love
of all that is
holy and humming
black and blue
feathered and free
uncaged and unhinged
early, whirly
mocking and flocking
and birdbrained, too
,
we find
ourselves in murmur
-ation of starling,
elation of spring.
collecting treasures
for future nests,
inspired to sing.
::
It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse, and I’m hosting. Come play!
,
she once again ponders
the wildflowers
the hummingbird hours
the second-chance dance
of all those audacious clouds.
the way the sky laughs achoo
–blue!
out loud, as if we are
all in
on the joke, self-azured
and lured by
the spaces we find ourselves
free.
::
It’s Quadrille Monday over at dVerse, and I’m hosting. Come play!
That cheeky moon,
she’s at it again – all
toothy-star smile
slanting sideways
,
pulling us to other-side
tides. Sky whispers,
drink me,
shrink me
down to
a smaller swallowed
song, a murmuration
of stumble-syllables
we’ve somehow known
all along. A howl. An (echo,echo) yowl.
::
It’s Quadrille week over at dVerse, and I’m hosting. Come play!
it’s all the same mix,
really
these poetic tics
of syllable and song.
this
h
a
n
g
i
n
g
line,
that starlit swoon,
the way the moon
borrows both light
and time.
she thrums. she hums.
she drugs herself with
love and hate and dragon
fire. she gathers wild
and paper-scrapes
her skin to form
a scar, an origami’d
stain. she re:
(mix)
mains a part of greater whole
while half mad
(at herself, that guy,
the sky).
she plucks the quills
to bend them at her will
,
pivots
when no one’s
looking. and grabs a spoon.
what’s
cooking?
::
Prompted by Poetic Asides.
and what about the way
the day has changed us,
rearranged us into some
-thing more, some brighter
score of sky and sigh
-lence? what about the fray
of moon that swoons and woos
us sacred fools into her muse-y
pool of starry-eyed goo, waiting
to be molded into something more?
and what about the other
shore? the one with more salt
than sand, more grief than
grace. can we chase the tide
and leave there soon?
and should we? or would we
be better off to stay. to wane.
to breathe and read the braille
of pain, the map of our own
staggered veins and all
the scars that knit between.
what if we could paint this
scene in every color in between
and hold our breaths. our space.
the stony syllables of our names.
::
Prompted by Poetic Asides.
this poem is made
of sugar and spice,
maple and nutmeg.
she’s not too proud
to (occasionally) beg
and polite enough
to say she’s pleased
to be
s
q
u
e
e
z
e
d
into these lines.
she’s fine
-tuned and mad
-mooned and loony
-bloomed with delight
about the way
things just might
turn about. she’s
leaving love notes
for the sky on paper
kites, and smudging
thanks into every
cornerstone. she’s
content to be alone
or in pairs
or at the center of
the square singing
into the streets.
come closer, and
she’ll candy
-kiss you, bliss you
out on
neverland dreams.
::
the world has changed again
and fear is leaning in,
grief pressing down like
water. but
have you seen these clouds,
all nicely splayed and gathered
round as if today’s the day?
as if the way
the sky’s parade might
seize her sway
might just turn things
around, ground
her again. not to dust,
not to doubt’s loud call –
but to trust the One
who made it all.
::
Prompted by Poetic Asides.
this poem is one me
-andering sea, rising wild
and free,
remembering
to taste her salt.
she’s fond of moon,
the way it tilts and
stills her,
holds her fast
and bids her slow.
this poem is another me
-andering one
forgetting to pause for breath
,
groaning
at the sun.
::
Prompted by Poetic Asides.
{this is just to say}
drive safe.
sleep good.
eat healthy,
like you should.
get some sun
and hug a tree.
i’ll leave the light on.
love,
me
ps: i left you some plums.
::
hate mail
dear today:
please go away.
::
Love/anti-love poems prompted by Poetic Asides.
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