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Tag Archives: clacking black
a symphony of sunlighta melody of moona whispered whir of trees a warble a murmura burble (and still) the clack-patter of keys and she (limbs raised to sky) will live there in that shanty by the sea. ::In November, we poem. Quickly.
The morning speaks in cobblestone braille and snail trail goo. You might think my toes would have a go at it all, but my fingers are what’s itchy. Twitchy with time and not enough time and rhyme that isn’t jiving. Arrival’s easy; it’s staying that’s a trick. … Continue reading
help! she’s running from the dactyls again, fleeing her own parchment skinand huddling between the lines. she’s been participle dangled and meter-mangled and nearly strangled (but wits intact) by stanza. in fact, she left us a syllabled s-o-s,and I fear it’s no joke, see? cuz just when you think she’s … Continue reading
And I couldn’t tell, if anyone here was feeling the way I doBut I’m lonely now, and I don’t know howTo get it back to good– Matchbox Twenty she is approximately 751 days behind the eight ball the last call the deadline that fine line between … Continue reading
this poem is a tightly wound spring. she’s a taut wound caught up in clacked-black things. she’s got unspoken broken and unscattered seed, unpolished corners and unmet needs. she’s a wayward kite on a fragile string. let’s unwind her now, and let her sing. Lill’s given us a fun … Continue reading
say hey bard-tender, won’t you please pour me a straight up shot (in the arm) (in the dark) of some rum-bled phrase? fuse me (shaken, stirred) a word or two to spill, some cocktail napkin poems to fill the time. lose me to the page, the space -bar rage of fingers flying and syllables sighing in … Continue reading
she’s a blank sheet, waiting. a quiet screen longing to scream. some black-throne keys to clack, attack the day. she’s smudge on snow, you know. a black blinking portal door signaling for more (words, phrases,time.) she is paper ghost haunting every smoky line. she’s … Continue reading
.. God’s taking full -flash photos again and it all rips open in a zigzag stab of gold cracking black in half, all clacking cymbals and flickered blaze. Our gaze is broken by thunder, struck by time, backlit by the … Continue reading
.. just a line or two clacked against all this busy breeze. .. prompted by poetic asides