Category: AI Art
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13 Aug: A Six Sentence Story
15 of 27: Featherhung – The Fragment: Unfinished Flight The soundtrack comes first this week: Best read with this music stitched to its unfolding glyph. Broken Dreams By Milad Ghavipanje. Part 4: Lindisfarne, Holy Island, 7th Century Brigid hunched over her desk — a slab of bog oak, black as a raven’s throat — when, halfway…
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12 Aug: Featherhung – The Liturgy
15 of 27 Featherhung – The Poem – The Fragment: Unfinished Flight I. The Almost-ForgivenNot a wound, but its afterglow —an ash-rose stain between them,where Brigid’s silence hooks Felreil’s wingand his ink pools flat at her feet.They circle the unspoken,two crows with the same bone in their beaks. II. The Crooked LandingA word tilts mid-air:You…
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12 Aug: dVerse Quadrille #229
Last Laugh of a Dandelion That little flower refused to shut up —jabbering of moon-drunk alley cats,tomorrow’s lost socks,and how the dark craves mischieflike a thief craves silvered moonlight.“Hush,” I pleaded, but it only laughed,“I’m a dandelionwho refuses to be a weed.” Soundtrack note: “Some flowers gossip in moonlight, some in mercy — either way,…
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8 Aug: Wind’s Own Language
Wind’s Own Language I hated blackberries as a child—snakes in the grass,thorns whispering your blood back to you,wasps guarding sweetness like secrets. Grandmother’s in the kitchen, stirring blackberries in a copper pot. Special wooden spoon, stained a deep bruised purple. Clockwise to stir in wishes; stirring berries into jam. Into dye. Wine. Now I eathalf…
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6 Aug: Gravity Is Its Own Language
This poem remembers a bicycle ride this week beneath Nordic sun, and the moment I left my grandmother’s ring in the creek beside her old house. I wore it on my thumb one heedless summer as a child. It was time to release and return it. Gravity is its own language — and the land…
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5 Aug: A Six Sentence Story
Where the Air Remembers Your Name The elves stitched the sunlight wrong that day—threads too gold, too tight — even the trolls’ granite knuckles itched, their slow blood humming something, something. Elverhøj yawned open, just a slit: a shadow slid out, licking the air for old witch-scent. She waited, blind eyes milky as the cave’s…
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5 Aug: The Year I Knew
Note: I braved Brenda’s Sunday Whirl . It is a challenge, for sure — her 12 words this week are: souvenirs, free, touch, know, cracks, siren, window, waves, sting, show, ring and give. I have based this poem on memories from my summers in Sweden, where I am at the moment. The photo (taken today) is of a…
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3 Aug: A Slightly Different Ten Things of Thankful
—in the voice of the wind, the waves, and old friends’ waving hands I am away, and I will return when the wind changes I. The Lighthouse Sings:Red and white, I stand crooked as an old man’s spine,scribbling your name in light over the water. II. Go! Go! The horizon is a doorstep,not a wall.…
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26 July: MicroDosing 100µg
Feathers and Stones — (microDosing / surprise – 100µg) It’s a child’s view — watching the morning sun moving round the kitchen. It pulses through the lace curtains in fragments, like memory unraveling. The house hums. The walls remember more than I do. Grandmother does, too. She startles like joy, or prophecy. “Fetch me the…
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25 July: Same Old Skin
Same Old Skin — (after a song by Asaf Avidan – My Old Pain) The willowweepsbut notfor me.(fucking willow —danceslike a noose.) It bendsfor windsI cannotsee.(wind.it ripsthe skyfrom its ownmouth.) I wear my achelike leather worn —(torn,cracked,smilingthrough itsseams.)This old skin with teeth at my throat. I’m a hull splintered where ropes once called me —useful.(It…
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