#MicropoetryMonday – July 10 – 16, 2017


Larkspur sky, the one you like best
You’d never cut those flowers
You said you liked how they looked
on late nights, deep indigo


I saw shimmering sand
in my eyes before the blackout

I saw a purple halo around the sun
& felt peaceful

I saw with my heart


smoke rings

Friends held firefly lights
in fumbling fingers

They’d go eventually,
simmering to a silent haze


Pile of rubble,
of rock,
of cysts

Constant threat
of kidney stones,
of slivers

Faithful organs
of thorns,
of barbed wire defenses


Your tattoos
foreign to me
exotic patterns
art on flesh

You were canvas
for projecting
fragile fantasy
an ink affair


the ticking metronome
became a hammering knock

the pressure of the room,
of the viewers,
of the performers

cold sweat & fear


Amplified voices,
still no one hears

They’re listening
to what their own

inner dialogue interprets
as what’s harmful

& what’s no big deal


Sinking ship
gave in to rock bottom
in the grey turned crimson morning
Salt tear sailor serenade
The captain kneels
in prayerful desperation


Blessings at best.
Curses at worst.
Embracing unusual gifts, the better choice.
Running from one’s self proved impossible.


He only saw himself-
perfect flash-
in all my broken pieces

Our mirrored love
through a windshield
on a low visibility pass


They can take it all from me, but never
the power to imagine and create

They’re wind in my fire,
inspiring in their evil ways


Deep pools of gnosis
in the seer’s eyes

Waves of a jeweled hand,
a flutter of owl’s wings

Possibilities painted
in crystal wisps


The subtle caress
of the desert wind
and the silken touch
of a floating feather
are comforts from Creator
on a lonely night


Too late
to reverse
past mistakes
so we sit back, strap in,
and enjoy the entropy


In faith, they held on
to her threads of strength

Rapid eyelids speak stories
of a squeeze from a lifeless hand


Telling stories about what’s
waiting in the woods
Horror beyond nightmare
waiting in the woods
He hears all
waiting in the woods


in quietude

A pure voice
hidden in your dark

A soul key stirring
an awakening

A spiritual fire
catching a spark


I was fixated on the point
I wanted to keep

The stretch of time
I wanted unchanged

I wanted to carry it with me
& spread it on my present


just breathe in
the sniffle of jasmine
crisp air post snowfall
burnt embers in smoldering fires
sent on the wind from home


Dangling in dreams
from your edges

Landing in a haven
halfway between here &

On the moor at midnight,
dancing with your ghost


Never a time again
for us around the table
Or taking refuge under
covered awning
You were my shelter too
My protection from pain


seeds of yesterday
grief garden

sun forever pierces the grey
blinds me

vines of remembrance
bind me

you’re the sky
behind me


Dreams of mirrors
leading to darkness
pulling me asunder
desperately swallowing
gasps of unclean air
filling shallow lungs


life is all a dance
& I can’t lead anymore

you carry me through
these broken river rhythms

keep me floating
on water & air


Attempts to edit
my shadow
from these pages

I put whole paragraphs
to rest & still the oak casts
me in darkness

I feel at home


The idea of mermaid fins
didn’t appeal to me

I would not be bound,
but instead become water

Flowing, free, & fearless


She pushes buttons
down to the deep roots
She does it well
Stirring calm ponds
Throwing boys back like fishes
out of idle boredom


Take leave, quiet creator,
off to serve a nagging voice
urging a forced ending
to this crude dramatic play


So much can happen
over one cigarette

We followed signals
around the corner

Sparks lit & I
laughed myself into a headache


By blue light,
an orb glow, it appeared mystical
She sat recalling dreams
while he watched
long enough
to believe in the presence of auras


The music changed
and the enchantress danced,
her strings pulled
by forces unseen,
by wraiths unclean

We spun, nearly drowning
in a trance


The player,
careless with a vinyl heart
skipping in love’s presence,
leaves scratches,
deep and worn


eyes from a faded daguerreotype
follow us across the foyer

her gaze speaks
of that which makes the sixth sense stir



So much going on

the intro of what’s to come
is forever long


VSS (Very Short Story):

The movie Jaws bore in her a fear of humans with weapons & determination, rather than a fear of sharks. She swam accordingly.


WIP (Work in Progress): Sneak peek!

If you were here you’d teach me how to conjure a summer storm.


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