copper penny fountains {in which she finally uses all the words to describe something other than the moon}



With storm breath and flickered fear,
we open journey-jars, spill-skip dream
-coins into bubbled shadows. Dance a
wish, lull-curl-whispered across spring-surface.

The echo-sound’s a cued breeze,
melted shimmer-grin-ghost. A boast-giggle,
drizzled-green dawn. The twist leaves sparks,
still-twisted scars that pepper-cloud our longing.

Balloon economy,
rising.

..
This is the One With All the Words, for the Q44 prompt over at dVerse today. I’m hosting. Come play! 

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Waking softly, slowly



Every day’s the first
day of something
or other, so we
remember the blue.
And the blues. The
used toothpaste tube.
The scent of
rain, fading.
The crumbling of
time.

And
the way this sly sky
holds court with
tree songs
and dream
-bled clouds.

 

..
It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse, and I’m hosting. Come play! 

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wisps of clouds, and silence

run three
…………………{miles}

prayerfully.

ask for confidence, grace
and grit
to get
through this crazy day.

gratefully.

with eyes that see all
this gorgeous day
might be.

 

 

..

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run (just) one

………….{mile}
until it’s done.
until there’s an end
-orphin smile cracking
open your jaw as that sun
egg-yolks the sky.

run it speedy gonzales style
to make your own breeze,
feel the rhythm of fast feet
on this waking street.

run it (just) til your lungs burn
and the sky turns
an audacious shade
of periwinkle
pink.

 

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run four

{miles}

she didn’t know she could,
until she did.

and then she died.
…….{just kidding}

but she did watch that wily sun slide
up into the sky like a lemon wedge
on the edge of a mountain-rimmed drink,

lungs on the brink of madness
or surrender. heart on a bender, punch
drunk on pain. legs drained and numb.

sweat-drenched and tamed,
she jogs home.

..

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Camels, Eyes & Needles

It’s hump day, and she’s gotta say
the piling up challenges of this desert place
are starting to make her crazy. She’s

dotted all the i’s and crossed more
than t’s and tried to please the masses
and the mob. She’s sobbed a little and

prayed some, too. Pricked herself
silly trying to sew contentment and
hope into the s(t)eam of her own skin.

She’s worn a little thin and torn a few
too many pages from this burned-out sky.
Give her a smallish dragon song, a way

to bleed out hope. A penny (candy) for
her thoughts. A rope of clouds to bring the
scent of rain. A quiet sigh. A wine cork moon.

 

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Prompted by Poetic Asides

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sun run

i beat that wily guy up
this morning, up and running
{one…two…three}
before he could take a peak,
could tweak the sky into some
scorched August rust.

trust me,
i’d rather sleep,
but i just keep
{swimming, swimming, swimming)
pounding pavement
in search of blue.

the sky’s the thing
in all her morning bling,
slung low and waiting
for some brighter thing
to rise.

surprise. these clouds
are witnesses, noble gray
wisps of thought
caught against all this
haze.

 

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