A Slice of Blue

(carry the one, bury the pi)

.

There’s a 3.14 (infinite, ad infinitum)
chance that we are permanently
entranced
by all this sacred Blue. Do you
want a sliver? A shiver of wave,
a turquoise indigo pool to save
your aching soul? Do you know
how to scoop this aquamarine
mirror into your smile?

Stay awhile, and be
-gin to carry your own heart.
The clouds are waiting to top
off all this delicious spill
with a fluffy cream filling
pause, a clause
of the most sand
crumble-crust
calming kind.

 

.
prompted by poetic asides, and the prettiest place on the planet, Lake Tahoe.


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indigo sky, infinite stars

the milky way meanders just right
from behind us
forever to beyond
all this deep dark
blue.

stars spill themselves
in stories.

i
am
listening.

 

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in the pink

FullSizeRender 7i think
we’ll stay awhile
and just breathe

in all this blue, be
one with this lakey sea
and see if we can
wave bend mend
the world.

 

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blue breath

FullSizeRender 6

the sky has fallen.

loosed itself in liquid
glass, cobalt indigoed
its way from shore to
shore; stored itself in
stone and sand.

 

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Chasing Blue

Here’s what
I’m gone
do…

quick as you
please
gonna follow
that breeze
and a fine pine
sneeze
right on through

to a perfect
perfect shade
of
Blue.

 

 

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Burn Before Reading

.

This poem is cagey.
It’s rage
-y, with a little side of un
-clear shine. It’s hiding

its most imp
(-portent) syllables
under silent stones. It’s

got tentative feet
and a tongue craving sweet
and a rambling soul.

This poem is
slippery
(when wet or other)
wise. It’s got eyes
in the back of its
quaked quill head. It needs
another hour in bed, the scent
of sea, a sprinkle of its own
pink salt.

It has hawed when it should be
hemming itself in, hummed
when it should know better
than to begin a song it cannot fin
-ish.

This poem is a wish
upon a broken star,
a bright scar reminder
that time heals slightly
crooked. It’s a candle
blown and a penny
thrown the wrong
direction. This poem

is a quiet resurrection
of one tiny thought
caught by the neck
on an indigo
string. It’s an in

-complete, un
-ruly thing, wanting
only to lie
low, shroud itself
in the dark
pooled side of moon.

And here, by pick
-led pen, we have
………let it loose
too soon.

.
Written for Poetic Asides.

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murmur mountain

Screenshot 2015-07-04 11.17.18

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