Communing with Clouds

Oh, there are plenty o’ people
in her
plenty of noisy cacophonous
traces of business
and busy-ness
and messy-mess
and who and where
and when and why.
But she’s an introverted soul,
with a pen
…………….-chant for sky.



Paul’s our new host with the most over at dVerse, and today he’s got us pondering community. Come play! 


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white room

white walls like fresh snow
-fall. tree shed, spread
out before me. parch
-ment for something

a whole wide world of
and i have been given this
one small




NaPoWriMo, day 25


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we push and push
(and pushandpushandpush)
and then we pull our own hearts out
of our chests and watch them walk
around in the world
as if we do not feel every
beat, every booboo, every
ache. as if we do not still
see them
…..(grown, so grown)
across a crowded room
(can’t won’t don’t believe it)
and feel them
in our arms
and whisper,
that one’s mine.


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a little something soupish


this poem is all split
-pea and hambone moon,
noodled in syllables
and slightly goth broth.

it’s dump
-lings and gum
-bo flings
and hot and
sour and wanton
lust for life.

let it simmer
don’t take it off the heat
too soon. let these
pho-phrases stew,
then grab a spoon.

twiglet #21

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breaking {up with} dawn

it’s the way the sun
cracks her head open
on horizon’s skillet,
all yolk,
and light.

a stretch. a yawn.

……………………a sigh.




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love potion number 9

{a magic 9 poem}



spell me a love song
syllabled in your smile,
a place to trace my long
-ing, hold my rain.
potion me a bright tongue
to help me sing your beat.
cauldron me a full strong
moon to bid me stay awhile,
some light to hold till dawn.

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Longing for Borrowed Light

…then you can swallow it, and it’ll all dissolve, see, and the moonbeams would shoot out of your fingers and your toes and the ends of your hair…
– George Bailey, It’s a Wonderful Life


Is it selfish that I just want
to gulp down the moon? What

would happen to all those lovers
strolling along, if I swallowed her?

Would they just stop where they
are, look at each other in a different

light, and part ways? Meanwhile,
I would glow, know the bling of a

thing I do not own. Am I mad to
want her moonly moan to be

my own? To howl for her silver
soul? My heart: a waiting stone.


PAD, day 25..

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