Vested in Me

..

I had it
on good authority
by both the state of
Nevada
and
confusion,
when I learnt
you weren’t.

 

 

..

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Dearest Calliope,

I am no longer held
together by any
thing
but my own
bright laughter.

Bring your pen, your
sacred tablets,
your love of war,
the words
that breathed
Iliad, Odyssey;
the voice that made
magpies
of your enemies.

Sing to me.

I will bundle your words
like broken sticks to carry
with me into this forest,
tinder for my heart’s last
fire, breadcrumbs
for the
long
way
home.

 

..
PAD, day 19.
Read about the goddess Calliope here.

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to love the poem

..

to love the poem, we need to
be centered, mentored by
gypsy moon, the swoon of sky.

to love the poem, we cry
on bended knees, pry the
festooned breeze for more.

to love the poem, see how
one lone smooth stone
feels, or how one lost song

kneels before only the open
lock, the fool’s empty pocket,
the stolen moment

-oh, we hold on so.

::
to poem her love,
she penned
one long, slow note,
then on envelope wrote:
to Love: the Poem.

 

.
PAD, day 18.

 

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Porches for Pirates


..
You say ahoy, matey, and
it doesn’t matter that Daddy’s not
coming home, because here thar be
pirates, and this swing
be our
ship. The breeze slips
around us like a rum song,
and I see the world for a moment
through your one unpatched eye –
these old willows be beasties
and that sky, the open sea.

We’ve got wrapping paper tube
swords and oranges
(to stave off the scurvies),
and that old white picket fence
has turned into a proper plank.

These white sheet sails are
perfect for catching stars. See?
There’s treasure here,
still.

..

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Hits you right in the feels.

(a Facebook found poem)

..

It’s always a good time
to paint
beauty in the broken,
..first field trip,
…….closing day,
pennies from heaven.

Wonder where she gets her um
…….-brellas?

Sometimes we all just have to un
……………..-learn the fear.

Yep. We get lights, but only
….if the clouds stay away.

Anyone in need of a fade?

 

..
NaPoWriMo, day 17.

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Swing, Shift

..

The witching hour has come again.
She clocks out, loves the way the

edges blur at the ink spill of mid
-night, the stagger of lone headlights;

the swagger of a lonely moon. There’s
a man on the corner who knows her

name. She palms him quarters, buys

him steaming cups of joe, vapor rising

in small arabesques. She swallows
Kerouac by streetlamp, collects the

rhythm of the train in cupped hands,
measures the mile between her last tip

and her first sip
in silent tiptoes and sober salt.
 

.
PAD, day 17.

 

 

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A Sprinkling of Oleanders

.

Blond from woke,
whiskers climbed last dry blooms,
delicate leaves, spring flames
like the roof.

Mother:
three quarter the could,
the blond pale midnight
like whiskers of climbed
white desert,
bed of moon.

We woke the spotted shriveling blooms.

She, the wind
held itself time
(some I of time).

Let the wind trace itself
through.

…………….Trace itself through.
 

..
Still following Margo over to PoMoSco when time allows. Today‘s was fun.
My source text was the first page or so of the novel White Oleander, by Janet Fitch.
I used the original text mixer-upper suggested (The Text-Mixing Desk) for the first few paragraphs’ mix-up, then the one Margo likes, Language Is a Virus, for the second.
Note: we were allowed to delete words, but had to keep the rest in the order the text mixer presented them. (Punctuation is mine.)

 

 

 

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