Category: Poetic Forms
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a dVerse Tanaga
(Untitled) These are stale days. Always grey and knotted. Nowadays, shadows shed colour; paler than air, blanker than paper. for dVerse: poetic form: Tanaga 7.7.7.7/aabb (untitled)
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Quadrille #53
Goodnight Sweet Girl I’ll tell you how on the night my aunt died, she was tucked tight and laid straight below crispy sheets, sheets white as her tight thin skin, and how her night nurse sat beside her bed, held her hand, as if fragile as eggshells. for dVerse’s Quadrille #53
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A Triolet for Gnomes
Bare Bone Cold The thought of being on that hill, in that wind as hard as marble … it’s such a thick and smitten chill, the thought of being on that hill. Fingers cold, nose so froze until my every word is ice and garble. The thought of being on that hill, in that wind…
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Twiglet #67
Three American Sentences All About Weather I. Stood on a muddy track, umbrella in hand. A moody slash of rain. II. Saw a sculpture. Looked like wizard fingers. Or a seahorse. Rain does that. III. You’re out on flattened water. Fishing. As rain slashes at my window. written for Twiglet #67 “Slash of Rain”
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Quadrille #52
Catching Stars It’s March just beyond the edge of rain-soaked snow. Beyond the fire of northern lights and imaginary sheets of singing smoke. I watched the stars that shot sideways, plotted maps to catch their washed-out blurs. Their light is my night — a deep ripeness. for dVerse Quadrille “Fire”
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Twiglet #66
Hung fat balls from the apple tree. Incoming. An avalanche of birds. Poetic form: Ginsberg’s American Sentence, 17-syllables. written for Twiglet #66, and dVerse Open Night
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01.03.18: TLT
I drift like hard grey snow blowing up the street. Lost to cold company. written for TLT: Lost . 17-syllable American Sentence.
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Quadrille #51
Roots of Fiction my first waking thoughts are never of morning, never what pills I should take, which joint ointment for knees or sore muscles, or is it Monday or Tuesday. I wake to my pens and paper, scribbling down remains of dreams, burning roots of fiction. written for dVerse Quadrille #51
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dVerse Haibun Monday “Grey”
Those Fictional Greys Funny thing about long-term memory; it’s like it just happened yesterday. Like when I was remembering my grandmother who departed us nearly 30-years ago. I can see her now. Grandma sitting in a straight-back wooden spindle chair. She sits where the sun breaks through the window but she still feels icy. And…
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dVerse Quadrille #50
Trees Amongst the Forest So that’s what you meant when you said, Welcome to the Forest — but I only know the chorus. Never learned the whole song. The trees turned, murmured unearthly tones, Does she burn as we do, they breathed. I never learned the whole song. dVerse Quadrille #50 “Murmur”
It's Still Life 