue
in wounded web 
on shrouded scrim of sky. we 
try it on for size and find it 
too big 
too hot 
too small 
too cold 
too vast 
too old 
for saving. 

we un
-etch it from our soul,
begin again. 

Written for Poetic Asides.

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