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Tag Archives: this poem poems
this poem is the alpha(dog-gerel) -bet against the house, the unquiet mouse(or wheel) who squeaks first. at worst, it’s a squawk -stab in the dark, a tent-ative spark to start something new. a cool blue sky awaiting scribble. wiggle it a little. giggle to the moon, she’ll swoon you … Continue reading
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.
this poem is the thankful one the one that bows in gratitude and readjusts its attitude each time a new line flows. do you suppose it knows how fragile it is, in its quiet paper skin? how any one line might be its last straw? so … Continue reading
this poem is un-plugged, unabashedly plain in its own un-i -am -bic skin. it begins with a simple s i g h and stretches from thereto that bold bright sky, sacred in its own hum. come, if you will and let us spill our souls into serenity. you’ll see, it’s … 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
poem , the one your brain wanted to write at 1amthe one that came to you in the rainthe one that ran down the shower drain. it’s the one that got awaythe one that wouldn’t stay the one that ran astray. … Continue reading
this poem is not about love or plums or counting ways or red red roses(or wheelbarrows). it’s too staccato for a sonnetand refuses to put on a fetching bonnet or a corset or a fine feathered hat. (take that, Miss Austen.) it’s got no sense nor sensibility, no … Continue reading
this poem is its own special kind of hell. you can’t tell because it just keeps un-raveling, but it’s rapidly traveling too far south. it’s opened its inky mouth and now it can’t stop spewing phrase. you’d be amazed by how many days she can ramble on and … Continue reading
she’s cold,sitting here with all these (unlocked) keys, and could someone please turn down the music in the hall? she’s all thumbs (and frankly they can’t type) and she’ll never live up to the hype of her own design. fine, she’ll clack a black line or two. see? there’s … Continue reading
this poem is a tightly wound spring. she’s a taut wound caught up in clacked-black things. she’s got unspoken broken and unscattered seed, unpolished corners and unmet needs. she’s a wayward kite on a fragile string. let’s unwind her now, and let her sing. Lill’s given us a fun … Continue reading