Month: Oct 2016
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vVerse: One Tick at a Time
The following is written (and submitted) to Visual Verse: Vol. 03 Chapter 12. Those Arpeggio Days If we were flowers, we’d be crisp around the edges by now. Fragile and bee-stung, holding on to our last harmonic breath. Grasping at last aesthetic hope. This morning you said that you finally understood the world. It’s…
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dVerse Quadrille #18
Forty-Four Words About Clouds I watched white-eyed clouds today as they gnawed at the sky, carved shapes that sang of twisted and turning lifetimes. They were incarnations of dreams, of paused imagination forged like cast iron mountains and stretching long as cirrus grass. I lay there. Watching. Drowning. dVerse’s Monday Quadrille (i.e.., 44…
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Poetic Bloomings Goes All Stormy
That Gored Sky where was the face of heaven when that wind stormed and stumbled about – a wounded bull that gored the sky. where was the face of heaven when music’s wind was a fierce horn, when it reared up in rage and proclaimed itself reborn while the masses threw down hope. there, where…
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Weathering Wordles
Weathering The sky is thin. Trim. Buff colour, and spilling down in kidskin soft mist. Summer breezes could only hope to be so soft, so still. To fill winter’s promise with bone china white views, cold as a sharp needle morning. This unknowable day of borrowed speech, crutches for a weathered limp, stand up walking…
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Dazzled by dVerse
Midnight on London Road They’ve cleaned the streets, water racing into shallows, into rushing rivers toward the curb. The road glares up at me, all slick silver and black from street lamps shining, like moon-struck pearls, hanging, dazzling me. And a cab goes by. Someone going somewhere, I suppose. The tyres; the water; the noise…
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dVerse Haibun #22
Ten Doves on Her Roof She says she wants them gone. Ten white doves on her roof. They’ve nested below the solar panels, there where warmth is a gathered renewable. There where two doves are now ten. There where white feathers fall lazy as February snow. There where fledglings pace the roof, grasp at courage…
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Time of Poetic Bloomings
A Scrap of Time I am surrounded by clocks day and night. This strange state that I’m in. This time. Every scrap of it is stone blind and dumb. Its hustle. Its bustle. A shuffle moving on. I once had an abundance of it. Now it’s just scraps. written for Poetic Bloomings
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A Red Hen Wordled
Reflections on a Red Hen We bowed our heads, reflected on what that chicken’s life had been. What it’s like to eat stones and grain and wisp-winged bugs. What it’s like to sleep locked up, and maybe cower under cover when thunder comes. What it’s like to stop, to watch billowed clouds and rain drops…
It's Still Life 