Category: Poetic Forms
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for dVerse Poets: Haibun Monday
It’s Just Words Someone once said that I was a prolific. As a writer. At the time, I thought it a compliment. Years later, I’m not sure that’s a good thing. Being prolific. It’s like standing in a bucket of your own sweat. Being overcome by noise. Your own noise. So you can’t hear your…
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dVerse Quadrille #135
The Worst Parts The man she loves is dead,and left her a thorny heart.It’s torture. And so she knits. It numbs. It’s transcendental.Self-medicating. Melancholystitching a repeating groove. Her rhythm never judges –the needles know shedoesn’t want to move on. Written for dVerse Quadrille #135 “groove” . Shared with @Experimentsinfc #APoemADay on Twitter ©Misky 2021
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A Limerick: Fakery
Fakery There once was a woman who sneeredat anything looking austere.The tags on her clothes, which she carefully choose,had ink, when wet, that smeared. Written for Fandango’s One Word Challenge #FOWC Today’s word is “Austere”. Photo by Laura Chouette on UnsplashShared with @Experimentsinfc #APoemADay on Twitter ©Misky 2021
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1 Sept: An Elevenie
Clouds steelgrey gliding east to westpassengers on the windclouds Poetic form: an Elevenie. Shared with @Experimentsinfc #APoemADay on Twitter ©Misky 2021
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31 August dVerse: Back to School
Elementary I’ve become vaguely dubious about the roller blinds in our classroom. My teacher pulls the blinds down every Wednesday at noon, just before the air raid siren blares, and I don’t see how curling into a ball under my lift-top desk with my back to the window helps me survive a nuclear bomb. And our…
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30 August: 20 Pieces of a Poem
Piece #5: The One with a Person’s Name His name? Don’t think you’d find anyone who remembers that. People just called him Ida’s Youngest. His face, yes, everyone knew his face. Ida’s Youngest. God spit that boy out on a Tuesday, mistaking him for an olive pit. That’s what the priest told Ida, and that…
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A dVerse Soliloquy Stream of Consciousness
My-My-My My mum lived in a little blue houseat the top of a hill where lodgepole pinesleaned in the wind like a widow’s hump,and there was a creek, raged full when itrained, but the soil sucked it dry by July, (I’m being generous when I say “creek” –it was more like a drainage ditch), and…
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20 August: An American Sentence
I would rather be bored by myself than be bored with somebody else. Poetic form: An American Sentence. 17-syllables. Shared with @Experimentsinfc #APoemADay on Twitter. Photo by Sepp Rutz on Unsplash. ©Misky 2021
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Stream of Consciousness Saturday
This Week (a haibun) Monday. I change the tablecloth on Mondays. It’s the African one this week. I watched a woman weaving it. On wooden looms. Meadow green threads. Beetroot reds. Crow black. Crisscrossed fabric. Monday used to be laundry day. Not anymore. Retirement. Lockdown. The hamper takes forever to fill nowadays. There’s just the…
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dVerse Haibun for August
Against August heat that’s pinpricked into the brick wall, and wings warmed awake and brittle in the sun, bees work within the scent of lilac and lavender as the long days slide sideways. Last scents of summerA sharp edged breath in the treesLast bluing of sky Written for dVerse Poets, Haibun Monday “August”. Main photo is mine, published on Unsplash,…
It's Still Life 