Incantations of Longing

We wish on stars, lashes,
pennies, stones,
other fallen
things. We sing
in syllables left wanting,
grasp loose
feathers for want
of wings.

Holding breath for side
-walk, train track,
we braid our brightest
fears, weave
a tiny saffron spell
to cure the morning,
salt soak it
in tears.


quickly prompted

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this poem


this poem sizzles,
singes, sings. there are things
this poem knows, but
will not tell. it spells re
-lief and wriggles free
of tasks and masks, hum
-anity. this poem is a struggling
song that knows no
difference be
-tween right and wrong. it’s all hung
up on silly string and
bright and bitter shiny things
and its own avalanche
of spill. it will un
-wind itself even
-tually, right after
its second after
-noon tea.




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S(hr)ink to Fit


We watch the wind sink
into the sea, pulled
by swollen moon.

The sky is a bruised bumble
-bee, stung by silence, crim
-son song.

How shall we
count the tears
that have salted
these sands? In
teaspoons, thimbles,
snapdragon smiles?

I have run out of fin
-gers, toes, elbows,
wanting only some
place to sink
my breezy soul.




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Me, Op

This poem is an in
-solent soul dressed
in a silk kimono, a
puzzle with
a missing
piece. This poem is a
sardonic hag eating
sardines straight
while listening
to the Batman theme.
This poem is a meme
with an audible moan,
a theme with no sum
-mary or song.

This poem will pry
you loose from
the ledge, then take
you higher and bid

This poem will stay
too long in the corridor,
lift itself up to ceiling, and
set off the smoke
alarms. This poem

will drift
too long
along the seven
seas and forget it’s
not a pirate. Adjectives

This poem is private.
This poem is too public
to be quiet, too loud
to be heard. Absurd,
this poem is. Velocity
and change and stag
-nant sway. An ocean,
a river, a muddy puddle,
a cesspool of phrase. This


is lonely.

Won’t you please



Prompted by mindlovemiserysmenagerie.




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Chamber of Secrets

“My heart is not here” – Sir Walter Scott

Have you seen her?
I sent her out for a long
stroll along
this indigo sea,
and she has not yet
come back
………….to me.

Perhaps she stopped
……for a spot
of tea with a

If you see her,
tell her, please
that there are more
shores than these,
and fallen stars
………….are fleeting.


Quickly prompted.

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Harry Wants a Heffalump

(he’s feeling a little woozy)
He’s in a nonstop writing slump,
and this one is a doozy.

Harry wants a heffalump,
not a ferret nor a frog.
He’s had it with cat-astrophes
and can’t get his dog to blog.

He’s just invented the swooshiphone
(or…what the heck is that thing?)
and he needs a pet to peddle it
and make his poems sing.

Harry wants a heffalump
some handsome pet to brag on.
And if the heffalump won’t jump,
then Harry wants a dragon.



Quickly prompted.

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We’ve left our stamps
and coins
and dead butterfly wings
by the side of the road
………………..for dead.

We’ve no more room
for pages
and pages
and pages
of scraps, framed
and frozen moments

We’re bent and broken
and barely breathing,
leaving only to map
our own hearts. We’re
weaving ourselves into
brighter blankets,
fluttered papers
collecting scars.

Quickly prompted.


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