Tag Archives: mermaid poems

The Mermaid Maiden of the Mojave 

She comes in finand fire, a dust cloud of reality and a wave of want. A siren  song with creosote roots.A tail spangled in crushed crimson stone. She comes  alone, but I know there must be more, and some oasis where they all might  swim. … Continue reading

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Sea Story

It’s got legs, this one(at least she did for awhile); hey, all she had to do was trade her voice.  Her choice, she just wanted a thing-a-ma-bob or two, maybe a sand-in-toes stroll on the beach with the hot guy from the boat, but then … Continue reading

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Ocean Sirens

.. We tried to tell you the storm was coming, but you didn’t listen to the waves or the tides; the wisdom of the moon or the scent of salt. We are distant -ly …………..(resistant-ly) related to those of you … Continue reading

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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 … Continue reading

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Mermaid Survival Guide

{How to live on dry land when what you really crave are gills.}   .. breathe words. hold bubbled syllables on on hungry tongue. swim sky. allow trees to spin their secrets, un -shelled in acorn, morning song. sing breeze. the … Continue reading

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.. Give me gills. Spill my inky indigo heart to sea, free me to the waves I longed for in my legged days, then let me breathe. Pour me out a siren’s song, some syllabled strain of half light and … Continue reading

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Mermaid Soul

.. When it’s fin -ally time for her to go, just dip her ….. in ……….indigo.       . Prompted by OctPoWriMo, day 8. 

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. photo by Toni Frissell she is sometimes still astonished by her lack of gills. the rest of her is fine and finned and flowing, infinite in all this sway. she holds the earth at bay by floating, held soft … Continue reading

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This Poem

. This poem is pooped, stooped low and begging for a slow burn, a quiet turn of phrase that might just sizzle. This poem (fo’ shizzle) has nothin’ new to say, no la-di-da way of making sense of its own … Continue reading

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(a found poem) .. I was a sprinter, an old poem in need of revision; too many straws, not enough scarecrows. I remember the color of sorrow, sorcery, …..sorry spilled on bar napkins, Moses on the mountain, communion for one. … Continue reading

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