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
the
down
low.

No get up and go when it comes
to bending an ear. No here and
now. No whowhatwhenwherewhy
nor
…….how.

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?
………………………….Nope.

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

Close your eyes
and listen.

It’s barely
there.

 

..
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
take?

 

..
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.} 

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! 

 

 

Another Thing, Coming

I’m the dreaming ghost, guest, waitress, watcher, wanting
the words to be true.

Whatever the weapons may come to mean.

……………………………– Adrienne Rich, Scenes of Negotiation

 

…

You’ve got
it, in spades, she tells
the girl in the mirror with a
crescent moon grin and a wink
that says tonight’ll shine
just fine and another swig of
drink that makes it true.

She’ll tell you
she’s coming apart
at center if you let her,
but mostly she’s holding
it {to get her}
so no one has to see
the darker side.

Sins of the father,
she thinks
as she drinks
and wonders
what ol’ daddy dearest
might’ve done
to leave her here
wandering
……………(wondering)
pondering
this undeserving sky.

 

..
Prompted by Miz Q. 

Moon Mother

..

she’s a sweet old golden
grandmother in an embroidered jacket,

all pale blond pigtails and plush mouth
plumped for kisses.

teacher of all things
celestial and falling.

she’s the penny you saved,
the drop of water earned.

the thumbprint of some
bandit, stealing sky.

the momentum of a star,
and the drag of it.

a seventh sister,
shining;

that sixteenth candle,
still lit.

..
My Shawna made me a wordlist. This is what it wanted to be. 

storm fairy

…

so, listen:
you’re either well
-weathered wit(her),
or you’re not. if you’ve
caught her
……..(net, pocket, palm)
you know the moment
-airy calm she brings
be
fore. her satin ribbon
hair’s a syllabic squall
wibble-wobbly woven through
this sky. she’ll balmy
you up a cloud-scrum
or two if you raindance chance
a certain flicker in her eye.

she surges, swells
and tells a fine strung tale,
red sky by morning,
slush-shush,
tut-tut, it looks like rain.

 

..
Written for Poetic Asides. 

 

 

run two

{.5}

lungs full of glue,
but alive and well and ready
again to pound these morning streets.

set rhythm of feet and rasp
to go, then do, and take up the
task of shred-treading on through.

sun beat us today,
but tomorrow
{maybe}
we’ll be ready to beat him up
and play a little harder,
farther.

 

..