Month: Dec 2025
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat’s Bedtime Story The Old Woman is tucked beneath quilts,the moon is a sliver in her sleepy tea,and the cat, perched on the duvet,clears his throat. “Once upon a time,” he begins,“there was a… a mouse.A very… small mouse.With… fur.” He pauses.Blinks once.Twice. “And he… um.He… walked…across a… floor.A wooden floor.It was… oak.” Another…
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7.12: Journal of Thoughts
Senryuwe tried to frame itbut the ivy had its sayand rewrote the edge Haikuwhite wood disappearsin the hush of climbing leavestime paints with silence Written for Saturday SenHai image prompt #29. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI. Poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.
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6.12: MicroDosing 100 µg
“The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing.” – Blaise Pascal’s Pensées It’s December again. The air grows thin and bright in December. Reason sleeps. Another sense awakens. A filament stretched across the dark, humming with a frequency only grief can tune. The clock’s face glows 03:06, not as numbers, but as a…
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5.12: Journal of Thoughts
A Passing Storm Wild, breathless, untamed. Lightning is a beasttorn loose from sky,its white-hot snarlsplitting the nightwide open. She steps into it.Laughing. Almost —as rain claws at skin,as wind pulls at herlike something thatrecognisesits own. Reclaims. The earth trembles,and so does she. This is the momentshe was made for. Raw, electric, untranslated. And when thunder…
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5.12: A Poet’s Thoughts on Grief
A Poet’s Thoughts on Grief I have found grief’s pain remains.It does not leave. It does not soften.It evolves. It ceases to be a personal affront,a fist shaken at a betraying sky. It ceases to be a question that demands an answer. It ages.It becomes a quality of light.A longer shadow.A poetic quality. We learn…
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4.12: Ten Things of Thankful
1. Thankful that my nerves held. One of the things that terrifies me: public speaking. Thistle = metaphor: prickly nerves. 2. Discovered why the boiler was leaking water. New part ordered; it arrive the next day. Thank you DPD. Seal fixed before the next storm blows in off the Atlantic. 3. Nine more days, and…
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4.12 Journal of Thoughts
Borough Market, 15:47 She stands all edgeagainst the London damp—layers, scarf,a green apron snappingin sponge-wet wind. Her hands, in fingerless gloves,move like blessingsover wheels of gold. Winter’s bitesettles into my own bones;it gnaws at seller and buyer alike.Cold makes no distinction.Empathy is born there:not pity from warmth,but the fact of the same wind. I buy…
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November: Last Photo on the Card
This post is in response to Brian’s monthly challenge Last Photo on the Card. Brian (aka Bushboy) asks for the Last Photos on your phone/camera/SD card. Here is the last shot taken using my iPhone 16Pro Max. Shared on Twitter with @bushboywhotweet
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3.12 dVerse Zero
From a Silent, Fertile Womb From zero,the world blooms. Not from two,but from that void’s deep hum, the unmade promise,the breath before Yes. We are all bornof this silent, round womb, this nothing that dreamtof being something,and spun itself into you and me. And now for something completely different: Written for dVerse Poets: Quadrille – word…
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2.12: Six Sentence Story
At the Intersection of Odd Numbers Bon Appétit — The Pepperbright Canticle The bell above the door startles itself into a shriek of fingernails on a chalkboard as a woman, trailed by a rosy-nosed child in a cat-eared hat, ignores the door slamming shut behind her and asks, “What do you have for a dinner…
It's Still Life 