Category: Journal
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23.11: Ananda (a sculpture)
Ananda (a sculpture) Circle and study the negative spaces, feel the energy, intention, … the simplicity (is simplicity not the highest form of mastery?). It is called “Ananda” (meaning bliss, rapture). I will never see this sculpture in person, but I’ve seen photographs of it from various angles. I gasped when I say it the…
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20.11: Journal of Thoughts
The Truth about Grey (Accentual Verse) This is no cleansingcold of the year.This is winter’s rot,and rain that dulls. The air tastes sourwith giving-up things;death’s slow handlaid on the shoulder. Colour drains out:stone’s grey remains,black bark dripping,green worn to bruise. Even the lightis tired cloth,a faded sheetthrown over days. This is Bleak.I breathe it in.I…
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15.11: Journal of Thoughts
Senryu we left the lights onas if love might lose its wayin all that silence Haiku fir trees heavy-limbed,footsteps vanish into duskone warm room remains Written for SenHai Saturday. Poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.
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13.11: Journal of Thoughts
River Reflections trees bow toward their sleeping echoes;the bridge repeats itself in hush;the water holds two heavens at once. — three-line jueju in English winter river stills—trees and bridge breathe twice in glass,sky drifts underneath. — haiku Written for Ink In Thirds “Reflections” ©Misky 2006-2025.
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8.11: Journal of Thoughts
when beauty touches bone Senryu sunset spills its firewe talk of dreams in silenceas if time were ours Haiku dune shadows deepenthe desert holds winter lightlike an old secret Written for I Write Her’s SenHai Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.
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25.10: Journal of Thoughts
Of Poets Dead and Gone while I slept in my chair,my dream, waking my horse, although I’ve noneand never will, nevertheless, it woke, and we rode down a rocky lanewhere stood the souls of poets dead; and gone, and one who seemed of marble,who stood as any might alive —rain falling thickand clinging to her…
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23.10: The Past is a Foreign Country
The Past is a Foreign Country ‘stood beside my grandmother’s grave,one stone of granite, shown and marked,where I, when young caught lightning bugs. Tell me again that saying her nameis like a warmth,a hug,a mug of steaming tea.Tell me again that she loved me. Take me to her altar,her little shrinesafe above the tide-line.Take me…
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17.10: Journal of Thoughts
A Wednesday in October I.I am wearing long socks and music, and watching clouds turn angry. The morning’s been a car chase — after notes, after sounds. The clock’s ticking, lending the day its rhythm. II.He wears old dark colours. Wool and boots. Leaves dropping all around him. The bones of trees are bent his…
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10.10: The Last Clear Map
To Avignon: The Last Clear Map 28 September (waiting in ferry queue at Newhaven)I.maps dream in the gloveboxthe sunrise is our compassour clocks are made of salt II.the sea pulls at usaway from white cliffs writinglove letters in chalk 29 SeptemberI.journey’s labyrinth —coins, a prayer, the bells ring,my soul leaves, fed by light. 30 SeptemberI.black…
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7.10: Journal of Thoughts
Credo at Chartres Cathedral I was the pilgrimwhose heart beats in time with the rose window.A woman with a student’s mind—always hungry,always questioning the authority of dust,turning history over in her palmlike a strange, worn coin. A woman with a memory—not just recalling, but re-weaving,feeling the roots beneath the cathedral,hearing the spring’s songthrough the stone.…
It's Still Life 