Oh let me be

Oh let me be

Stick your key

Twist my lid

Open my tinned herring heart

Other organs comb and part

Tie my feet to the mantle ring

My fingers hang on to the stars

This slide is freshly waxed

The light falls right along

Catgut vibrating

I will make you a violin

Wrapped in baleen

Played by your hair

Bound in sound






D’Verse: https://dversepoets.com/2022/01/13/meet-the-bar-with-narrative-nonsense/ Innonsence!



No dulcet tones crooning

No soothing melodies?

Even wailings or caterwaulings

Are full of lamentations, have

Their value as

An expression of deep grief

But this, fingernails on a chalk board

This wretched noise

Is all you have for me, my

Muse? ick!


You all know I hang out at d’Verse, the online poets pub, which inspired today’s quadrille check it out! https://dversepoets.com/2022/01/10/quadrille-143-muse-cues/


Can I just pour my head into this pail?
It’s a bit sore and starting to swell
So I think it would be best
To give my neck a rest
And put my head in this pail for a spell



What can I do?

Being just one me

Sing a song

Talk of hope

Put tinsel on a tree

Or to reach into the dark pond

At the center of the forest

Pour light on that old unhealed wound

And finally wash it clean


Come join us over at d’Verse the poets pub https://dversepoets.com/2021/12/13/quadrille-142/ The forbidden forest is inside you. We each have one. All the hope for the world is down there, in you. I’m doing the best I can to get to mine.

Advent, you are. Or, Are we there yet?

For the prompt at https://earthweal.com/2021/12/13/earthweal-weekly-challenge-o-come-advent-poems-for-earth/ and because I needed to write this to earn my sleep:


Exhausted unsleeping

Like a child too new

To know when to quit

Playing and lay down

Afraid we might miss

An important moment

Oswald’s trigger

Armstrong’s step

Pops last breath

The shaman stays up

All through the longest night

Tending the fire 🔥

So the sun will cease

It’s anger with the tribe

And return to fullness

So the shaman tells them

The tribe accepts his sacrifice

And let’s it be their salve

And lo! The light begins its return

Keep a candle lit in the manger

These words have let slip

Into the night, a smaller turn toward dark.

Into the oblivion of consumption

Amazon deep and wide

It brings all the things

And also sucks them dry

Thus the money is like the rain

Some float in deluge, most

Are parched in drought

This night is deep

And without sleep

Knowing where this road leads

Unable to stop the bleed

Give up! Drop the reigns!

Put your life in a baby’s hands

Give away everything of value

Keep only empty hope

His insides are smiling

As he gravely digs another hole

off spring

these unspent letters swirling around in my head
as if my mind was a scrabble sack
the drawstring choking around my neck
my offspring will not escape by that road


fortune’s fair

on the feast of St Simeon, we set sail for Flanders
bundles of light wool our good ship held
for the markets there. Celebration in the air
to flanders the wealth of the world wound its way
Our fortunes set on all being fair.


Upon the prompt today, a quadrille using the word ‘fair’ i found myself wanting to include as many of the miriad meanings as i could cram into a mere 44 words. Hardly able to address each in turn, this picture began to emerge. (emergence being another theme of the day’s work for me). Many of Linda’s definitions originated in the middle ages, of which i have a great love. Fair weather is that which is good for sailing, which lead me to the Oseberg ship, and thence on to Cogs which were necessary to the commerce between England and the continent. And so on. I hope you enjoyed my quadrille. Here is the prompt https://dversepoets.com/2021/11/15/quadrille-140-lets-go-to-the-fair/ Come join us in the pub. and if you fancy the intricacies of the wool trade, look here: https://www.medievalists.net/2011/01/the-wool-trade-in-english-medieval-history/ Please note that the feast day of st simeon would probably not have been a good sail, not line up with the faires in flanders. The alliteration was too juicy to deny.

The mat

I did not realize the mat was there

Laid out for me before I cared

So I went across diagonal and higgledy piggledy like a two year old with a coloring book, heedless of lines.

Each new turn was met with that randomness

That chaos (so full of life)

Math was an easy asana

The trumpet not so much

And friendship, forget it.

Even the simple version was too hard

Now I found the edges

And can feel where the mat ends

Welcoming that support shifts

Everything and adds an ease,

A comfort

Still each pose is different

Yet it is the same me

I fall into butterfly easily, completely,

The way I understand maps,

Pidgeon, that’s her, I can’t let go

And break loose tears when I try


A conceit, for https://dversepoets.com/2021/11/04/meet-bar-with-conceit/