Fledgling Thoughts, Caught

..

They are the stuff
of fluff, and
float. Of pillows and
bed and quiet nesting.

Of arrow quest and
scritching quill. Of flutter.

Of hollow bones and hope
and reasons to fly.

We collect them
in jars and quivers,
shiver as they tickle
us under chin. Begin
to wonder what it
might be like to
taste the wind;
know the sky,
and the intricate glory
of
falling
down.

 

..
Prompted by Victoria’s Poetics prompt over at dVerse. Come play! 

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Mujo (WabiSabi Spill)

..

Summer Fall Winter Spring. We watch them pass in the slightly seasonless tones of desert life, watch these kids grow from tiny tyrants into baby mooses, all legs and attitude. We try to give them roots and wings. We know most days we’re failing at one or the other. We watch the sun rise, the earth breathe. We watch another sunset, cleave to the promise that this world is not our home but together we can roam it, perhaps leave it a little better than we found it. We listen to the laughter of two teens (for once) helping each other with homework. We wait for a leaf or two to fall, knowing it’s all in Your kind, capable hands. We stand and lie and try and try and fall and fail and turn, turn, turn.

..

The moon’s a sliver
waiting to become a lone
silver sky balloon.

 

..
It’s Haibun Monday over at dVerse, and Toni has us pondering change. Come play! 

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good words & color breath

 

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play magnetic poetry here

 

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A (Very) Few Words for Mr. Edmund Clerihew Bentley

Oh, Mr. Edmund Clerihew B.,
this witty-verse hue just ain’t for me.
As a teen, you invented some poeming fun.
But you see, my poems are more…undone.

 


A bit of tongue-in-cheekiness for the dVerse prompt, where Gayle has us playing with the Clerihew. Edmund Clerihew Bentley invented the form at the age of 16. ;) 
 

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Tug-of-Words

..

This poem is
a struggle, a red hot mess.
It needs a life
vest, a straight
jacket, a kick in the pants
and a hat
to hang homeward.

This poem needs
a snuggle. A hug. Some small shrug
to tell it the world is fine
and good and right. Something
to fight for. Some small flight
of fancy. A sequin. Or a bit of
string.

It’s rambling
and scrambling
its own helter-skelter way,
scuffling and scrapping together
some semblance of sway
(almost.)

This poem will
neither boast nor stand
upon some soapbox
(derby) smile. It’s got a few
thousand miles under its
skin and a few million
more to go and it’s slow
as molasses but tastes
pretty good over first
December snow.

Oh, this poem.

See it climb, only
to fall? See it fail? See it
stall its way through another
stanza trying to stand
on its own two I Am
-bic feet? See it treat
itself to a word or two,
a blue-streak phrase
or a more somber hue
of
puce?

See it worry
and war and wrestle
with its own self
worth?

It’s about to get
what it most de
-serves: an ending.
A bending toward fin
-ality. Some personality
to carry it up into this
inky starspilled mess.

This. Poem.
Confess: un
-dressed, it’s stressed.
And not quite feeling its someday best.

 

..
Prompted by Poetic Asides

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Lake of the Sky


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Step in
and begin to know
Blue. A healing
hue infused with wave
and breeze and pine.

Stay awhile
and maybe she’ll don her
crimson dress,
put on her sunset best
for your evening pleasure.

Bring your wine
to the beach,
teach your children
the significance of silence.

Jump from a rock.
Sway on the dock.
Kayak the shore.
Explore
your own soul.

Stay long enough
and one day
(wooed by moon, perhaps,
like her salty sisters)
she will wax forth
oceanic and sing
you a siren song.

Stay long,
and then sprinkle some sand
in your pockets to keep
for the
(less blue)
days ahead.

(Shhhhh. It’s fairy dust,
if you let it steep.)

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Tahoe.<3 
Native Americans named her.
I have claimed her as my very own. My heart, my soul’s true home.

At dVerse Poetics today, Lillian bids us to travel a bit, and take our reader along.
Come along for the ride. 

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skip to my lu{na}

..

she’s a sky dance, a bubble door lull
-abied to silence. a silver-shimmer melted
to a green twist-grin. a cheap thrill breeze, a
milk spill frozen and rose high. a slivered journey,
a gurney for a broken star. a jar

the sun leaves open.

..
A third Q44 for dVerse. 

 

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