Category: Poetic Forms
-
Flash Fiction Prosery
Flash Fiction: Prosery 144 words Dead I am dead. I don’t know the how or the why of it. Or even the when of it. Details. Details. These things are unimportant. That information is in the past, it’s for the living to unravel, they want to know how it happened, they need the science of…
-
Double Quadrille #81
A Dragon’s Dream I’m dwarfed by mountains rising from the shore. I’m watched over by the moon. My centre point in the sky. Watch me. I can fly. Milky clouds stretch like a python in the night, and I walk warm shallows of waves that recoil at my touch. I can fly. The sun rises,…
-
dVerse Ghazal
I. IT’S THE LITTLE THINGS THAT STIR A STORM Like those things that make us smile. Like life’s annoyances, too well we know. You hold your finger, crimson bubbling, perhaps, you say, I should slice the tomatoes. I adore cabbage creamed and parsleyed, you want brown gravy and new potatoes. I prefer soft-edges and floppy…
-
dVerse Ekphrastic Poem
Seems that While We’re Alive Our holidays include the dead. Visiting parents, gone. Family members, gone. Dutiful. We pay respects. We bring flowers that wilt and die as if mimicking us. We’re highly compostable. My in-laws are resting beside a white-washed stucco church built in the 14th century. They’re buried next to each other, box…
-
for dVerse Quadrille #80
There’s a Dead Rat in the Attic so says Carla, the TV-aerial-man, though I swear she’s a man. Says it’s mummified,not recent. Carla-the-man thanks me for the coffee while I tip sugar into eggs. I’m making cake. If I were a violin, I’d crave music; I crave rich, dense cake. for dVerse Poets…
-
for Wednesday’s Muse & dVerse
Reflection This mirror grows old. A mirage of flaked silver. Flecked specks of questioning looks where time shines. Some fine young woman of centuries ago looks back at herself, looks to change her past. Looks to the future. And now it’s mine. It hangs on the wall. Catches the late afternoon sun. Reflects through the…
-
for dVerse Quadrille and Twiglet #125
Don’t Recall His Name But I Remember Him. Up there, sitting on the school bleachers, king of it all, lean as James Dean slipped in-between day dreams. Him, buttoned into blue jeans, tight white t-shirt, and hair slick as a snail’s streak. He didn’t see me wearing my pink poodle skirt. for dVerse…
-
Day 28
Found Poetry from source: “Flowers In The Attic” by VC Andrews (pg 80-81 iBook version). The miserly moon is up there, swinging on a rope, catching the sky. We leave the windows open so stars fly in. Life is nothing that sandpaper can’t smooth. for PA’s Writers’ Digest PAD, Day 28 Remix…
-
Day 27
Found Poetry from source: “Flowers In The Attic” by VC Andrews (pg 78-80 iBook version). Right Under It All How do you clean dark secrets from life, those loose pages that scamper about like bugs. I’ll not think about it — I hide from sight, here where sunlight is real life. Cento…
-
Day 26
Found Poetry from source: “Flowers In The Attic” by VC Andrews (pg 70-73 iBook version). Into A Private Cloud It is a massive feeling, like dark furniture. A wooden fear. I hear whispering. A whispering world heavy as iron. for PA’s Writers’ Digest PAD, Day 26 “Evening” Untitled I wash up the…
It's Still Life 