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Tag Archives: The Red Wheelbarrow
.. I am Orion’s belt, loosed. The lightning in your eyes. I am the plums. (Forgive me.) I am all thumbs, and nonesuch things hitchhiking on dragon kite strings. I am your heart, carried in mine. I am the snowy … Continue reading
… A wheelbarrow may be some -thing upon which much(ness) depends, but it is not my nom de plume, not that last plum you ate that was so cold. It has but one wheel, and a tendency for tipping over, … Continue reading
.. I may (or may not) still be (so much) glazed with anger. it all depends. .. prompted by poetic asides, and in response to:
… We moongirls know a thing or two about hearts, the stops and starts and overflow buttercup thunderbolt kisses you can only measure in tea -spoons. We’re the comeback kid, the backstroke swum honey -bee drowning in your Honeycomb (yeah, … Continue reading
.. this poem is pure gold, spun just for fun and singed with fire. it desires to be un -subpar, a star in a sea of ebony, a trembling treble clef deaf to all too noisy instruments of glazed in … Continue reading
.. The thing has wheels, a bar -row. It’s red, and it matters. We don’t know why. It’s raining. There are chickens. (Whether or not they have yet crossed the road is open to interpretation.) They are white. (Lest ye … Continue reading
(with nod to William Carlos Williams) .. it’s hard to see red when so much depends upon the quiet white rain. .. PAD, day 24.