Category: music
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17.12: Six Sentence Story
Note to my readers: I’m travelling for the next few weeks in Colombia. I’ll be reading with gratitude, even if I can’t reply properly immediately. El Mohán: the Colombian River Spirit Time braids itself into the mist and murmur of the Río Magdalena, where women wash laundry in silence and speak of El Mohán only…
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13.12: Later …
From my path to yours, I send warmth and my best wishes. AI imagery. ©Misky 2006-2025.
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9.12: Six Sentence Story
Hols with an O Not a U Brigid sits near the electric space heater — warmth feeling like salvation as it chases the damp chill off the floorboards. And there’s a pigeon in the birdbath: it lifts its left wing into the gauzy rain (sheets of it falling, half-translucent), splashing about as if the rain…
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8.12: Sentinel Trees
Sentinel Trees These areher sentinel trees,watchersof her comingsand her goings This first Sundayof the month,frost holdingthe air lowand steadyas she leansbackinto the white breath of a birch. She, once a childof its slow-growing seed,whispers,tell me a story…one about a young womanwho ran awayto the citybecause she thoughtgreenwasn’t enough. And tell meshe knows nowhow her instinctsmove…
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7.12: Journal of Thoughts
Senryuwe tried to frame itbut the ivy had its sayand rewrote the edge Haikuwhite wood disappearsin the hush of climbing leavestime paints with silence Written for Saturday SenHai image prompt #29. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI. Poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.
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5.12: Journal of Thoughts
A Passing Storm Wild, breathless, untamed. Lightning is a beasttorn loose from sky,its white-hot snarlsplitting the nightwide open. She steps into it.Laughing. Almost —as rain claws at skin,as wind pulls at herlike something thatrecognisesits own. Reclaims. The earth trembles,and so does she. This is the momentshe was made for. Raw, electric, untranslated. And when thunder…
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5.12: A Poet’s Thoughts on Grief
A Poet’s Thoughts on Grief I have found grief’s pain remains.It does not leave. It does not soften.It evolves. It ceases to be a personal affront,a fist shaken at a betraying sky. It ceases to be a question that demands an answer. It ages.It becomes a quality of light.A longer shadow.A poetic quality. We learn…
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4.12 Journal of Thoughts
Borough Market, 15:47 She stands all edgeagainst the London damp—layers, scarf,a green apron snappingin sponge-wet wind. Her hands, in fingerless gloves,move like blessingsover wheels of gold. Winter’s bitesettles into my own bones;it gnaws at seller and buyer alike.Cold makes no distinction.Empathy is born there:not pity from warmth,but the fact of the same wind. I buy…
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3.12 dVerse Zero
From a Silent, Fertile Womb From zero,the world blooms. Not from two,but from that void’s deep hum, the unmade promise,the breath before Yes. We are all bornof this silent, round womb, this nothing that dreamtof being something,and spun itself into you and me. And now for something completely different: Written for dVerse Poets: Quadrille – word…
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2.12: Six Sentence Story
At the Intersection of Odd Numbers Bon Appétit — The Pepperbright Canticle The bell above the door startles itself into a shriek of fingernails on a chalkboard as a woman, trailed by a rosy-nosed child in a cat-eared hat, ignores the door slamming shut behind her and asks, “What do you have for a dinner…
It's Still Life 