the thing is

hope is the thing
fastened ’round
my wrist in perfection
of beads and buttons
of fading soft yarn

this excellent thing
which whispers
to the soul
i’m a part of
you now
,

no matter the
condition,
or the superstition,
the thing is
love is

::

for dVerse and Toads

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joy|is|

                   glowing
when it makes no |cheer|y sense

               re-
arranging
                         your weapons

                |red balloons|
with             laughing
|gas|p

                     float,        float ,      ing 
 imp |ish| ly 
               in the oncology wing

                           whisper-
ing slower than
                  the time it took
         to fill these love|bombs|

   Hi,    iam                   here
                  suspended
                              mid|air|
for you

::

for dVerse

On International Women’s Day

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, –

::

for Quickly & Real Toads

This is my heart then

I.
Alone without a red balloon

Unable to lift itself
Without the help of helium

II.
There is this fledgling bird

Or tassels on a spellbound string
I stretch across my window

III.
A readied room

::

playing it again for Kerry
eternally inspired by Mac ❤🎈

i decided

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

&the lizard lives

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 images-2
changed my mind. submitted to Real Toads,
NaPoWriMo & Poetic Asides]

When I Am Dead

I lie
In bed
As mute
September
Inventing

Some sort
Of a song
I remember
And I am
Surprised

With sunset
Streaming,
With strength
I’m gaining
Climbing wishes

On the slips
Of fading light
(Almost like
A small child
Toward a star.)

 

Expectation

january sun
only you can thaw this freeze,
be the world’s resolve

winter-sunset-sun-tree-snow-cold-landscape-siberia

Mirror: A Ligo Haibun Challenge

Hope in Anguish

Hope in Anguish (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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

Ironclad

It was the egg shell.
Translucent, birthing vessel.
Proof.  Life will go on.