Category: AI Art
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15 Aug: MicroDosing 150 µg
The Keeper of Lost Things – Micro-dosing 150µg (150 words) The drawer was narrow, oak-lined, and smelled of camphor and the kind of winters people used to name. Inside: a brass key, a single pearl earring, and a postcard from Marseille—unsigned, unclaimed. Each morning, Mrs. Havelock touched them with care, her fingers reading their weight…
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14 Aug: A Slow Detonation
A Slow Detonation I. Imprisoned Stone frames a freedomthat swallows every horizon whole.Iron teeth bite shut the sky,keeping light’s whispers out.Here, the freedom is absence,and absence is forever. II. A Slow Detonation Poem Power is the liethat fits their fist, that names the bruisenecessary. That tells the wound —this is right. Their boots don’t care.March.March…
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13 Aug: Ten Things of Thankful
In no particular order: #10 – it’s that time again I am thankful that I managed to walk all the way to the top of this extremely steep hill at Hammerhus (from which the view across the Baltic Sea was amazing) because … #10.1 – a bit of sun …. as you’ll notice, it’s really,…
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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…
It's Still Life 