Month: Mar 2026
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1203: Ten Things of Thankful
It’s all about Sahara dust in the air this week — it’s not joke, so my Ten Things are in disordered order. 10) Thankful for a walk this morning. Sahara dust cleared overnight with rain, and the sun found its way through clouds. 9) Thankful for Denise’s weekly Six Sentence Story prompt. Here’s mine for this week,…
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1203: Three Poems for Sahara Air
I. Senryudust from distant sandseven the old oaks seem unsurewhich land they belong to II. HaikuSahara driftingbare branches fade into mistfar from their desert III. Sahara Morning, West Sussex This morningthe woods forgot their colour. Oak and birchstood quietly in borrowed air,their branches holdinga breath from another continent. Somewhere far awaya desert wind lifted its…
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1203: A Thursday Door
Bushboy (Brian Dodd) shares photos of doors, but not just any doors. Spectacular doors from his journeys. Dan’s Thursday Doors opened the door on this. I love doors of all sorts. I’ve trawled through my photos and found a few to share. ©Misky 2022-2026 Shared on X #amwriting @bushboywhotweet and @DAntion
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1103: Spring Thoughts
The grass wears its dewy jewels,knowing the sun will claim them.One white feather, soft as whispers,caught in a bare branch thorn.And in the garage,a sparrow sings itself to sleep. And the birds still think I am morning Some images are a collaboration with Midjourney; all writing is my own original work.©Misky 2006-2026.
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1003: dVerse Quadrille
my dawn crowarrives —black oracle of skyfeathered shadowon winter’s perch. you listento my whispers,small words to morning’sfinal stars. rise my breathto your bright eye,stir the sky, my crow.keeper of quiet waysguardian of unseen paths. Written for De’s quadrille #243 to birds. Some images created with Midjourney; all writing is authentically my own original work.©Misky 2006-2026.
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1003: Six Sentence Story
Brigid’s Diary, 1834 The Crowd Becomes a Question — Episode II The crowd tightened without warning, sound folding in on itself until every voice became an elbow. I stepped forward because hunger has an arithmetic I know by heart, and the children nearest me were speaking it with their whole bodies.Chopped language and uniforms surfaced…
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1003: Spring Thoughts
And the birds—the small ones, the unnamed ones,the ones who live in the hedge’s dark heart—they mistake me for morning. I step out, and they sing.Not to me.Not for me.But because my shape in the doormeans it’s morning. I am, to them, the predictable thing.The hinge on which the day turns.They do not know my…
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0903: The Liturgy
Liturgy for the Weaving City(for Lyon, 1834, where silk and blood ran together) I. The DeclarationThis is not riot.This is declaration. Men, women, children —children thin as breath,tear-streaked, sharp-elbowed,forcing through the crowdfor one lungful of air,one moment of being countedamong the living. They carry no weapons.They carry themselves: hollow cheeks,empty hands,that terrible refusalto die quietly.…
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0905: Spring Thoughts
The pigeon sits in the birdbathlike a fat, grey abbotblessing the water with his stillness. He does not move when I pass. He has achieved somethingI am still reaching for —the utter certaintythat he belongs exactly where he is. And the birds still think I am morning. Some images are a collaboration with Midjourney; all…
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0803: Journal of Thoughts
While the Daffodils Open This is not a poem.This is a fist. Again.Again.The word itself is a wound that will not close. Again the rubble breathes its grey prayer.Again the children sort through stonesfor something that was never a mother,never a bed,never a name. I watch daffodils open,yellow throats tipped towardthe same sun that rises…
It's Still Life 