Category: AI Art
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25 March: A Six – Crossing the Mersey
Beyond an Intersection Named After an English King and a SaintSix Sentence Story: Day 14 Crossing the Mersey (or The One Without Dialogue) The River Mersey rolls in scrolls against the hull of the Royal Iris ferry, a watery hush stirring Nick’s thoughts—snippets of memory (he looks up at the metallic-grey sky and watches seagulls circling), their…
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23.03: Found Poetry of Ragnarök
The Weavers c. 16 — found poetry from ‘The Elder or Poetica Edda Her joy.He — liking her love.The night to win is won. Frá rifi til dráttar He came watching—waking,burning torches, and yetmorning found her mindshrewd as day. Frá rifi til dráttar She—a bell like thunder,and a chorus of the deadsay nought for thosedrowned…
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21 March: Ten Things of Thankful
In no particular order: I am thankful for … You are invited to the Inlinkz link party! Click here to enter https://fresh.inlinkz.com/js/widget/load.js?id=c0efdbe6b4add43dd7ef Welcome to TToT (Ten Things of Thankful) blog hop! Join bloggers from all over the world as we come together to share those things that we are thankful for. Ten is in the…
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21.03: Found Poetry of Ragnarök
Ragnarök: Found in ‘The Elder or Poetica Edda’ Weavers c. 15 The Words Fell Apart I found sunlight sleepingin the body and soul of me. Við féllum í sundur. Fairest.Fullest..She speaks in soft words. Við féllum í sundur. Plainly.Playing.This I once felt — such was the secret I knew. This is the continuation of the…
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20.03 Spring’s Arabesque
I dreamt of spring—such a strange little telling; blind, blue-eyed flowers straight from the dark brows of doom into a gentle dance. A swaying arabesque—so soft were its April eyes upon the woodland, its shock of white from a blackthorn’s blossom. There’s always a romp, a bird’s pantomime between branch and bough—a secret song, like…
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18 March: dVerse Prosery
And in the end,” she said… It’s my eleventh year, far from home, but oddly, I’m at home here—twilight in the garden, the sky open wide to a single star. It’s summer; I often sleep on the porch, and she says, “It’s not what we may be, it’s what we are.” …
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18.03 Cadralor for the Oracle
A Cadralor for the Oracle I.There’s a crow on the roof ridge,struts across it as if it’s the world,bends its wings, scolds, clamours,swears an ocean of words from itsdark battalions of creamy clouds. II.Petulant weather. Raining as ifspitting upwards by the dead.Splashing against the window,a drummed blur of silver fingersthat change tunes in whispers. III.Listen—a…
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17.03: A Six at Dovedale
Beyond an Intersection Named After an English King and a SaintSix Sentence Story: Day 13 Dovedale & Fiddling Bob-the-Hob Picture, if you will, a lush green valley, time-carved by the icy-clear River Dove; craggy-faced limestone cliffs; sweeping views from Thorpe Cloud hill (a reef knoll); Victorian stepping stones positioned for crossing the river; earthy scents—damp…
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16.03: Journal of Thoughts
My Chrysalism I found the first book I ever read in a wilted cardboard box in the loft—a story about a mischievous little girl who lived in an orphanage in Paris, though the orphanage turned out to be a boarding school, which, to a five-year-old, felt much the same. As I opened it (the spine…
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14.03 The Oracle’s Cadralor
The Oracle Shouts Spring I. Winter was a sharp howling war, Sunday’s spring was utter calm; a day of molten glory and sun, of nights crowding stars pressed troubled faces upon the sky. II.The sea roiled rough though wind laid calm; thick-flecked with light under the light of stars, a shuffle of sands in lapsing…
It's Still Life 