Month: Mar 2017
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Miz Quickly’s Time Out
A Bee Came Knocking A bumblebee’s knocking at the window. Again.Again. A useless joy of a roaring boy who’s happy to drop into a concussed disgrace. It’s a black brush with a yellow apron, bright as a summer day, or a gold bracelet. Again. Again. It hums a happy fumbling tune, then drops into a…
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Poetic Asides Music Genre
A Blues Fate Blue Is but a name. It lays in sheets Across horizons as A scar, A stretch, For ships, For sails. It’s heard and felt In a gull’s cry. Blue is this loud morning Carried toward its fate. Written for Poetic Asides: “Music Genre“
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Twiglet #17 “Rattling Winter”
The Last Rattle Two birds are bickering in the grass. They stop. Watch a girl with blue shoes run down the garden path. The child’s hair is the colour of silvered honey, licked by the moon. She’s winter’s last rattle, and the birds feel it in the air. written for dVerse “Nature” and…
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dVerse Quadrille #29
Jane’s Ashes That afternoon became the entire day; that’s the way of memories — morning’s chorus of seagulls wheeling updrafts migrating across county lines, barren hedges and low light of off-shore storms — all forgotten. We only remember weeping hearts, and releasing pink balloons in her memory. written for dVerse’s Quadrille #29 44 words…
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Wordle #292 & Haibun #33
Those Early Years I am 60 years more than I was then, inhaling life, and out in the middle of nowhere. We fled the city for the shadows in foothills, camping under soothing stars and between the wide feet of trees. We toasted bread with licks from open flames. Made velvety stew, thick and sweetened…
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Twiglet #16 “those grapevines”
Rooted in Density He misread erratic for erotic. He read on and on, told himself, “just wait for it – wait for it” but erotic never came, and now he stands over those grapevines, waiting for them to grow him some wine. “just wait for it – wait for it” he whines. Next he’ll be…
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Wordle #291
Spring Bites We’ve descended into penguin weather again. We were lead into green bell-weather days, where we did a bit of gardening. A few bags of mulch are leaning against the fence, took a break from the digging with a tray of drinks on the terrace yesterday — we ate chuffins and bread, had a…
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Dead Birds and Relics and Too Many Words
Dead Birds and Relics Moths and flames and curiosity; I was drawn to that boxy-solid museum with its grey dullness, and its terraced strong-arm steps for catching slips and stumbles during white-mantled weather. Those were my impressionist days when the world was dipped in a blur, and the busy periphery yielded to burdenous double-door brass…
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As Is … for Poetic Asides
As Bright as Heaven’s Candle * My dad always left the porch light on for me, though Mum said it was so I didn’t stand on the front steps, kissing and giggling and touching, and giving the neighbours something to gossip about. But I knew better. Dad didn’t care about the neighbours; he only cared…
It's Still Life 