hey fish

cray fish

Y U waifish?

’cause your claws

R tong-tipped tasty?

No fish

Blow-fish

belts below this

shell fish

Jel’ fish

stung neurosis

who fish?

Blue-fish?

Tinned & Tune’d fish?

No fish

I wish

Finned & Food fish…

say fish

grey fish

try a new dish?

hack fish

blackfish

wants the phat fish…

©Evie

poesy

starts with

something’s-important seeds.

–tangible or ethereal–

as essential as grey

–to black & white mulch–

 poesy Houdinis explanation,

and beanstalks definition.

Sometimes grafted

–always grown–

poesy is hope

vining

–beliefs every meter or so–

its lines

–petals

its blooms

–verse

every sonnet, ode &

scheming rhyme

–an arrangement

with self

–plucked

from spirit’s center

–trailing a heart-shaped

bare patch

where those roots once were

. . .

even sad

poesy

is tended by tears

(shed into spoons)

tied into bouquet

(hung upside down)

and dried

(outside)

sad poesy honors loss.

poesy

flourishes in poise,

and without it

fades

forget-me-notes

forsaken

–scent bred out,

and sense bred in–

To-do & Ta-da

p’rose

replacing flowers

(missing bulb)

(minus flow)

and even dandelions

even thistle!

disdain

AstroTurf outlooks.

You took the

high road

—stranding

in the middle—

I passed by

—as I always had—

a startled spirit

and so remixed

turning

. . .

a second

too late

—as it always was—

to grab for your shadow

there

 
 
Memories beckon

. . .

irresistible paths

lined with vibrant flowers

leading

deeper

 deeper

  deeper
 
 
into would-have’s

groves,

light shut out

by sudden canopy

and irreversible parting, both
 
 
–the sacred, tainted

the banal, sacred–
 
 
should-have brambles

thick with thorns

(birds, too)

that could have been carefully clipped

(an imperative missed)

send me careening off

gunshot cliff

every time
 
 
killing me

over and over

splintering heart pieces

already shattered
 
 
unable to remember us

–the life shared—

even just the

> littlest bit <

without

falling into the abyss expanding within
 
 
–that forested grey real estate

–those memories of you

–these Now Woulds
 
 
stippled with

should-have swamps

sudden drops

and could-have coins

pitched

–to wishing

(washing)

hell–
 
 
no fountain of youth

–nor hope springs

–nor holy water

to revive

dying blooms

(deprived of light)

just

morass,

thicket

and bluff
 
 
–at

divergent path’s end

(in Yellowed Woulds)

 
afraid of his age,

Pan fostered teams of tomboys

—and so adoring too.

longing forbidden

and mother forsworn

Pan bonded with the boys

skirting the divine feminine
 
 
 
—the Goddess

whose intelligence called him to account

—the Shrew

whose years hit too close to home without base

—the Yin

whose complement posed painful reflection

the nerve!

Pan preferred playmates

wearing knee-socks

with whom

he could pant

(skipping redress altogether)

refine belching

(in lieu of language)

finesse spitballs

(that mocked kisses)

targeting dreams

(at shooting ranges)

team sports

all

—that barely a brow

raised—

Pan raised tomboys

—denying the company

of men and women

both.

 a fallen pen

is worth a bend–

it changes what’s created,

a verse rehearsed

–not best, nor worst–

but found will permeate it…

You’ll write afresh

and see anew,

two quick collaborators,

a view now meshed

and quest unbound,

through script will be dictated.

So next time chance

a glancing scan,

from path you wend past grated

–guttered curbs

in towns and burbs,

since blurb might be awaiting,

in form of pen

misplaced by men,

or women as they gaited,

where you now tread

unwrit, unread

and consequently fated,

to blend and flow

from melded souls,

if only designated

–passer-by

would bend & try

to channel lost translators…