Category: dVerse
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dVerse’s Character Study
And Run Same time, every day. She runs. I’m finishing the breakfast dishes, up to my wrists in hot soapy water, and there she goes, she’s a shot of sun. Her red hair’s often a shapeless flame, but today it’s tied up in a brass knot – and she runs. I’d love to run that…
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dVerse Quadrille 9
It’s Deeper Than Skin We are each other’s skin, an inherited thorn touched by lineage, memory’s echo. Soft as silk, as green is to spring. I sleep in quilted flesh. I dream to breathe, my heart; its voice. Skin … my moral default when I wander far and flooded. for dVerse. Quadrille…
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dVerse on Doors
Cut and Cold My left hand worries, it knows about closed doors. All kids know about closed doors. Do not enter. Private. Get out. But my right hand is like an old woman’s stare – empty, so I grab the knob, bevelled glass, cut and cold, and push that door open on a loose creak…
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dVerse Haibun #13
West Beach The sea breaks just inches from where I stand. It’s a cannon’s crash in my ears. A tempest. A churning purgatory. We’re walking fast along this wet sand, the tide pushing us faster, the beach paperflat and straight into the west sky, and we’re barefoot. Mom says it’s good for the arches of…
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A Golden Shovel for dVerse
Unimportant Strangers I was all eyes and hands back then, each moment rosy smiles or a quick descent into dusty tears. Five years old. Such is the way of small hands, little limbs, and as I chased the summer, graceful as butterflies I chased, as the dust rising underfoot, I saw the sky as a…
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It’s All Perspective
It’s All a Matter of Perspective God doesn’t care about walls or fences or boundaries, nor your politics or prejudices. I once knew a man who lived in the desert — wanted to be a hermit. So he built fences all around him, mended them, kept them tight and tidy, and when I ask him…
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dVerse: Quadrille #8
Virgin Green These days are virgin green. A sultan’s feast upon our eyes. Satin pillows, violet’s spring, bluebells skipping a breezy song. A child sits, picks bouquets. Daisies. Clover. For her mother. These are her brightest days. Her curly head unaware of lonely nights. Broken hearts. for dVerse: Quadrille #8. 44 words…
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#8
The Girl from Ink-panema That girl she’s of turquoise ink, a salty spill, a swel- ling heart of sea. She talks to trees cheers the sad- ness from pencils, sings in chirping quiet of stone, myst- erious mermaid who writes with lemon. She decodes the sun, that girl, she believes in ink. dVerse…
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Maybe It Was a Saxophone
Maybe It Was a Saxophone I’m not sure if it’s a saxophone or a cornet, but the sound is pure green. The day is green. I sat on a half-rotten wooden bench this afternoon, one end higher than the other because the sidewalk had cracked and rose up like anger. And my feet were killing…
