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Tag Archives: November Chapbook Challenge 2021
After the rain (before the moon), they hum their free-dom tunes to a storied sky. The world whirls by with a royal flair, but they’rejust happy to behere with the trees. ::In November, we poem.
this poem is the snailish one,the long slow hum of something not yet said. it’s not quite ready for prime time, in fact some of its syllables are still in bed. ::Catching up. Day 28.
That’s where they gather the most, the mossand the moments that remind them they’re free. There are three small pines where they’ve cast their shoes. Here they pause to remember their past. And then there’s the moon. Eyes and swords skyward,they whisper thank you to stars, and know … Continue reading
Every Saturday night, the girls once again don the crowns, but looped round (and round and round) their arms as hula hoopsspun in a whirl of rubysapphirediamondgold. War stories are told and fairytales spun, too, and the rescued dragons know just what to do with the cast-off (ridiculous) high -heeled shoes (they’re … Continue reading
Sometimes it’s all they wear, these wayward princesses basking in the sun; not the Risky Business “future’s so bright” kind, but the way the tree slants just right kind, for leafy shadow tattoos. They choose the warmest part of day and make their me-andered way to forest floor … Continue reading
This poem is a Thursday not a Fri-yay or a weekend whirl. It curls right into those, but supposes it must be the bridge from hump to (Thor’s) hammer pose and all those lost wor(l)ds in between. It’s seen its share of lightning and striking matches and bright sky sheen, but mostly it’s just … Continue reading
They drink from stream and lake and oak-leaf dewand brew their tea from waterfall fountain. There’s a banquet of snacksand a welcome knack for napping and every hour’s happy now because their feet are bare and there’s no one to stare and the chores are shared and nobody’s … Continue reading
They finally objected to being objectified and so they flung them far and wide and ran for a land far, far away – a Wood where they could laugh and dance and play without bunions and ballsand midnight calls and step-mothers and -sisters and overbearing fathers … Continue reading
(A Golden Shovel after “the trick of finding what you didn’t lose,” by E.E. Cummings) :: see, the thing that makes us tick; the trick is knowing what you’re made of and then findingwhat you never had, whatmaybe the lonely moon only … Continue reading