In the upper 70’s, it’s a good “winter’s” day to be onna water…

once you dock, why not hit these decks?

Click: http://charronschatter.hubpages.com/

to visit my recipe site

Click: https://www.facebook.com/charronschatter/

to visit and uh-Door my fan page…

thank-you…;)

I’ll stay until I leave

at which point I won’t be there

An end to golden weave

a fleeceless

woven rare.

 
He was a wayfaring

work of peace,

a wind traveler

–alone

(save a dog that glowed) and

tender of spirits

bottles brimming with Soul, man

~and some accumulated fluff~
 
 

flasks filled with

rain, and

tied to his belt with bows–

–bows gathered from foggy frontlines,

and a different draft to war–

he wore flasks.

Cruets—

he had

cruets.

Charmed arm bands

dripping with

tears, and stopped

(at the top)

with heart–

–hearts pinned with arrows, and

broken

(though loosed) with

Eros intent

lacking insight–

he had cruets.

Decanters of dreams—

–and some canteens…

in haversack, he carried

decanters of breathless dreams…

Darkest dreams caught by feathered

hawk

~wing without weave~

and moon missing shadow–

he carried dreams.

Skipping stone

(and ritual)

at water’s edge,

when he spoke–

rarely, since he was missing–

he sang.

©Karen Robiscoe

related: Dreamcatcher

in Frosted wood

a Poe-sy could

Walt at time of pickin’…

but sharp Whitman

will bring a can

of water for that Dickens…

🙂 Karen

 
missing piece, I

fell into a whole

that fabled one that opens up when

the world’s out of sync

–and full’a holes—
 
 
and it felt like enough

aka too much

for a coupla’ decades

aka a coupla’ hours

wedgied but good

and shaving off bits to

afford a better fit

–mostly my bits—

near’ every day

a Grimm sister

not even that ugly

determined to trip

center stage in

fantastically back-lit

strip-her heels

or at least, twirl that May-pole like it was more

than Mayday’s

first …

junior—

no!

senior prom,

(but Carrie’s senior prom to alibi all that run-off from charm-less wannabes)

and after a spin around that dance floor

it’s little wonder

I hit the ground running—

without shoe

&

missing peace…

 
my mouth is a vicious circle…

a rebounding, wounded dictator

witch

hindsight ought

before sight

so my I’s aren’t sorry

so my brows don’t cede

so my knows isn’t

Pen-occhio—

so my chin needn’t climb

so my bones shouldn’t pronounce

so my cheek isn’t read

long

so my leisure time pre-vents penance

but write…