Month: Feb 2022
-
8.02.22 Line-Spectra
An Odd Line-Spectra The wind has no steady direction today. Atoms bouncing about on a line-spectra. Leaves and debris in an orange orbit; a white dog chasing its tail. Everything is cyclonic-yellow. Even my thoughts. It’s like an itch. The sting of anxiety. The wind jumping at the trees, as they’re heaving off frost and…
-
V.1 C.2 Fractionals
Originally posted on That's No Way to Wash a Dragon: Quarters, Mum says, are fourths. It’s apples again. Mum takes two pieces and starts eating one … and asks, So how many pieces of our apple do you have. I say, Two pieces. She nods, What do you call that, in fraction language. And…
-
7.02.22: Gargoyle
Supermarket Gargoyles Right next to the anti-viralhand gel by the automaticopening doors, standsan elderly security guard. He’s a poker faced manin a buttoned-up uniform,and a shirt bleached whiteand starch-stiffened. Dressed like that, I expecthim to do something whenmy shopping trolly sets offthe security alarm, but no, he just stands there, grim as cold porridge, stony…
-
GoDogGo Café: Names of Light
I Still Know That House When I was a kid … and oh how I do shirk from that phrase. My mother used it whenever she set herself on a pedestal, but anyway when I was a kid I lived in a house at the end of a close, which is like a cul-de-sac, or…
-
5.02.22 Stream of Consciousness Saturday #socs
A Little Night Music The clock’s ticking toward midnight,and it ticks forward and forwardand still forward morelike some shimmering starsending signals to the moon, and time is a minute longand eighty-nine years wide,and another pageof someone’s past is writteninto this colour-blind night. Stream of Consciousness Saturday “Pages” Image February Frost by William Ogilvie. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting…
-
Twiglet #264
A Still Life of a Winter’s Night The fireplace is lit, its flamedancing with the surfaceof the window. A candlestiff and still on the table, with the last heel from a loaf,dried onions and cheesewith a sip of sweet wine. No need to whisper thatthe cupboard is bare, orthat the empty knocking isnot the beat…
-
4.02.22: The Russian Girl
The Russian Girl at the Duck Pond There’s too much looking on bright side, she says. She has rod-straight black hair and a Russian accent that makes me nostalgic for Rocky the Flying Squirrel, and Boris and Natasha – not everything was bleak and fatalistic during the Cold War. And she says, lots of people,…
-
GoDogGo Cafe Haibun Wednesday
Her Eggs Mum had a Victorian demeanour, posture as if stitched into a corset. Very few emotions she’d let slip, except boredom tightening her face. I remember her studying the back porch steps. She’d painted them shiny parrot green, the July sun scorched her neck, and bubbled the paint like the crispy edges of a…
-
The Greens and Blues of It
The Greens and Blues of It Here I am wandering around,lost on oak-spiked hilltops, and admiring the serenityof sheep and shadows, and I am as surplus to this dayas ribbons are surplus to a gift. And until today, I’d never seena kestrel kill a rabbit. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #apoemaday on Twitter
-
2.02.22: VV February 22
A Hundred Butterflies She’s soothed in the colourof old gas light, andsways to a piano’s moan. The warm, dense airhas put her in a weary sort ofsatisfied mood. The moon hanging pregnantly full,and the stars up therehum like bees at the jasmine and honeysuckle.It’s a thick scent thatmakes her head swim, makes her feel light…
It's Still Life 