Category: AI Art
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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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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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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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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat Establishes Dominance (Or: A Hostile Takeover) The dog arrives with a wag and a woof,all floppy ears and hopeful eyes,unaware it has just walked intoa carefully fortified sovereign nation. The cat watches from the mantelpiece,tail slow and deliberate,like a general surveying a battlefieldbefore the first shot is fired. “So,” he murmurs to the…
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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…
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0703: Journal of SenHai
Senryuone small silhouetteall my worries shrink a bitagainst those ridges Haikudawn folds the mountainsin veils of amber and roseone walker, the sky Written for SenHai Saturday #42 . Some images created with Midjourney; all writing is authentically my own original work.©Misky 2006-2026.
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0703: Spring Thoughts
But that crow—the crow is the one who watches me watch. Balanced on the tip of the picket fence,he tilts his head and lets me seethe whole cold mathematics of his eye. He is not bird.He is a theorem with feathers.A calculation of distance,a proof of patience. And when he flies, it will not be…
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0603: Spring Thoughts
Catkins on the witch hazelhave grown long overnight.Yesterday they were whispers.Today they are sentences,fringed and breeze-trembling,each one a tiny, yellow questionhung out for the wind to answer. 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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0603: Journal of Thoughts
Between the Salt and Pepper We used to wave them off at stations. Kisses pressed into collars,wars with foreign namesdissolving into newsprint. Some came home. Some didn’t. Distancewas a mercy then. Now the table is laid. Salt.Pepper.A glass of waterholding the small reflectionof a child’s face. The television speaks. Bombs fall. A street we have…
It's Still Life 