we are reborn
in these deluge moments, heavens cracked open and booming sudden protest of all this desert dry. in drops of liquid hope from broken cloud, redemption falls from sky.
we unfold our hands
and rejoice in water only thrown, streams without stones.
It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse, and I’m tending bar. Come play.
until legs and lungs are sore until you’ve evened the score with your busy, bossy brain. just get up with the sun and put on the shoes and choose to run away.
a bit abused, but still in working order. beats fine. runs sometimes, but only races the breeze. resuscitated in ’96, now clicks and ticks to the rhythm of true. slightly ask -ew about the world, and words. often absurd in both size and scope. a little tender, thin-skinned. inquire within.
Written for Poetic Asides. Come play!
squish that sucker with your thumb, purple-golden pulp oozing through your hungry hands. ii. chew your way through until your lips are blue and your tongue is tanged and tinged with indigo.
plonk! it against the wall an unresponsive ball once so sweet and so cold, now begging for forgiveness.
Kim’s got a sweet prompt for us over at dVerse today. And how can I speak of plums without (always) a small nod to William Carlos Williams?
after we’ve said all there is to sigh we stand
scooping fallen stars
into our cupped hands.
written for twiglets. come play!
it gets curiouser and curious
-er, her fascination with that sky sand dollar, that noble star scholar, mama moon. she swoons at crescent smile, a fine fool for full. you can question her about it some, but she has no words. only hum, and shine.
It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse, and I’m bartendin’. Come play!
this poem is a tightly wound
spring. she’s a taut wound caught up in clacked-black things. she’s got unspoken broken and unscattered seed, unpolished corners and unmet needs. she’s a wayward kite on a fragile string. let’s unwind her now, and let her sing.
Lill’s given us a fun word for today’s Quadrille. Come play!
lives rankled time tangled and all that crazy spin. so we begin to swallow our dis -appointments and our whys
to find our glasses at least half fooled.
the only way to cope:
at never being kissed at being dissed at having missed out on kingdom things. or perhaps he hops (happily) wild in the woods sheds all those shoulds and at nightfall, he sings.
It’s Wednesday. We poem.
of hope , rising.
she buys an umbrella.
she holds hands with horizon. she winks at the sun. she slicks back her hair and gets busy. she hitchhikes on dandelion wishes. she piggybacks stars.
Written for today’s twiglets. Come play!