Dark Knight of the Sole (#14 NaPoWriMo)

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Eye bear my sole
In the serial isle.
Grapenuts shunned for
Count Chocula.

Dark our of the knight,
Dam cell eye brake free.
Eye profit now, an air to
Son and lite.

Ewe might like
These fare words.
Eye, for won morn,
Your complement.

The him whales piece without end.

Everyday Magic (#13 Na/GloPoWriMo)

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inspired by Dean Young’s “Belief in Magic”

How could I now?
Have seen a horse somersault a fence
and both spring back.
Have clung to the rotten apple core.
Seen glazed eyes reflecting the improvised explosive.
Seen heads toppled in sunrise.
Been fed in strange lands.
I believe right now comes from a deck of cards.
All minds are full of words.
Books are minds made real.
We all are books.
Even rocks.
I believe love is a breath of air.
Not just the chick pecking free of the shell.
Maybe instinct, maybe magic at the flash of conception.
Still.
Still
I believe the future is a King of Spades.
The Hall of Souls will take me, but not soon.
An instinct has driven every card cast aside and kept
And yet
and yet that card would make a run.
Because the card kept clashes,
such was the choice in a split second.
Cast aside for its heart.
I breathe.
Still there are more cards
in the deck.
Not this two or that Jack.
Still perhaps three of a kind.
You know the moment when
the new foal, tears open the placenta
mare licking nostrils clear
wet fur coming clean under tongue
impossibly long foreleg moving as
instinct turns into tottering steps towards milk?
That’s how I feel now.

 

Object Lesson (#12 NaPoWriMo 2019)

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Objects demonstrate the lesson.
Dull love and significant loss.
Behind the exercise,
Glimpse eternal.

Object lesson:
Dull wooden spatula.
Significant wedding ring.
Passion enough for a poem?

True, I do love the spatula:
Flat end, no scoop, breaking,
Scooping, stirring, sampling,
Stir fry, saute, simmer, serve.

I won’t give away my heart.
The ring remains.
I house whole worlds,
Capacious room for spatulas and rings.

Object Lesson: Love, infinite and all.

 

Circumference (#11 Na/GloPoWriMo)

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1.  Words pouring from where? Eleven-year-old bubble writing. String of “ithoughtnot.” Such passion.

2. Uniform pressed, low quarters a perfect mirror, hair smooth helmet bun. Words precise. Dead. Uninspired.

3. Words emerging from where? Fifty-year-old cursive. Thoughts informed by my contingent reality. Finding passion.

4. Full circle. I can come home again.

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