Getting Blank

Reset your face. Erase all traces
of the you that’s been you for way

too long. Forget your song: the words,
the refrain, that last strain that kept

you sane through the tumbled storm.
Wish yourself strange, a stranger in

your own skin, a place to center your
self new, map of veins leading some

-where soon, somewhere wonder-
wandered loose from thought, un

-caught and clouded only by indigo
blue. Stain yourself in ink and bright

bold open sky. Swallow rain. Bundle
moon into bite-sized bones. Be known.

Prompted by Poetic Asides

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The Thrill of Quadrille

We come for the dance, the chance
to lull words into bubbled glee, grin
them happily into melted days.

Suppose the shimmer of a twisted
phrase, the way it skips, all bright
green breeze.

And when the word basket tips,
spill me a rose.


A second offering for the Quadrille over at dVerse
(the one in which she uses all the words given thus far.) 



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Any Other Name

Rise up and call yourself
strange, unchained
from sky and sea and song.

Moniker your soul with thorny
crown, held down by silence.

Stem the sweet, sweet smell
of somethingness;
and fill your cup,
revel in the way you


The bar’s open over at dVerse, with a new Quadrille word dance.  Come play! 


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between breeze and bloom

Screenshot 2016-06-26 09.49.46


play magnetic poetry here

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Bipolar Sky


Make up your mind, woman. Indigo
silk dress, or syringed star scars. You

get to decide both color (blue rasp
-berry cotton candy, ink stain, ebony

charcoal curmudgeon smudge) and
texture (wisp, willow tree, wallow). You

wave your birdless hands, cloud phalanges
stretched toward an arrogant stop sign sun.

Remember to breathe, blue lungs and golden
gills rising and falling like scales from azure

eyes. Surprise yourself with a crimson blush
brush dawn, a quiet hollow-boned apostrophe

marking possession of the addled horizon blur.
Concur with last night’s fading-now moon

mother, orphaned softly by her leaving, be
-lieving only in the last etched trace of her

papery skin. Begin again, crushed against
the jagged claws of land, cradled to the salty

curve of sea. You get to choose. The joy of muffled
silence, or the shaky thumpsong ache of blue.


Prompted by Toads

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Most Mad and Moonly

She’s craving crescent, effervescent
sliver, silverfish shivered into indigo
sky. She’s carving her full self out of
ivory, dipping low into crimson sea
and wondering how she came to be
quite so

She’s amphibious, breathing strange
in her own bright skin, beginning to
wander deep and just slightly left of
center. She’s longing for the pinprick
of stars, the constellationesque haunt
-ings of
distant things.

Give her a face, the space to move
across this sky without the gossip
prying of telescoping eyes. Give her
her privacy, a dressing room with a
darker scrim. First, give her the naked
ache of sigh.
Hunger. Thirst.


Prompted by Poetic Asides



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Summer Salt



Had I told the sea of my longing, my
wanting, the quiet haunting of my heart

for wave and salt, it might have prepared
itself for these feet. It might have treated

my tumbled edges less like seaglass and
more like fragile wings floating. Had I told

the breeze that I needed a sign, a sigh, a
reason why and how (and what the hell) to

spell myself in fragments, shells, it might
have sent me something softer than all this

sand. Had I bid the land adieu (to you and
you and you)
and willed these limbs to fins

and breathed in bubbled bliss, I might have
missed the pieces of myself that wash ashore.

If I hold the sea with quiet hands, collected
tears, these salted years of summer just might

add themselves up to more than sorrow. If I
borrow one last low spelunking moon, golden

in its own dipped head, I might just find my soul
in all that’s left of crimson thread-etched song.



Prompted by Walt’s summer starters over at dVerse. I was inspired by a line from Nizar Qabbani’s “In the Summer.” (Check out Walt’s post for some great summer writing inspiration.)



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