Category: Journal
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23.04: A Letter to Yureth
FIVE SONGS FOR YURETH – Not Fire, But Forging Dawn licks the edges of what we almost know—brushstrokes and inkblots,the way a halo fractures—into 27 syllables. No Book ever taught us that. We are not making myths.We are peeling back the skyto find where we left them. FATE? (a quadrille of 44 words) To spin…
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16.03: Journal of Thoughts
My Chrysalism I found the first book I ever read in a wilted cardboard box in the loft—a story about a mischievous little girl who lived in an orphanage in Paris, though the orphanage turned out to be a boarding school, which, to a five-year-old, felt much the same. As I opened it (the spine…
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9 March: Journal of Thoughts
Spring Spring Spring The daffodils are blooming. Spring. I had to repeat it several times. Spring. Just to believe it. Mum had set the old family bible on the table—my line-of-sight at that small age, “Our family line all die in the winter,” and she buried the point deep into me with her finger pressing…
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07.03 Ex Nigro et Albo Hiemis
Ex Nigro et Albo Hiemis It’s from the east facing window that I watch spring, although this morning’s winter fog obscures the view from anything beyond the windowsill, but no matter—I’m unmoored from gloom by an amber warning to winter that blooms bright as a lantern. Yes, the crocuses are blooming; yes, the birdbath has…
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1 March: Journal of Thoughts
Flowing in a Stream of Consciousness When I wasn’t old enough to know better, I gave my favourite doll a haircut—she had a string in the back of her neck that you pulled, and then she’d say stuff—and being quite pleased with her haircut, I showed her to my mum, declaring that when I grow…
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19 Feb: Journal of Thoughts (and AI)
The I in I Want I want to look at crows on a limband not think Hitchcock. I want to remember the tasteof soft sticky sweets wrappedin dull waxed paper. I want a poetic mould, a soulof mellowed rhyme,of wit and shine. I want to remember wordsand names and famous songsthat sit on the tip…
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14 Feb: Journal of Thoughts from Last Night
The I In It Last night, I sat on the edge of my bed beside my father, who I suppose I should mention has been dead for a good number of years, and he turned to me and asked, “How are you?” and I said I hadn’t many complaints worthy of mentioning, and I reciprocated,…
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6 Feb: A Madness
A Madness it is a madness.when my soulis at odds with a moment.when the dayis on fire. when my shadowsticks to the wall. that place amongst stones,that precipice of who I am. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not…
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5 Feb: Journal of Thoughts from Last Week
A Journal of Thoughts from Last Week: The I In It I Would Not Be Seen I would draw myselfon a sheet of white paper,fill in the backgroundwith milk white snow. There’d be no trees,no cars,no trains nor planes,and I’d place myself mid-centre. Me, a snow white rabbit,watching everythingbut not to be seen. ©Misky 2006-2025.
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15 Jan: Journal of Thoughts from Last Week
Fragments of a 10-Year Old I watched her kiss our waitress by the bins behind the Pancake House – they held each other like a secret, and that memory fell into this drop of ink along with flowers that eat meat and ravenous weeds that digest flies, and I remember that my father’s voice made…
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