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Star Wisht

Karen Robiscoe is an author of merit

tree cradles moon

in boughs

–moon’s beams

bathe tree’s tips in glow

needles laced

with light

the stars

lent firmament to sew

a fabric timed

in stitches


a winding purl which seams

are trimmed with tree

and filigree

of dreamy, astral beams

Peace of the Rock


and plumb out of unexamined minutiae,

I collected gravel

. . .

pointed pebbles embedding underfoot as I strolled,

and bits that bit fascia

when I wandered,

and fragments that flayed feet outgrown sea glass or slipper

on subsequent trudge,

paving my sole in portable road

–without quill–

in marbles gone missing, but

not crystal balls,

(too cloudy)

and absolutely zero

diamonds in the rough

–just lacerating chips–

of a game long since retired. . .

and so many!

‘til ultimately, my collection became

a road

–in and of myself—

freeing my journey

of blinding bramble

(at penultimate last)

a way to go I built

–that goes my way—

a way yet barefoot, uphill, and largely unmapped.

Lately though, I am noticing

still greater stones along scree highway,



I’m cobbling a path of substantial stone

–and shoes, to boot—

foregoing crushing

(stones to bits)

to lessen hobble

–inside and out–

keeping an eye out for

raptures circling overhead

–looking for loosened feather—

in the breeze.

From the Ground Up

a human being,

not a human doing

–I acted just the same.

I kept on my toes.

I jerked at the knee.

–directly connected to my mouth, wherein my foot resided–

I shot from the hip,

but failed to trust my gut all the same

–its plural gone missing long since, and

wary, then–

and weary, too,

I played it close to the breast.

shoulders morphing geometric, rounding and squaring repeatedly,


–at last–

I upped my chin

–mouth, too–

getting all cheeky

–with myself–

while keeping my nose firmly in my own business.

and after returning from stuffed head trip,

–complete with body dysmorphia–

I trashed my luggage

–stickers on Samsonite, and souvenirs, included–

dwelling thereafter

in mind’s eye.


*Note–inspired by a phrase of guru Wayne Dyer: “You are a human being, not a human doing”


Bells ‘n Bowls

I got it from IKEA

(fulfilled by Amazon)

a DIY bridge

— or roll away stairwell–

and wouldn’t you know it, most

of the instructions were missing

–just the diagram



(and packing slip)

came with

–plus Slip-n-Slide bonus gift–

but I gave it a go just the same.

The ole: community college try.

and yeah, the lack of return ship label factored in, too, I suppose,

Still. . .once I rolled my sleeve up

–on the one arm left—

Schroedinger’ed the cat,

and popped every bubble in the wrap,

I was in for the pound following penny, anyway

(lucky or not, there it was)

–plumb out of space in which to turn around or even breathe, and

grey real estate

“moving day” chaotic

. . .

I pretended I could breathe

–blustering & posturing & puffin’ & a’huffin’–

connected A to B

. . .

and C to God knows what all else,

and right away I couldn’t fit the Allen wrench

into the main frame,

the sudden

conversion of alphabetized system

to numeric code—confusing,


G, I don’t know how that figured,


H more finite than eternal, as I recall,


nothing at all binary,

whereas the subsequent lapse of code altogether

–replaced by Chinese, or Japanese, or

some Asian language made largely of emojis, and “Hello, Kitties”

rendered the ultimate construction beyond

“I have leftover screws” iffy.

Little wonder, then, I fashioned a fence

–instead of bridge—

burdened by that dang Slip-n-Slide that

couldn’t even double-down as a modern-day moat

–at that point—

and if I couldn’t stow it outside, where could I put the bone-breaker?

not one step at’all

(turned out)

but at least I found a use for the rail

. . .

partitioning grey real estate

into kaleidoscope cubbies


in any number of which

–or alphabetized code—

I lost myself

. . .

in a maze.


Googol it

one is just single

a couple is 2,

several is more

–but less than a few

many is multi,

as is too much. . .

lots is like seconds–

thirds is a bunch

oodles are scads

–or googol by name

from here on the scale–

one and the same.

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