Category: Journal
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14 June: Journal of Thoughts from Last Week (revised)
A Journal of Thoughts from Last WeekThe I In It6.Disposable when I unlock my carbon, and become a disposable dark stochastic and go the way of that drachma I found on Brighton beach – next to that smouldering disposable barbecue, I will join the swallows and swifts at some ancient festival dedicated to airy grace…
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21 May: Contemplating Ones Backlight (revised)
Backlight I have a new notebook. It’s touched by an old pen’s ink. Letters close in fine neat lines, lip-worn odes and codes, and words of blinding aspire. And I desire that this pen always feel connected to paper. ©Misky 2006-2024
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17 May: Just A Few Thoughts
I. I cling to colours, serenity of sky blue,A scythe to shred clouds, and at nightI melt into dimness. Written for Three Line Poetry (Ink in Thirds) II.I can smell the sea. Eternity is in my heart, inheriting salt maybe. It is filling that drifting part of me. Written at the cottage Some artwork is created…
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14 May: A Downward Song
A Downward Song The downward wing of a dove,strange but not so strange what brings you here. Whose voice is sweetas rose and myrtle, andwhose spirit stills a forest. Are you to be gone from us,tender dove, into those silent ways. Of leaf on leaf, bright rain of nightto possess your gentle breath. May your…
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13 May: Every Journey Is a Story
Every Journey Is a Story Every journey is a story,and I say, You’re those fieldsof yellow mustard blossoms,but no matter where we are,you always say that I’m a tree. Every time just like the last,the years blur into the present,and I say I’ve always been this age,you laugh, say I wasn’t born withall that white…
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12 May: Ritual
Ritual She tilts like a star leaning against her hip, slips into that dark galaxy void, where her eyes are gentle on her restless soul. And waves surge marble-hard, a chance to break against her thighs like flexing muscle fans. Her pulse quickens as she chants rituals in her own flickering light. I am 90%…
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12 May: To Grow A Thought
To Grow a Thought The sun shines into tucks of towels.It’s a scent of heatthat grazes the skin.The scent of sunbathers in burnt colours.Shades of cardinal-scarletstretched in lines at the white duskof morning. The air shatters with thunder.Half the sky is alivewith rain brushing clouds,while couples in lateness of lifechatter and buzzlike bees undeterred.And in…
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6 December: Somewhere There’s Always Chocolate
Somewhere near the equator, my youngest son is explaining to his daughter of nearly 6 years why she can’t have chocolate for breakfast, in much the same way that I explained to him when he was 6, why he couldn’t eat chocolate for breakfast, and much like my mum explained to me that eating chocolate…
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27 November: Journal
27 November:It’s still morning. Time slows when there’s no external noise. No radio. No telly. No talking. No music … except for the shallow sound of his breathing as he reads the Sunday’s paper. Sunday always becomes Monday, if you judge the date by a newspaper. Saturday is thicker than weekdays. Sundays less so than…
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26 November: Journal
25 November:I’m sitting in my chair. Reclined. Fingers locked across my lap. Eyes closed, and headphones isolating me from vague noise. I’m listening to I Walk With Ghosts by Scott Buckley. Violins in deep centred waves. Spiral rebirth – I fall into a shallow sleep. A shallow breath. Strings drawing out my every thought into…
It's Still Life 