Writing Dreams for Margo

The Wind was a Gallop

Oh to the worse
that warning rang,
a rise
toward our rattling leap.
We thought our frolic our pattering feet,
and so we chased the wind
into a galloping dance.
We sang a chorus with tolling bells,
ran with summer
and turned a billow roar.
We were our
dizziest days
grasping at balustrades,
and we toppled
and tumbled,
tipped ourselves
out of youthful dreams
into a streaming



Inspired and remixed from a poem by Victor Hugo, “The Djinns” (“Murs, ville et port”) Written for Margo’s Summer Dreams prompt


The Time Is Eight Minutes to Eleven, and


The Time Is Eight Minutes to Eleven, and …

We were all a splendid obedience,
an affection,
by consent

with our uncertain ideas
up stoneware pipes
and vitrified
in sewers, and

that year remained in tomorrow
with those splendid
white ruff cats – a
mistaken wish.




Poem form: The Minute (60 syllables)
Text Found and remixed from the Text Clock at 22:52pm, 9 Feb/15