Category: AI Art
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8.12: Sentinel Trees
Sentinel Trees These areher sentinel trees,watchersof her comingsand her goings This first Sundayof the month,frost holdingthe air lowand steadyas she leansbackinto the white breath of a birch. She, once a childof its slow-growing seed,whispers,tell me a story…one about a young womanwho ran awayto the citybecause she thoughtgreenwasn’t enough. And tell meshe knows nowhow her instinctsmove…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat’s Bedtime Story The Old Woman is tucked beneath quilts,the moon is a sliver in her sleepy tea,and the cat, perched on the duvet,clears his throat. “Once upon a time,” he begins,“there was a… a mouse.A very… small mouse.With… fur.” He pauses.Blinks once.Twice. “And he… um.He… walked…across a… floor.A wooden floor.It was… oak.” Another…
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7.12: Journal of Thoughts
Senryuwe tried to frame itbut the ivy had its sayand rewrote the edge Haikuwhite wood disappearsin the hush of climbing leavestime paints with silence Written for Saturday SenHai image prompt #29. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI. Poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.
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6.12: MicroDosing 100 µg
“The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing.” – Blaise Pascal’s Pensées It’s December again. The air grows thin and bright in December. Reason sleeps. Another sense awakens. A filament stretched across the dark, humming with a frequency only grief can tune. The clock’s face glows 03:06, not as numbers, but as a…
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5.12: Journal of Thoughts
A Passing Storm Wild, breathless, untamed. Lightning is a beasttorn loose from sky,its white-hot snarlsplitting the nightwide open. She steps into it.Laughing. Almost —as rain claws at skin,as wind pulls at herlike something thatrecognisesits own. Reclaims. The earth trembles,and so does she. This is the momentshe was made for. Raw, electric, untranslated. And when thunder…
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5.12: A Poet’s Thoughts on Grief
A Poet’s Thoughts on Grief I have found grief’s pain remains.It does not leave. It does not soften.It evolves. It ceases to be a personal affront,a fist shaken at a betraying sky. It ceases to be a question that demands an answer. It ages.It becomes a quality of light.A longer shadow.A poetic quality. We learn…
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4.12: Ten Things of Thankful
1. Thankful that my nerves held. One of the things that terrifies me: public speaking. Thistle = metaphor: prickly nerves. 2. Discovered why the boiler was leaking water. New part ordered; it arrive the next day. Thank you DPD. Seal fixed before the next storm blows in off the Atlantic. 3. Nine more days, and…
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4.12 Journal of Thoughts
Borough Market, 15:47 She stands all edgeagainst the London damp—layers, scarf,a green apron snappingin sponge-wet wind. Her hands, in fingerless gloves,move like blessingsover wheels of gold. Winter’s bitesettles into my own bones;it gnaws at seller and buyer alike.Cold makes no distinction.Empathy is born there:not pity from warmth,but the fact of the same wind. I buy…
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2.12: Six Sentence Story
At the Intersection of Odd Numbers Bon Appétit — The Pepperbright Canticle The bell above the door startles itself into a shriek of fingernails on a chalkboard as a woman, trailed by a rosy-nosed child in a cat-eared hat, ignores the door slamming shut behind her and asks, “What do you have for a dinner…
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1 Dec: The Liturgy of Pepperbright Canticle
Liturgy for Pepperbright Canticle (reading time: 1 minute) I. The Nature of the SparkPepperbright Canticle arrives as a glint.Vivid. Gold-green.Like sunlight striking a brass bowlof crushed herbs. It tastes of citrus heat, wild laughter,and something faintly medicinalthat refuses to apologise.It does not ask permission.It simply is:truth slipping out sideways,a confession madewith a mouth full of…
It's Still Life 