Month: Nov 2017
-
Day 23 NovPAD
Weathering It’s all just weather, all those whispering looks, those clay-sucked boots, those truths rendered out of weak worms and metaphor rabbit holes, all those empty houses, banging doors, and cawing crows when heaven laughs. And why am I so old so soon … Time blows across my heart, but it’s all just weather, all…
-
Day 22 NovPAD
Thursday is Still Laundry Day For me there’s nothing more innocent than the smell of turkey roasting. Instantly … I’m 10 again. Maybe 12. The kitchen windows drip condensation, the dining room table is set with Mum’s special china and the blue opaque glasses. The dining room smells woody — green botanicals on the middle…
-
Day 21 NovPAD
I. Deconstructing News It was not one of those glorious mornings where you sit on the terrace. A coffee. A view. A garden. Not a compact breakfast on a fine filigree table, ’cause newspapers blazed with war and decline, withdrawal and poverty and hunger, and I wondered how the world had fallen into such disarray,…
-
Day 20 NovPAD
There’s the Rub I’ve learnt that truth defies definition. It vacillates, shifts, trims, sometimes truth is a sail, a forgetfulness of the heart. If you sing lullabies to your conscience, you’ll not apt to sleep. I’ve learnt that living is friction, and there’s the rub. Poetic Asides Day 20 prompt, write a “what I…
-
dVerse Quadrille #45
Up in Smoke I remember him suffering inside a cloud of smoke in his chair. Rocking. He said he never found his proper place in the world. Claimed his cough was an allergy. He died later that year amidst pipes, cigar boxes, papers and a pitch-sticky spittoon. dVerse Quadrille #45 “Rock”
-
Day 19 NovPAD
The Happy and Sad Side of Things I’ve never been to Nicaragua but I’ve seen photos — those red tile roofs and narrow streets and church fronts and spires and bells that I suppose ring on the hour like our church bells do, and ivy-laced trees and stone arched bridges over near-dry creeks that swell…
-
Day 18: NovPAD
Headless Yesterday, I tried to repair a gnome. A cat, with a small gesture of its tail, knocked its head straight off, knocked the cuteness off its shoulders, and I’m useless with small scale, and besides, a gnome without a head is not much use at all. Day 18: write a good for nothing…
-
Day 14 & 16 NovPAD
Whispered Encomiums And when the earth is dead, when it lays stiff and cold with one candle by its head and another set at its feet, we’ll mourn its passing in whispered encomiums of bird song and cedars, blue chiffon skies and seas salt-dyed and unkempt as we say rosaries, and recite from flyblown books…
-
Day 15 NovPAD
A Grey Strange [a very drafty draft] Fog has me thinking about grey, its illusion of flatness, its angles of play. Like the village pond, a still grey — fog has no reflection, and the edges of trees are absorbed in its brine. Nothing hums. Nothing sings. Birds are unhinged by it. Mist washes green…
It's Still Life 