Month: Nov 2017
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Day 30 NovPAD
Inside a Loop This day’s made of bits of us. My eyes have seen too much — but bless the child’s eyes that give life to words. My grandmother doused herself in lavender. A groping scent that still closes in on me like her heavy-breasted embrace. The air flashed of frost and snow this morning,…
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Day 29 NovPAD
A White Demise I watched a single white star fall from the sky. Should I be sorry for your whitened demise, Falling through darkness, flowing like spilt milk. I shed tears for you. NovPAD Day 29: write a response poem. Form: sapphic ode 3×11+1×5
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Changes for dVerse
We walk along the ageing edge of things, reading tombstones like book titles. Everyone has a story, you say, and I wonder what percentage of my story is a prank. It’s all too depressing here, you say, but I find Highgate strangely calming, as if existing amongst these fates is an affirmation. And the wind…
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Day 27 NovPAD
A Skirt of Sky (revised 1.12.17) I have a recurring dream. A red house with views that never end, and broad sky with a heart of wind, ventriloquist gulls pale as clouds, and for white, for bleached bone blurs of snow fine as endless dust. A Skirt of Sky I have a recurring…
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Day 28.1 NovPAD
II. The Perils of Christmas Cards I won’t be dying today after all. I mean who dies from the edge of a creased paper, eh? Well, me. For a few diminishing heartbeats, when my tongue wouldn’t stop bleeding, and my lips dripped deep sunset red, and I dared my husband to ‘give us a kiss,’…
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Day 28 NovPAD
I. A Gecko and a Man in a Black T-Shirt I’m looking at a man wearing a thin, frayed black t-shirt. He has a whisper of white hair, wiry sideburns that sweep his shoulders whenever he nods his head. I can’t keep my eyes off his face; I keep looking at those sideburns. Whale baleen,…
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Day 25 NovPAD
Quenched He swam. And sank. Swam against the devil. Sank like sunset, or a hole in a boat. His lungs on fire, and the sea swallowed him into its silence. Day 25: For today’s prompt, write a remix poem. I chose Day 21. Image from Unsplash
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Wordle #327
Empty Frames it’s a puzzle, she thinks, as she twists her hair into a stream of rings, she paces, stands, then sits trim and prim, her thoughts a perturbing amble. She wishes she knew who, and why — her view was stolen and only the frames remain. for Sunday Whirl
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Day 26 NovPAD
The Woman at Burra Bazar Ghat There’s a distant beauty about her, and she shines like a glass of water. Sparkles like early morning. And she sets her wares to sell, brasses and copper bowls, stacks them close as eavesdropping ears. I’m reminded of her whenever the sun shines across water. Day 26:…
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Day 24 NovPAD
I’ll Remember That … she was distracted, retracted, lamentable, repeatable, a child, a woman, tall, with feet too small, a well-worn chair, careless, moody, the curse of an early riser, wished on a star, followed her heart, she was focused, unfocused, wore old jeans and tennis shoes, tangled horizons, forever distracted. And she never found…
It's Still Life 