Category: Poetic Forms
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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”
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Remixing “Found” Text from De’s Journal
Remixing Text from De’s Journal Indifferent Noise I am every flit and bay; a scavenger of pale skies, make my soul snow-white. I am that puzzle; a sit, a spill of ink, pale black blowing in the breeze. For Twiglet #62 “Air Full of Sound” The original text is at De’s “I Once…
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dVerse Quadrille #49
A Road and Pork Happiness We’re at a lay-by on the old road to Dover. It’s unexpectedly spring in January, and we dine sitting on folding chairs, eating pork pies and sipping iced tea. This is happiness, you say. Poetry. An oyster’s life. This is a poem, I say. dVerse Quadrille #49 (44…
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Haibun 22.01.18
Her Lunchbox Spoke Volumes But that business of a first kiss was hard for my little sister — she hit Christopher on the head with her metal lunchbox (mine was Royal Stewart red plaid; her’s was bright flowers). Between us, she was always the softer one. I lived in jeans and summer t-shirts, even when…
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A dVerse Response
Unalone I have a friend in stillness, in the dark, the cold of snow, the gaudy days, the nights of destitution, in the quiet, a moment, … almost, the sweet voice of wind, and old skin. That friend, nay, that confusion is a remote shadow, scattering my thoughts. I am unalone. I Have…
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dVerse Golden Shovel
To Break a Stone Let them meet. Would they laugh. Let them find their way through tempers. Not a pen, nor ink, scarlet and bloodied. Make them talk. A voyage in understanding. Me and you, he and him, her and she, let a conversation talk us out of our stone hardness. dVerse Bold…
It's Still Life 