Kisame



We’re driving into a Monet painting. Crimson, gold, apricot, amber swirled all around us in one dizzying blur. We are Leaf Peepers, a name that still cracks us up on day 3, transported into this east coast masterpiece from our desert land for a few more days. We didn’t have kids yet, remember? No double tow-headed 16-months-apart “Are we there yet?” or “when’s lunch?” or as we know now, teenaged eyeroll: “You guys, this is so boring.” Just you, and me, and the trees. Color everywhere. And the rain. Oh, the rain, a fine light mist at first, and then a quiet drizzle, falling sliding slipping from these color palette branches as if it were translucent paint. Wish we’d known just how free we were when we linked hands and walked through all that autumn magic.

A lone loon calls
across an orange patchwork pond
trickled in sky

 

..


Toni is our Haibun Monday host, where we’re writing about shades of rain. Come play! 
 

 

 

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moon lonely and murmur wild

Screenshot 2016-06-19 18.52.58

 

play magnetic poetry here

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cloud dragon

Screenshot 2016-06-19 18.29.25

 

play magnetic poetry online here

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pneumatic bounce

..

by the alphabet nectar
of her own skin, the thunder
-pulse of her imposter collarbone,
she begins to once again comprehend
the sound of rain. the space between stars.
the way scars both sting and sing. the untraceable
impossible of every thing. the frisky glitter of sunrise
painting its way sharp and silent into a stained glass sky.

 

..
wordbumps from my shawna. 

 

 

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Assembling the Dragon

..

We give her wings, knowing
she will leave us. Knowing she

will take all this glorious bold
jade skin and match it to the sky.

We etch her scales with salt
and sea and sorrow and hope,

knowing she will ache and sing,
knowing she will conquer, smile.

We weave her teeth with words
and wind, knowing she will stretch

out tongue and taste the sour,
savor the sweet. We know she’ll

breathe fire, leave ash in her wake,
wake the dawn with her roar, score

the earth with her scorch-sting. We
feel her heat, her unsprung heart,

the way it stops and starts and fears
no thing. We play with light and dark

and quiet sparks and bright crimson and
small slow indigo sway. We know she’ll

love and hate us. We fold and form and
plant and poem and make her anyway.

..

 

 

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Sorry About Your Toes, She Says

..


unstress.STRESS.unstress.STRESS.
I amb confused on which is which.
STRESS.unstress.STRESS.unstress.
I really am trying to follow the pitch.

My feet are tangled, my muse is sore.
STRESS.unstress.STRESS.unstress.
I’ve tri-ed, I’ve di-ed, I’m pent up and hexed.
It’s unstress,STRESS; less “un” than STRESS.

I’ve two left feet, a dizzy muse.
I’m thinking in syllables, all confused.
I can’t stop rhyming, although I’ve tried.
(No really, I can’t stop. Brain=fried.)

Not at my best,
I must confess
that all this counting
leaves me STRESSED.

 

..
Another one for Victoria’s dVerse meter prompt. ;) 

 

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A Meter Maid Goes Rogue

(she’s not all that fond of feet)

..

The ticking of the clock is off;
her feet are tired, and waning.
tickTOCK, clickCLACK.
Creep close, stand back.

The only thing she craves is sea,
a salted skin for staining.
Moon up, sun down.
Spilled stars, her crown.

How many tocks since she’s begun?
How many steps left, waiting?
Two feet, a sail;
trades toes for tail.

She breathes in gills.
The earth stands still.

This quiet spill is all she knows
as heart beats blue and off she goes
……………..to paint herself in indigo.

 

..
Victoria has us playing with meter over at dVerse. Come play. 

 

 

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