Category: Journal
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1303: Journal of Thoughts
The House Learns Its Tune Decades I’ve lived here,and only now do I hear it when the wind comes off the sea,south by southwest,my house sings. The gales are no destroyers.They are fingerson the roof tiles,a hand at the chimes.Each slate, a note.Each ridge, a phrase held long. Gusts draw themselvesover the windowsills,thin lips to…
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1203: Three Poems for Sahara Air
I. Senryudust from distant sandseven the old oaks seem unsurewhich land they belong to II. Haikusahara driftingbare branches fade into mistfar from their desert III. Sahara Morning, West Sussex This morningthe woods forgot their colour. Oak and birchstood quietly in borrowed air,their branches holdinga breath from another continent. Somewhere far awaya desert wind lifted its…
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1103: Spring Thoughts
The grass wears its dewy jewels,knowing the sun will claim them.One white feather, soft as whispers,caught in a bare branch thorn.And in the garage,a sparrow sings itself to sleep. And the birds still think I am morning Some images are a collaboration with Midjourney; all writing is my own original work.©Misky 2006-2026.
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1003: Spring Thoughts
And the birds—the small ones, the unnamed ones,the ones who live in the hedge’s dark heart—they mistake me for morning. I step out, and they sing.Not to me.Not for me.But because my shape in the doormeans it’s morning. I am, to them, the predictable thing.The hinge on which the day turns.They do not know my…
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0905: Spring Thoughts
The pigeon sits in the birdbathlike a fat, grey abbotblessing the water with his stillness. He does not move when I pass. He has achieved somethingI am still reaching for —the utter certaintythat he belongs exactly where he is. And the birds still think I am morning. Some images are a collaboration with Midjourney; all…
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0803: Journal of Thoughts
While the Daffodils Open This is not a poem.This is a fist. Again.Again.The word itself is a wound that will not close. Again the rubble breathes its grey prayer.Again the children sort through stonesfor something that was never a mother,never a bed,never a name. I watch daffodils open,yellow throats tipped towardthe same sun that rises…
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0703: Journal of SenHai
Senryuone small silhouetteall my worries shrink a bitagainst those ridges Haikudawn folds the mountainsin veils of amber and roseone walker, the sky Written for SenHai Saturday #42 . Some images created with Midjourney; all writing is authentically my own original work.©Misky 2006-2026.
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0703: Spring Thoughts
But that crow—the crow is the one who watches me watch. Balanced on the tip of the picket fence,he tilts his head and lets me seethe whole cold mathematics of his eye. He is not bird.He is a theorem with feathers.A calculation of distance,a proof of patience. And when he flies, it will not be…
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0603: Journal of Thoughts
Between the Salt and Pepper We used to wave them off at stations. Kisses pressed into collars,wars with foreign namesdissolving into newsprint. Some came home. Some didn’t. Distancewas a mercy then. Now the table is laid. Salt.Pepper.A glass of waterholding the small reflectionof a child’s face. The television speaks. Bombs fall. A street we have…
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0603: Spring Thoughts
Catkins on the witch hazelhave grown long overnight.Yesterday they were whispers.Today they are sentences,fringed and breeze-trembling,each one a tiny, yellow questionhung out for the wind to answer. And the birds still think I am morning. Some images are a collaboration with Midjourney; all writing is my own original work.©Misky 2006-2026.
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