Category: dVerse
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dVerse Haibun Monday
The bird bath is frozen, and the house stares out on a silvery fog. Crows on the hop. On the lawn. Pepper on white. Onyx on the hop. They argue. They joke. It’s a caw a caw — it’s a stabbing incantation as their beaks seek small creatures hidden in the soil, hidden like deep…
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Found dVerse
Erasure source: “The Poem of the Future” by J.R. Solonche from Invisible. “Pulvis et umbra sumus” (We are but dust and shadow.) ― Horace, “The Odes of Horace”, written for dVerse
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Twiglet #47
Running Parallel Mum has a dark edge, like sun in and out of clouds, but every story has a bit of meat. I’d know hers anywhere. In one or two of my lives, she’s been my root – roots run parallel. I look like Mum. Mum looks like her father. Same eyes. Jaw. Same frown.…
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2 Easy for Miz Quickly
Got Me on My Knees He’s been arguing with himself these days. It’s all gone wrong. Been wronged. It’s a paler shade of broken, he says, while he argues with the mirror, and longs for her legs. A lost prisoner to her songs. And he falls into blond on blond dreams, begging Layla, you’ve got…
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de-Grammer for dVerse
Another Cloud I knew a girl, she grew she grew, a hued music lived inside her, finger-dancing across her knees. Another day, acid-etched, another soft-edge cloud spilled, another bird’s scribbling word. And her cat’s the colour of sunset. It keeps itself just beyond her dancing-fingers reach. for dVerse and Gnomes
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Sleeping for dVerse
The Ragged Edge of Sleep I. Even as I dream, I hear his sleep. I’ve come to expect it, the way you expect water to be wet, and I wonder about the depth of my dreams if his sleep was no longer mine to hear. II. Mine was an embalmering sleep, and I dreamt of…
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dVerse Quadrille #38
She Forgot to Weep my mother’s years call her to rest. says, it’s a long-lost dream. cold winter mountains. just a bit of sleep. comes with heart’s desire, care-free as a new dress. those old joys: her long-lost bright gleam; youth. her dreams know nothing of old lips. Quadrille #38: Dreams
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The End for dVerse Poets
Underfoot Morning breaks. She watches over the roses with a squint of scorn, then pulls the clothesline tight. A grooved branch holds its weight. And she pegs his shirts by the side seams on the line. Upside down – a distress signal. Socks paired, then pegged. Jeans, wrinkles flicked away by the breeze. Clothes billow,…
It's Still Life 