Moon Mother


she’s a sweet old golden
grandmother in an embroidered jacket,

all pale blond pigtails and plush mouth
plumped for kisses.

teacher of all things
celestial and falling.

she’s the penny you saved,
the drop of water earned.

the thumbprint of some
bandit, stealing sky.

the momentum of a star,
and the drag of it.

a seventh sister,

that sixteenth candle,
still lit.

My Shawna made me a wordlist. This is what it wanted to be. 

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storm fairy

so, listen:
you’re either well
-weathered wit(her),
or you’re not. if you’ve
caught her
……..(net, pocket, palm)
you know the moment
-airy calm she brings
fore. her satin ribbon
hair’s a syllabic squall
wibble-wobbly woven through
this sky. she’ll balmy
you up a cloud-scrum
or two if you raindance chance
a certain flicker in her eye.

she surges, swells
and tells a fine strung tale,
red sky by morning,
tut-tut, it looks like rain.


Written for Poetic Asides



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run two


lungs full of glue,
but alive and well and ready
again to pound these morning streets.

set rhythm of feet and rasp
to go, then do, and take up the
task of shred-treading on through.

sun beat us today,
but tomorrow
we’ll be ready to beat him up
and play a little harder,



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If The Earth Stands Still, I Will Know No More Than This.

There is really nothing you must be and there is nothing you must do. There is really nothing you must have and there is nothing you must know. There is really nothing you must become. However, it helps to understand that fire burns, and when it rains, the earth gets wet. – Zen saying


The sky reigns with a crown
of fallen stars and shattered
silence. Sorrow and hope
both float. Build fewer walls,
more bridges. Temper doubt
with breeze, and sunlight. A
lick of fire. A thirst for rain.



Lil has us reining it in over at dVerse for Poetics today. Come play. 


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Throwing Stones at Wayward Thrones


We are the princesses of ice
and fire and fog and fluff. We have
had enough of your glass
and your velvet chairs
not meant for sitting
and your golden stair
demands of our locks. Your frocks
of silk and satin and lace
have no place here. Our legs
are bare and our feet
are filthy, mudluscious in
their river

We pebble stories and we
crown our heads in only daisies
and sunlight, fairy kisses and
the bright bright embrace
of moon. We swoon
for only breeze, the whisper
of trees on our un-noosed
necks; our un
-bodiced bodies sway
with delight at the sight
of our ink-smudged cheeks
and our mussed hair.

If you dare
to join us, take off
your fussy shoes
and your bruised ego
and your high-horse haught.

And that dragon
you think you’ve caught?
……………….Bring him.

Now he knows how to dance.


Delightfully prompted by Miz Q. Also shared over at Toads


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scribbling her in full


the moon’s
a jellyfish,
tentacled in stars
a po(e)t of ice
waiting to be



twiglets #41



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wild {in which she conjures up one more 44-word moon}

here: ye.

free. found.
ballooned in the
of spilled bliss.

still, this:
-pepper-curled scar.
open jar, shadowcloud-spark.

we giggle ghosts,
spring flicker-fear,
lull leaves to skip-melt-twist.

she shimmers on,
bubblegrin rose, supposed
whisper-sound, curl-cued
nightbreath breeze.

our journey’s green,
aimed to please.


This is The One With All The Words, for the Quadrille over at dVerse. Come play! 

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