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harmony of the planes

Charron's Chatter

gee tar

what if we really ARE just strings

~as some eggheads hypothesize~

tapestries of teeny tiny strings


(good-egg heads)

and teeny tiny frets

(with strut)

and back-up band?

–and God!–

(isgood backup band!)

hummin’

(human)

née

strummin’

(strewed, an’)

left to mold spin off

LPs?

(derivative = in His image)

brought to

…um…

you, courtesy of the

G-Man

> on G-tar <

(plus free sky miles)

that’d be somethin’ to

woof

&

tweet about!

(replay)

accord,

a family–

a note,

a lone–

a harmony,

heaven–

a crescendo,

death–

and reverb’

~what comes next~

©Karen Robiscoe

prompt: harmony

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Often Running

He told me

go write,

but I

tried left,

‘postured

traveling asea,

but I went awry,

‘posited

trusting

inner direction,

still I chose rail,

‘posed

soaring above

(it all)

but contentious I,

I misplaced my route in murk

considering myself

A Queen

–and no Queen B

and yet when a

high road led me to contentment,

I found tack.

Foregoing circuitous path halfway

–sealing circle.

 

Write Angle

 

You have to carpe diem

or fate will pass you by…

since seeing carp

— don’t free ’em —

for that you need to fly *

so don’t wait–

* bait & seize ’em

unless you don’t fish fry…

©Karen Robiscoe

prompt: fry

 

The Gatekeeper’s Children–by Philip Levine

This is the house of the very rich.
You can tell because it’s taken all
The colors and left only the spaces
Between colors where the absence
Of rage and hunger survives. If you could
Get close you could touch the embers
Of red, the tiny beaks of yellow,
That jab back, the sacred blue that mimics
The color of heaven. Behind the house
The children digging in the flower beds
Have been out there since dawn waiting
To be called in for hot chocolate or tea
Or the remnants of meals. No one can see
Them, even though children are meant
To be seen, and these are good kids
Who go on working in silence.
They’re called the gatekeeper’s children,
Though there is no gate nor—of course—
Any gatekeeper, but if there were
These would be his, the seven of them,
Heads bowed, knifing the earth. Is that rain,
Snow, or what smearing their vision?
Remember, in the beginning they agreed
To accept a sky that answered nothing,
They agreed to lower their eyes, to accept
The gifts the hard ground hoarded.
Even though they were only children
They agreed to draw no more breath
Than fire requires and yet never to burn.

 
  

Now this…this is poetry. A big SO to my AC for sending this to me. If the beginning of this poem doesn’t entrance you, the last half will.

Lo, Lo, Lo…(L)

I met a guy named Chuck

His middle name was Les

And when it came to having fun

that Chuckles was the best

His Gig was feeding Gulls

A Chor tle birdies crowed

tickling ribs & slapping knees

Chuck scattered funny bones…

He whooped it up with cranes

guffawed with every wren

that Merry Men hee-hawed & then

cackled once again

 
 
 

prompt: chuckles

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