Weapons of Mass Distraction


Shiny object, laundry pile,
random pic to make her smile.

Running squirrel or wayward
breeze, playin’ puppy, ruffled trees.

Dirty dishes, diapers, kids;
Tupperware…can’t find the lids.

Kitten purr and yummy snacks,
legos loose in stacks and stacks.

Online news that’s never good.
Take the breather? Yep, I should.

Facebook, Twitter, games on apps.
Getting sleepy? There’s a nap for that.

The world wields all of ’em, one by one.
No wonder the writing never gets done.

..
Somehow written for Poetic Asides, in between shiny objects. 

 

 

 

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Weapons of Math Destruction

Place a +
in there, all devil
-may-care, and you’ll add
a little sumthin’.

How many x
does it take to multiply
the love we break
to nothin’?

Give a –
some room, and
boom!you’ll subtract
the things we need
to minus.

All things being =,
it’s really our words
that constantly
¸ us.

..
Equationed for Poetic Asides

 

 

 

 

 

 

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pretty how towns


we find ourselves
(insideout, downside
-up),
in those places where
anyone might call us
(sunmoonstarsrain)
crazy. tomorrow’s hazy, is it
not? we’re daisy-chained,
wind-caught, so why not?

let’s hitch
up
our horses
our heels
our frowns
,
and take that
last ink-scratch
of road
right
home.

 

..
Inspired by this poem by E.E. Cummings.
I’m hosting the Quadrille over at dVerse today. Come play! 

 

 

 

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she runs

 

{just one}
mostly more,
but never
in            a        row.

she knows she’ll
never be a marathon girl
or a speed queen,
but she’s seen
her strong legs fly, and listened
to her lungs
sing impossible air.

 

 

..
Written for Poetic Asides

 

 

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improbable sky

oh, that moon.
she’s an imp
…………………………………-ossible loose tooth,
the jagged space where you left
your heart.

 

 

 

..
Written for Poetic Asides.

 

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The Art of Going West toward Ottawa with a Complete Forgery of Vermeer’s ‘The Little Street’ in Our Trunk, After the Rain Stops Once Again

{for Grandma Moses}

.

Don’t stop when we get to the border, no matter how shaken
, stirred we are by this heisted hum. Don’t mourn that moon

behind us, or this star-scarred sky, or that sinister shade of
blue. They’ll catch us if we stop, {don’t stop}, between the day’s

tales and the dawn, between the intricate howling of this wand
-ered breeze. To fish, to wish, to kiss and tell, we must cast a

spell of quiet (s)laughter, gold paint noise. We’ll dot-to-dot math
our way, folding the map into this dark-spade sky, all white paper

snow and charcoal smudge. Remember back when Nostradamus
sneezed in apothecary glee? He said we’d get away with it (or not),

all gypsy heart and bright petaled teeth, some pinprick ceiling
shadow show for the masses. He gave us jukebox jangle passes

(with gregarious gratis)to please us, to tease us into squeaking in
syllables, translations with exclamation points against all that

black. We’re never taking this evening’s sketch back, nor tomorrow
morning’s jealous scattered things. Banish us if you will, fill our

pockets with unquiet storms, some view of licensed reason we can
no longer free. Release us to the moon. She’s got a paintbrush and

a lucky #2 pencil, a penchant for love and costly lust and the lonely
penning of letters to an indignant sky. Hate us in our slippers, ceilings,

houses made of glass. Show us where the yellow dotted lines might
pass, where the cobbled border might (not) lie, where the truth might

shine against all that black. We pass church, steeple, people steeping
in their hate and hesitant stumble. We steal umbrellas and guitars.

We strum.

 

..
In April, we poem. This is The One With All the Prompts, which also contains one phrase from at least one poem from each day this month.

In May, we rest. 

 

 

 

 

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hum again

even when the world shouts loud
and the heart breaks easy,

even when the devil’s in the details
and the day’s tales and the dawn,
even when your song
is silenced.

be numb again.

then thaw to sunrise,
surrender to breeze,
ask the trees for answers
as they sway and strum.

hum again,
because the sky is listening
to every fractured heart’s
desire.

slay your dragons,
keep their fire.

 

..
In April, we poem. All caught up. 

 

 

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