.
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.)
Whimsygizmo's Blog 
“we woke the spotted shriveling blooms” – pretty cool.
I was thinking this was some form where you had to repeat, as there are several of the same words in the first and second stanza!
“blond from woke” – I’m still trying to figure out!
Isn’t this fun?! I adore the text mixing. I put one of my regular poems through once, out of curiosity, and kept some of the phrasing. The poem got accepted. I, now, play with it fairly regularly either as a starter with a piece of text, or to check a poem I think needs something. I love those last three lines.
The speaker is a cat, of course. Her mother was all she could be, but it wasn’t what the kitten needed or hoped for. It wasn’t enough. She still adventured and lived, but she ever felt empty because, “from the woke” (birth), her mother wasn’t truly, deeply, completely there for her. What can one expect from the world if her own mother doesn’t love her more than “three quarter the could”?
This is a beautiful, deeply touching and mesmerizing poem.