Category: Poetic Forms
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6 August 2019
Cows under the oak tree Grass cool as a spring day It feels like Sunday ©️ Misky 2019 – Poetic form: Ginsberg’s American Sentence (17-syllables)
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for Miz Quickly: 26 July
Autopsy on an Ice Cube It’s like Welsh-noir with twists and turns Or fireworks and magic within an ice cube. But now I hear that the Arctic is on fire. Time to put the kettle on. Read tea leaves. 26 July: This for Miz Quickly’s “Yes/But” poem form, which I’ve probably mucked…
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dVerse Quadrille #83
HERE COMES THE SUN All this white before my eyes, this clear clot above the sky. Heat rolls in, warms the cold bones of morning. It massages its salve in me, a weightless shadowed flicker. Morning believes in its own dreams, and it whispers… Here comes the sun. for dVerse Quadrille #83 “Sun”…
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Georgics: Miz Q’s Day 9
The Return We knocked down the old wooden greenhouse. Rot pressing through it. Weather beaten, grey, and the soil bare. Behind it grew an apple tree, though never yielding but a leaf, and so it too was cut to ground. Five years on, the apple tree returned to growth, pigmy-small and full of leaf. We…
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Miz Quickly’s Day 29: Magpie
Magpie I’m sitting on a limb, watching a man reading a newspaper. From way up here I have a wide view of Sunday. North a few blocks, and ten miles south to the coast. The man reading the newspaper wears a gold ring. It’s sunshine-bright. I want that ring. for Miz Quickly’s Day…
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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…
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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,…
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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…
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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…
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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…
It's Still Life 