Category: AI Art
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Ten Things of Thankful
After a course of antibiotics, my cough has subsided; thankful for the relief — so I spent a morning enjoying birdsong, new growth pushing through the forest loam, beech leaves tinted sassafras-green, and felt renewed. I’m thankful for… I. Tuna casserole the way my mother used to make it — a thick layer of crushed…
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2304: Ekphrastic Poem
Boy and the Candle he bends above the hour as if darkness were something fragilethat could be opened by hand. the candle is not large, yet gathers the whole roomto itself — a small white throat of fire. and the boy, eyelid and cheekbone, leans close enoughto borrow its breathing. light climbs his facelike thought:…
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2204: Six Sentence Story
Part 9: Brigid’s Diary, The Market at Vienne To Bear Witness We stepped off the boat at Vienne, and the town met us with a quiet menace — uneven stones slick with thaw, my hems dragging through muck, Felreil’s boots slipping as if the ground itself had learned mistrust. Saturday market pulled us by the…
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2104: The Liturgy
Liturgy for Market Day at Vienne(where the living bargain and the dead witness) I. The Uneven WorldThe stone setts are uneven,not worn smooth by time,but accusing.Each misstep a reminder:you do not belong here.Your feet have not learnedthis city’s particular limp. Felreil’s boots slip in the persistent drizzle.My hems drag through muckthat smells of horses and…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
Where is the Old Woman?” …the cat demands,pacing the length of the kitchen,tail held high like a sceptre of injustice. “She is late.My bowl is half-empty.My sunbeam is un-warmed.This is negligence.” The crow, from the fence, offers:“Perhaps she’s writing poetry?”The cat scoffs.“Poetry doesn’t fill stomachs.” “No shit!” agrees the robin. Just then—the back door opens.There…
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Ten Things of Thankful
Two weeks into the April Poem-a-Day Challenge, and I’ve not run out of ink yet. My Ten this week are centred around home. Spring is coming on fast paced; chores done and more created; a new garden project. The charging pod for my car is installed, so no more power cords hanging out the kitchen…
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1404: Six Sentence Story
Part 8: Brigid’s Diary, Night on the Rhône — Half-Light and Wake That night on the river I learned how sound can become a weight, the engine’s pulse settling into my bones until sleep itself felt mechanical. The lanterns shook in their brasses, and the Rhône carried a smell of acrid silt and sulfur embers…
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1304: The Liturgy, Part 8
Liturgy for the Mechanical DarkNight on the Rhône, Half Light and Awake I. The Weight of Sound Sound has become a weight.Not noise—noise is fleeting:a shout, a clatter; this thingshuffles marrow in bone. This is weight:the engine’s pulse hammering my bonesuntil sleep feels mechanical,a function rather than a rest. Lanterns shake in their brackets.The floor…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The First Crocus (Or: How to Philosophise a Flower) The Old Woman kneels in the still-cold soil,points to a brave spear of yellow poking through frost and forgotten leaves,“Look,” she whispers.“Spring.” The cat pads over,sniffs delicately …then draws back as if offended by hope. “Hmm.A small, yellow invader.Uninvited.Asserting itself.” She smiles.“It’s a flower, not a…
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Ten Things of Thankful
This is the 20th year that I’ve participated in the Writers’ Digest April Poem-a-Day Challenge. Over that time, I’ve managed honourable mention a few times, and placed 2nd twice, but never won the competition. It’s true — the joy is in the participation and meeting up with old friends again, but I sure do wish…
It's Still Life 