Category: AI Art
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19 Feb: Journal of Thoughts (and AI)
The I in I Want I want to look at crows on a limband not think Hitchcock. I want to remember the tasteof soft sticky sweets wrappedin dull waxed paper. I want a poetic mould, a soulof mellowed rhyme,of wit and shine. I want to remember wordsand names and famous songsthat sit on the tip…
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18 Feb: A Six—And It’s Written
Beyond an Intersection Named After an English King and a SaintSix Sentence Story: Day 8 Part 3 Et Scriptum Est — And It’s Written This Six continues from Nick’s (The Gatekeeper’s) comment of last week … I take the chair beside Nick; the book lies open, relaxed in its binding, “A leap from shadows of persecution into…
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17.2 The Whisperoak
The Whisperoak Louisa had always been drawn to the old tree in front of the house. Its roots curled into the stone walls, its gnarled branches scraped the sky, and its massive trunk was hollowed into a darkened passage. Her grandmother said that it was ancient even when she was young and that those who…
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15 Feb: Winter Daybreak
Daybreak 7:15 a.m. Saturday.The sky is the same dreary expanseof rain sodden soil that mirrorsmy emotional tone. Grey hills that catch the light,lifeless as steel—the samelandscape as Sunday, Tuesday, and every daythis February. It’s a Brontë sort of colour,of stunted joy felt by a blossom spurnedand snubbedby a winter chill. Some artwork is created using…
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10.2 A Six: Et Scriptum Est
Beyond an Intersection Named After an English King and a SaintSix Sentence Story: Day 8 Part 2 Et Scriptum Est — And It’s Written Continued from Part One “Nick—what?” He points under the table at the book—words etching blink-fast across the page: “The word invasive will fill his head; he will question if this book…
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9.2. Wisting
It’s Saturday, 21.00, and I am watching Wisting on BBC 4, Norwegian, subtitled in English, although I don’t need the subtitles, and there’s a man standing on a wooden dock that rocks with the brush of each wave under its pontoons, and a large dog standing on heaped mounds of rock that look shaped by…
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9 Feb: 12 Minutes Past 8
Twelve Minutes Past Eight (A List Poem) Chimney Smoke in curls Grass hard with frost 2 doves pacing the roof ridge Scent of oatmeal A spoon stirring coffee A blackbird singing in the apple treeIce melting in drips Clock-radio playing upstairs Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.
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A Haibun to Darkness
Waiting for the Dark I sit by the window, the winter trees watching over me as daffodils push through soil and crocuses wait for tomorrow’s sun, and I write this, the light fading until gone, until the paper is more part of darkness than day, and I sit through the hour into night, alone by…
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7 Feb: Ten Things of Thankful
In no particular order: 1. Well, thank goodness for that; my 32-year old Bamix hand blender finally died. Now I can buy another one with a beast-like motor that can chew its way through a banana and yogurt. 2. Full fibre broadband installation on Friday morning—my mobile will still keep me connected, but no internet…
It's Still Life 