Specter Moon

(an Aubade)



Dawn breaks
us open,
and changed,

We say
our goodbyes,
our last gull cries,
our vast pulled tides
and ardent waves.

Sun rises;
moon falls,
a balance
like breathing.

She’s nothing
but a ghost
in a morning sky,
and I
………am waning.


Prompted by Kim’s Quadrille over at dVerse. Come play! 



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Crum, Bling

Give us cookies,
shiny things. That we might leave
a trail, might find our way back

Give us stones
unstacked and
thrown only into sea,
river rock turning water
to power.

Give us hours
and stories. Smiles.
A way to see each other through
all this skin.

Give us new
beginnings. Gates.
Bridges. Ways to hold
another hand, understand
a mile in unfamiliar shoes.

Give us second chances,
grace. A wide bright open
sky and a way to connect
these star-dots into
something more
than great.

Prompted by Toads. Come play! 




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After All Those Evers



She sleeps

and her spun-gold
tresses spindle
these cobbled castle walls.
The feeling of gossamer
against her skin, and
a gentle mourning for
fragile footwear. A half
-bitten apple. A fading rose.
A watchtower, the call
of dragons. The sound of
hooves, a forest whisper.
The crown she’d gladly
trade for freedom. A

Too many stones.


Prompted by Miz Q. Come play!

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all the space that remains


…..a silver moonsmile;

……………….the stubble of stars.




Prompted by Poets United. Come play! 




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This Poem Can’t Be Much


This poem is a soft-shelled crab, the
drab and unadorned way the world sighs

just before a storm. It can’t be dry
-cleaned, or steamed or hung

on a line. It won’t be patient with
your heart, or your itchy fingers or

the humdrum of your aching un
-metered feet. It’s incomplete, and

stained at center. It can’t be good,
or fooled, or cajoled into something

it’s not. It can’t be caught by trap
or butterfly net or long lost wishing

star. Or mason jar. Or cage. Or rage.
Has it lost its wonder? Perhaps. Let

it wander free. Be. Let it flee these
unlined pages and scribble-scruff

the sky. Let it fall, or fight and find
itself a home. It can’t be too late, right?


Prompted by Poetic Asides

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more dark matters of distinction


Her un
-detectable mathematical curiosity is
-ponentially dampened by the
-dementally incorrect facts of frozen



..Another wordlist from my Shawna. 

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Three Sheets. Winter. Wind.


The sky’s all tipsy-spritzered with rain, and I’ve
got something to say and only these three snowy

pages and a leaky cobalt pen. Is my two cents
worth anything these days? We go (lightning)

rounds, thunderclap trapped in ink and silence.
I’m scribbled, lost. Last call for sorrow, clouds.


A second offering for the post I’m hostin’ over at dVerse Poetics. Come play with me. 

Posted in dVerse poems | Tagged , , , , , | 14 Comments