Dragon Squall

She tumbles
until she has nothing
left but
the rise and fall
of sky
as breath
and a mouth
scarred thick with stories.


twiglets #97



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Princess Pop and the Bubblegum Dragon


Princess Pop
for a hubba-bubba-bubbling

He ballooned. She swooned.

Those bubble-oons were,
luckily, filled with goo
(and laughter).

And the moral of the story
is just exactly this:
never ask a Bubblegum Dragon
for a little kiss.

………………..(And they all lived

Still having some fun with today’s Q. Come play! 



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Got Stuck

in the muck. In my

(Just bad luck.)

Tried to flee. Silly me.
Feet got tucked
in that muck
with my truck.

(Aw, shucks.)

Pulled ’em loose. Lost
my shoes.

(Bad news.)

Still here. Oh, dear.
Mud in ear. End is near.



Today calls for something silly. I’m hosting the Quadrille over at dVerse. Come play! 



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Not taking into account that cold bone moon

we walked those paths
and chattered on
of years and tears
and everything
and nothing
and every
-thing in between,
ancient rising oaks
and gravestones
white as teeth.


twiglet #96


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The Tragedy of Toes


They’re stubbed
and snubbed
and scuffed
and stuffed
into those cute heel-strappies.

(Misery might love company,
but all of ’em ain’t happy.)

They’re cramped
and tramped
and clamped
and damped
in puddles, ponds and lakes.

(You’d think that we might give ’em
a break, for heaven’s sakes.)

They’re socked
and mocked
and shocked
and stocked
with polish, paint and piggies.

(They’ve gone to market, hell
and back, and shrugged and said “no biggies.”)

They’re shod
and clod
and flawed
and thawed.

(That’s the tragedy of toes-es.)

And sometimes,
they get stinky.

…….{Thus: a tragedy of noses.}



Prompted by Poetic Asides





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All Rise

I say the tragedy is how you’re gonna spend the rest of your nights with the light on
So shine the light on all of your friends…
– Jason Mraz



This sky’s
got a million ways of cracking
just wide open, holding
out its beating,
thunderous heart.

I didn’t ask you enough questions
before you left, and now
I’m scared
of all these things
I’ll never know.

The rain’s got a patter
of truth to her, but the wind, well
………she lies
………in wait
for those of us
with sympathetic ears.

Is there magic
in the knowing? Or are we
merely kidding ourselves
and calling it good?

All these years,
I simply thought the earth
a comedy
of errors,
a gathering of fools.

And me,
…………(ay, me!)
still full of songs
and silence.



Prompted by Poetic Asides




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This is one for the loony bin.

Image from Wikipedia


This poem is just
one or two steps
of everything I might
want to be. I’ve added
stars and salt
and sea and sigh
and the violet violence
of one last sunset.

Yet, it stretches
and it strives, not yet
quite alive in every
verse or vein. It strains
to see straight
praise through all
of these unquiet
voices in the rain.

They’ll only let it
chatter in chalk
and talk about the
weather or the way
things used to be;
no poli
-tics here, or long
slow fears of righteous
-ness, or soap
boxes or truth
or consequences
or best defenses
or dreams.

It’s nuts, you
know; mixed. Fixed
only in its salty bowl
of thinkthinkthink.

What do you
exactly see?
A bat? A butterfly? A spill?
A dragon? A rib cage?

Ink-stain is a kind
of madness,
when you’re free.


Prompted by today’s twiglet. Come play! 






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