Bare Bones



This poem is drawn
……(and quartered)
in charcoal smudge
and the sludge of
lily pad glee. Stretch

her in pencil-thin
lines, out-of-time
strings, the long lost
things at the bottom
of your artcase. Place

her cloud-shy in a
magic marker sky,
and just try and tell
her she’s not quite
real. Feel

her flow, traced in
lace and grace and
the glow of that gold
-leaf moon. Swoon
to the smells and spells

of turpentine and oil
-paint, palette ready, brush
poised. Make some noise
as she steadies her outline,
pulls on skin, begins.



Day 21. Because even when April’s crazy, we poem


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2 Responses to Bare Bones

  1. Just Barry says:

    Easy, natural rhythm. I’d like to hear this at a spoken-word.

  2. Honey8 says:

    That was a nice poem! 😀

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