Tag Archives: moon

meanwhile the moon 

fancies herself a flowerin a field of star -seeds, (growing)                 glowingfrom the soil of sky.  ::

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one last flabbergasp 

this poem is all a-flutter, a-mutter-ment of swallowed moon and muddled sun.  she’s one (i am-bic) foot in, three (blank) sheets to the wind and counting.  she’s a fountain of be -wild-erment, a copper sunrise penny spent on dandelion wisheswith fluff-fine handles.  {bring candles.} she’s throwing a surprise party of … Continue reading

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Oops.

I think maybe we released these fragile dreams too soon.  But you don’t owe me anything.  Any more than the sun need pardon the moon.  ::In April, she poems.

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moonshadow (a shadorma) 

we ask her why she waxes, waneshowls herself (wolf) insane(snow, buck, pink, blue, hunter, cold).we’re fools, told she’s full.  ::In April, she poems. Sometimes in form.

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Unpenned Ink & Other Liquid Types 

Take a minute.  Wipe your tears. Wind the clock hands back                      (clack black),trace your words on wounded skin and tear your poems in two.  Close your eyes.  Bow to the sun. Tell the wind she’s woundthat face one minute trace too soon.  Lean close to the stars,tie a bow on the moon.  :: In April, she poems.

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Loose Thoughts Caught by My Pillowtalk Blur 

The sky’s (somehow) chartreuse, and (wow!) there go all these paper poemkites loosed to wind.  The moon’s a lavender lozenge and I’ve got hum-mingbird wings, and dragon skin.  We live in the trees, breeze-lullabied and ample-limbed, writing merry manifestos in chalk.  Watch the river spill, it’s filled with limoncello and our rafts … Continue reading

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and the sky played on 

she never knew the moon was made of music, orion belting out the blues.  and then she flew, mad as midnight, wild as stars. ::In November, we poem.

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moonsquabble

:: hand to hand we stand against the goblin of her glow :: In November, we poem.

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aubade (in the key of d)

(minor) morning breaks her open, flames too soon. she’s  already mourningdarkness, stars and a sinking treble-trembled moon. 

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Miss Guiding Light 

That fat full wily wench is a liar, you know.  She steals (light) our hearts And makes us feel infinite. Plot  twist: We’re not.  ::In November, we poem.

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