She’s found herself in ink and sky


and silent salt. The squawking cry
of hungry gulls. The broken praise

of trees. She’s on her knees in dark
-est hour, bone-tired and waiting.

Forgive her, Father (Son, and wholly
long-loved ghost)
; at most, she’s brave.

She’s sinned, and skinned her knees
on all these pavement skies, these

curbs and cried-out private cul-de
-sac backstreets. This is her con

-fession: forgiveness ain’t free. And she
knows that (ro-sham)beaux escape

to embered breeze. She’s 16 again, a
glorious disaster in alabaster skin,

flush with protest and promise. She’s
rarely sorry, never sane, lost in a

weather vane of just-found true north
wind. She is scribbler, smudger, scribe.

Describe her with a hint of haunt,
the pinch of sturdy pen-cap pen

-chant. I can’t imagine her wild am
-bitious heart passing through any other

place. These shaky hands (against all odds)
are starving for this toxic love-hate page.


In November, we poem and poem. This is the one with all the prompts. 


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Shaky Hands, Sturdy Chalk


When the words
won’t flow,
she smudges
tiny poems.


In November, we poem



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This poem is carrying a sign  

that says it’s busy, working its ast
-*erisk off, worth its salt. It’s tired of

being underpaid for scribbling storms
and pen-painting darkest hour dawns.

This poem is highly motivated and power
hungry. It is glorious in its gregarious

-ness, and boisterously bragging of its
hunka-hunka-burnin’ love hip-stanzas.

It has decided (well in advance)that it shall
contain allof the (26) prompts, all of the pomp

and circumstance. It’s broken every record
for finding lost c(l)auses and glee-glimpsing

that moon. This poem is no oxymoron nor con
-struct of quiet passive aggressive forgiveness.

You’ll find no sorry here, only protest and post
-adolescent enthusiasm; spasms of praise

and private hopscotch prayer. If you dare be
brave enough to question her ability to shine

or swing or sway, beware the day of reckon
-ing. She’s a professional confessional, anti

-hate and laced up straight (jacket) pride.
She’s flush and far and wide and away

the greatest of her kind. She’s (i)amb
-itious, delicious, pent-ametered just right.

*She’s on a toxic tear, a rogue, a rant.
(I’d explain it later, but I can’t.)

In November, we poem. This is the one with all the prompts.



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I’m not sure where
…….the moon went,
but I think it might be
……………… fault.

I miss her.

So please,
……forgive salt.


Poem ketchuping. 


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small praise

we raise
our tiny voices
to the sky,
for we know the
even when we
don’t know
the why.




This one was from the 22nd. Just forgot to post it here. 



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I Can’t Ketchup

{Weighing the Pros&Con-diments}

on poems. I must
-ard(ently) ward off
these fears
and relish the thought
of just inking away,
come what may



I Can’t Erase These Words

I have put them out
into the world,
fire and ice
and ink and steel.




Two poems, two days late. Ketchuping on poem-vember. 



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