august and everything after

forgiveness comes in
juts and starts

and so does fear.

questions unanswered,
truths unsaid,
his icy stare.

a ragged hole in the wall;
(not, quite)
(not quite, yet)

the last straw.

just one more
tiny hole
to her heart.

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

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night shift

the stars are clocking in
again, twinkled noses set
to grindstones. wishing
moments. filing away
the hours.

bathed in shine,
we praise the darkness
full of shadowed
and other unquiet
matters of the heart.

that swollen misfit moon
a work of art.

I’m late to the party for this week’s Quadrille, where Lisa has a great word for us.
Come (work and) play!

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aubade with a broken smile 

morning breaks 
us open, and we ponder 
dragon-breath clouds and 
all that crimson fire. 

we’ve already held 
these miles between our 
teeth and found them too 
salty, too muddled-
much for day’s embrace. 

the sky’s a quiet place 
to trace our last good 

Linda’s got a great word for us for today’s Quadrille over at dVerse. Come play!

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i am 
-bic pen, a(r)che-typed 
in longing, serif soul smithed 
in mist and storm. 

clouds are commas. this world:  
a swirled parens awaiting closure, 
exposure to a lone ellipsis moon.

we would hold 
these truths

nobody told us we could be  

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

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Another Pin-Pricked Sigh Sky 

I can’t think of a better medicine than stars for a ceiling. 
– Yellowstone 


Now I lay me down 
                 (to sleep) 
my fears 
my tears 
the tired 
trappings of my heart. 

A quieting restart,
this midnight sky. 

My wayward soul to keep,
clouds as sheep. 

Standing still, 
I wish upon the fallen. 

nightlight peace. 

Sarah’s got a great Quadrille word for us over at dVerse this week. Come play!

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is there anybody out there? 

when the tree falls 
                 (in the forest) 
for the sky 
do you and i hear 
it, across all these miles? 

i know not
of timbre falling 
but the stars are full of static 
electricity and the moon is all crescent 
cling and zing. 

I’ve been gleefully out of Dodge this week, so late to the Quadrille.
Mish had some fun for us on Monday.

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the way the moon slanted her smile at me last time 


and we’re out there standing on the beach 
and my toes know sand is fairy dust, 
and I trust my heart to this evening breeze 
and she’s teasing me with this closed paren 
-thesis of gold and so i’ve gone 
and told the earth i love her once again. 

but see, 
she’s a tricky one 
(this earth, this moon). 
just when i think her murmur’d shine enough,
she disappears too soon. 


I’ve just come from a couple nights in Lake Tahoe with my Love. This is prompted by Poetic Asides.

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moving on

(in the key of clack) 


we’ve left our black 
smudges on the pages 
of each other’s hearts. 

we’ve flirted, 
we’ve fallen.
we’ve phrased. 

we’re right here last callin’
glasses raised for one more
round, glass syllables clinked
jackets donned. 

and now as we soldier on 
(as these letters, these words, these lines), 
we say not goodbye, 
but write on. 

With thanks to all poets and generous commenters for another awesome April.
Because in April, we poem. And on May 1, we rest.

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ghost heart 

you have been living 
with my ghost. 

the rest of me is gone,
wisp’d way by grief. 

all that’s left here 
are remnants 
hanging in the air 
words not said 
old smoke rings 
and other barely there things. 


In April, we poem.

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anyone’s any was all to her

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart: 

when you sing in your whisky voice 
when the world is mud-
luscious, the little 
bird by snow and stir by still
when the world is puddle-wonderful 
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

since feeling is first, 
in every language even deafanddumb
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy

and what i want to know is
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things

Fleeter be they than dappled dreams
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

sky lavender and cornerless, the 
children guessed(but only a few
are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds 

all by all and deep by deep
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls 

when by now and tree by leaf
paler be they than daunting death 

And death i think is no parenthesis
running from marbles and 
piracies and it’s 
riding the echo down

for life’s not a paragraph
while Spring is in the world
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(sleep wake hope and then)they
laugh, leaning back in my arms

how do you like your blue-eyed boy
Mister Death
she laughed his joy she cried his grief

sun moon stars rain
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
will never wholly kiss you;

(though love be a day
and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).

I’d rather learn from one bird how to sing
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
how children are apt to forget to remember
how much said she
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance



This was a time-consuming BLAST. It’s a Cento, cobbled solely from poems by E.E. Cummings.
For day 30 for NaPoWriMo.

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