Monthly Archives: March 2017
.. Oh, we’ve got ghosts. Smoke screens and silence. Violence in the streets and fences. But hey, let’s watch these wisps, will ourselves to scramble this denim sky. Why not? These thoughts are waning like that old bone moon. Squiggle … Continue reading
.. See, here’s the thing: Shape-shifter, soul -drifter, wayward wandering gypsy skydragon. White wisp. You’ve got a thousand other places (things) to be, and I can see them all through cloudy eyes. .. Prompted by Miz Q. Quickly.
.. longs for sea; quills salty feathered songs in wee poem pockets. ..
(an aubade) .. There weren’t quite enough clouds to stir up that crimson purple rose blush sort of sky cauldron, and the tangerine shine of rising yolk sun was acceptable, at best. Cue more birdsong. Cut the traffic din. Maybe … Continue reading
.. birdcry; the warming of her skin by sunburst sky ..
… some things are not meant to be used. (unthrown stones, dusty mirrors, aching sky) but left to her own, she is simply learning the intricate architecture of these landlocked limbs. ..
… the rhythm of her metered feet is off and she scoffs at rhyme but these words still want to bleed so she heeds their call, s p i l l s them (sm)all. ..
… Give her a low and guttural flow, the way a small stone fits in her palm, the skip (of heartbeat); the burbled psalm of going somewhere soon. Shiver her the language of moonspill breeze, the sway of treesong and … Continue reading
… it floats up slow, like it’s got no place to be, no sea of blue to spotlight and sizzle. it breaches mountain top, climbs upupup, apricot fingers sticky with a new day’s hope. .. …
… scribble-scrabble your morning away, under a rising grapefruit sun. just like ………………me. .. ,,