Category: AI Art
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2 January: dVerse Haibun
It’s late, but not late enough, and too early for stripping off the gold foil from that cork, and it’s surely too early for those warm weather gnats drawn to candlelight that nobody sees but leave you marked as meaningless meat, and there’s static tickling the innards of the old radio as we sway like…
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2 January: Bloganuary
I Tell Myself Be brave. Madness is more than a state of mind. It’s a way living. Think simply, and live simply. Be brave. Written for Day 2: WordPress Bloganuary “Bravery” AI Digital Art: created using Midjourney’s bot (v4b) Image and poem ©Misky 2022 Shared on Twitter #amwriting
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1 January: To Be
To Be It’s not been a bad year so far. This first day. And he makes excellent coffee. It’s like when you meet someone who’s good for you, as if it all came from a miracle. Written for WordPress Bloganuary . AI Digital Art: created using Midjourney’s bot (v4b) Image and poem ©Misky 2022 Shared on Twitter…
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30 December: Fragile Red
The Fragility of Red Those week old cupped crimson tulips make me want to drink in its nectar. Sip through its long slender stemmed straw, drink in its chorus, its savage storm and scorched heart, as its red petals drop across the table, wilt and faint. AI Digital Art: created using Midjourney’s bot (v4b) Image…
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28 December: A Cadralor: Bruised
A Cadralor: Bruised I. She has beginner’s legs. Ballet lessons. At the bar, each move and stretch is a foreign language. II. She feels bruised and battered. Unbalance. Pink tights and a purple tutu. She’s fallen. Upended. III. A boy is outside. Football. He practises scoring goals. Again and again. He runs, and kicks wildly…
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27 December: Word of the Day
Word of the day: ‘Yule-hole,’ the loosest notch in your belt that you must resort to after excessive eating and drinking. 19th century Scots. AI Digital Art: created using Midjourney’s bot (v4b) Image ©Misky 2022 Shared on Twitter #amwriting
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24 December: Time’s Cadralor
A Cadralor: Time is a Blank Paper I. Time is a cruel joke, pretending To be a blank sheet of paper, Shuffling out of its hiding place From the depths of a cuckoo clock. II. I ran a race once. Quick as A chirp twice around the field. Never first. Never last. Nobody Hoots for…
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23 December: The Gaps in Life
The Gaps in Life A view between the blinds. Evergreens, so evergreen Against white birch whose Limbs, bared and tangled Pry open the snowy sky. It’s a straight backed view, Ghostly pale, weather-beaten. And down the hallway, a child coughs. She wants a family photo. We stand. On the dock. You here. You there. You, too.In front of the Christmas tree.For this…
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20 Dec: The Frog’s Hole
There’s a soft, ample-sized woman, who lives next to the old Norman church. She’s the landlady at the Frog’s Hole pub, where neighbours wage eternal war on Friday and Saturday nights. Stop shovelling your snow on my roses, howls the recently widowed Joan, she’s leaning from her bedroom window. Shut up and go away, snaps the man next…
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17 Dec: Two Hours Past Noon
Breakfast at 2 Hours Past Noon Hash browns, white pepper, salt And ketchup, two bright-eyed eggs, Basted. Crispy bacon and Raisin toast with Blood red jam, and Cups of coffee, black and hot as Tallahassee nights. And there’s White noise From a wall-mounted TV That fills the middle ground with Conversation from a war-torn town.…
It's Still Life 