Tag Archives: November PAD 2018

So

, We don’t want to be here but it’s not worth shuffling all the way home. This star, a long forgotten spark. The moon, a further protest of the dark.   .. In November, we poem.   

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Anti-Love Letter

{Dear John, I’ve moved on.}   You might want to sit down for this, oh most distinguished one. By the time you find this note, this mid -night rote, I will be gone, lost among the stars. See these, my … Continue reading

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Daisies Chalked on Broken Sidewalks

He loves me  ……(loves me not) and I am drawing petal after petal to prove it, remove it from my brain that he might love another. Also, please don’t step on the cracks; I’m afraid he might not come back. … Continue reading

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Behind Bars

Con -vince me if you can that broken brave is no oxymoron, that we can be swayed toward forgiveness in these silent burning days. That one last glimpse of praise might save us from our midnight sorry selves, our fallen … Continue reading

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Con Artist

… He makes a pass and paints her flush, blush rub -bled toxic skin. She calls him ox (y) moron, and the dance begins again.   .. In November, we poem.       

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Papering the Sky

.. Be -hold the sun, flush with first blush of day , an unquiet con ……….(artist) -trail of clouds, pass -ing by too soon , the dry rub spark of dark stars, this toxic oxy -mo(r)on. .. In November, we … Continue reading

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Ro Sham Bo

  ..  I am paper -proud, running with scissors, clinging to the rock.   ..  

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Pick Up Sticks

.. One, two Grab your shoes, we’re about to head out into the forest. And there are wolves. Three, four Shut the door. The boogeyman comes out ……..(hungry, quiet) after darkest night. And we just might fool him into thinking … Continue reading

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Broken Chalk

.. This poem got dropped on its head on the way over here, and there is perhaps nothing left but dust. But it’s periwinkle magic, so you’ll trust me when I say that you should read it, anyway.   .. … Continue reading

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across the street from his house

.. , she skips rope plays eenie meenie miney mo on tutu’d tiptoes. smears her whole name in bright green chalk, feels brave.     .. In November, we poem. 

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