your morning away,
under a rising
grapefruit sun.
just like







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all ye, lands

(a palmed psalm)




….(take, fake)
a joyful noise
(snicker, scream, sing)
unto the Lord
(the morning, the mourning,
………..this crazy rising sun.)



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long my waiting
into morning hope, a hum
of blossomed breeze



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sticky fingers and sunshine



those grapevines
spilled over into our yard
from theirs,
and my tiny people
liked to be lifted up
to borrow a juicy burst
of morning
with hungry
crimson hands.


Twiglet #16


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We say it quietly – a low, large hum. We breathe it in, looking around this overcrowded table. Prime rib and turkey and mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes and green beans and orange fluff. We laugh ourselves loose and eat ourselves silly, stuffed. Knowing this one day is enough to remind us life itself is a gift, and we are all fully present.

One floating feather,
pining for nothing under
a thanksgiving sky.


Trying my hand at Haibun again, giving thanks for Toni’s talent and prompting over at dVerse





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She has not thought this poem through.

It has no pondered
purpose. No prayer.
No be
-led end.
But the phrase
indoor fins
wanted a place to be,
so she builds it a
a storm


The phrase ‘indoor fins’ is another Shawna-ism. 

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Still Pondering Crows


She knows
there are other things to pause
and poem
(the light in that window there,
the flapping rooster man on the corner,
the whisper of snails)

but she cannot seem to get
past the ebony apostrophes
of those feathered raven
gathering murder
and calling the morning
a black-heart
with no more shine.

See the way they line
the wire, bring their caws
and effect against
all this blue? They’re
plotting something big,
and I,
for on(c)e,
will be read




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