Month: Mar 2022
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24.03.22: Baby Ladybird
Baby Ladybird out for a walk on the windowsill,smallas a pinhead,largerthan a mote.Loston the windowpane,sun on your belly,warmthon your legs.brushoff your wings,ladybird,ladybird,fly away home. Image is from Unsplash. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #apoemaday on Twitter
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23.03.22 dVerse Colours
Tea With Florence It wasn’t her real namebut if I had named her,her name would’ve been Florence. Her skin was as paleas proper writing paper.Paper from Florence, undoubtedly. We sat in her garden,the magnolia blossomshanging on a last heavy scent before spring pulledgreen out of its limbs,transforming it into a proper tree. Florence drank mint…
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A dVerse Quadrille
Living In Our Skin Packed lunch and tea.Today it’s spring. These days passfaster than starched clouds, as fast as sea airhowling in its shroud. We feel sharp as papertouched by fresh air. And we bring homeblushed cheeks, seashells,and sand in our shoes. written for dVerse Quadrille “Paper”. Image from Unsplash. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter
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22.03.22: Spontaneous
Spontaneous That gust of wind wasa sort of natural psychosis. The sort that artists paint. A full-breached bleed, andthen easing into composure. Like shifting a baby from one hip to the other. As if to say, Behold,your glass is still half full. All thatin a spontaneous burst of wind. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on…
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17.03.22: Hey, Snowball
Hey, Snowball I used to know a girlwho was a snowball. Every bit of information she readjust stuck. She was always on a roll picking up stuff.Friends, fortunes, luck. And then it all melted,a melt-down, just the waysnowballs do. But like I said, I used to know her.Haven’t seen norheard of her in years, and…
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Hunters in the Snow: Bare Thorns
Hunters in the Snow: The Bare Thorns February is a windthat cuts through the bare thornsof the rose bushes. Never mind the humof small black gnats that possessthe air. . Better to remembera rose’s scent. Your father’s voice.What makes you laugh. And I set my pen aside and listened – because I am the hunter’s…
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19.03.22: Those Weathermen
Those Weathermen The sun is like an eggy wobble,between the blown clouds, and I’ve lost my trust in weather lore,trials by sunrise colour, and those wise men, anointed, appointedweathermen, tapping away with their clicky sticks on charts andpoking into spring’s sharp peep. We still remain in winter’s hug. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter
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18.03.22: No Stopping
No Stopping There’s a stop signat the end of the road, andone day I’m going to ignore it. Aim myself straight through it,like a contrite objection, an oldrusty bell that vows to chime. And I’ll be quietly steadyin the spirit of well-landed words,like bold nouns on a book’s spine that neither spell out thoughtsnor deeds,…
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GoDogGo Cafe Haibun Wednesday
Down by the towpath along the creek, walking against the insect noise and twists of roots from trees that no longer exist, past the rustling thistles of last summer’s dry shadows once indefinably green against the brittle sky . . . there once was a tall wooden fence as white and straight and even as…
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16.03.22: dVerse Hats
It and I My favourite hat smelled of quiet sun,but it is past tense now. It pains me to saythat a gust caught it on the lake, and it floated off to a nether realm.It and I shall never go picking strawberries in Wexfordnor blackberrying like Sylvia did. For dVerse Poets, Hats. Image is from Flickr Commons, National…
It's Still Life 