hope is the thing
my wrist in perfection
of beads and buttons
of fading soft yarn
this excellent thing
to the soul
i’m a part of
no matter the
or the superstition,
the thing is
when it makes no |cheer|y sense
float, float , ing
imp |ish| ly
in the oncology wing
ing slower than
the time it took
to fill these love|bombs|
Hi, iam here
three women used their phone app
to find Lois of Clovis
who was in over her head
with more than a child or five (or six?)
how had those golden thread heads dissolved
like Splenda packs in lukewarm water? just
where did they go, and where are they now?
now Lois was lost in her haystack house
with a sugar lump melting on her hip,
a vacuum cord ominously threatening to stop her
should she try to open the front door,
say “this is it.” “come in.”
Lois bit her lower lip,
and the three friends immediately came in.
one woman lit to the kitchen, started running
hot water, adding gleeful soap suds.
one woman’s hands began skillfully
folding tiny clothes and undersized underwear
careful to separate picture books from zippered pajamas.
one woman knelt on the toy room floor
separating Mr. Potato Head’s limbs and lips
from a smattering of what was labeled this-n-that.
and the three women loved her.
and Lois of Clovis fed her sugar baby
while the two little walking bumble bears
robed, disrobed, giggled and hid their winsome smiles
beneath plastic woven laundry baskets.
and all at once, when everyone saw the haystack was re-moved
that the floor was clean, – well, their gumption exploded
into pink, blue and green party balloons!
and Lois of Clovis, -awake, sleepy, anxious, stunned,
was changed, –
Alone without a red balloon
Unable to lift itself
Without the help of helium
There is this fledgling bird
Or tassels on a spellbound string
I stretch across my window
A readied room
playing it again for Kerry
eternally inspired by Mac ❤🎈
to come hear you
whisper discreetly in my ear
moments that matter
let dominoes fall
let me keep you
in the hard things
let me fill you
with words that
half way start to bubble
like hope, ~
like something true
will come of my life
a 44 Quadrille for dVerse
forgive me for dashing lesser things magic lizards broken tails empty girls &boys false hopes crooked feet lollipops melting it's my undoing breaking this tale go ahead &stare straight into broken i am the lizard i am great Houdini &the lizard lives [my old lizard poem I once hated, but changed my mind. submitted to Real Toads, NaPoWriMo & Poetic Asides]
It is as if I am forever looking through a mirror, dimly lit, seeing only half of my reflection. The ‘now’ is the ‘not yet.’ The ‘not yet,’ lives in the now. How else can I describe this life of muted colors, smells, textures, and sounds I put up with? I know there is more than even the deafening ocean breaking its sticks over stones. I am hopeful I will not remain dry. I am hopeful that someday I will not languish. I will not anguish over the browns which settle into champagne flutes. I imagine there will be citrine yellow, optimal pinks, violet lavender eyes; imperial swimming pool skies. There is more on the other side of this mirror. There is a who.
look in the mirror and
long for more than broken glass~
loiter here beyond
It was the egg shell.
Translucent, birthing vessel.
Proof. Life will go on.