Category: Poetic Forms
-
dVerse Haibun #30
Back When back in the day when I wore pink gingham dresses and my cotton socks were lace trimmed, and my world seemed delightfully old as a smothering summer of wallflowers and big willows and poplars and broad brimmed sun-hats. back then when I was seven, or maybe it was eight, and I didn’t know…
-
dVerse Quadrille #25
A Sketched Ruin I live in a village that runs north by south, trees thickly dot the main road with summer’s shade and cover. We’re neither rich nor poor, though our history’s rich — our old church is a sketched ruin, a dwelling place that echoes at dawn. written for dVerse Quadrille (44…
-
dVerse Haibun #29
That Dog And your little dog, too. Toto. Totally Toto. Barking at wind and witches and straw and wizards. I’m not an enthusiast of cute and fluff noise. Terriers — too small to know their place. No perspective. A constant scurry, and never waiting for their own tail. My dog never barked at wind. Nor…
-
Quadrille #24 and Miz Quickly’s Day 17
Dead Fly dead fly on the windowsill, whispered speck, legs up as if playing on monkey bars. little bugger won’t be flying anywhere; it’s missing a wing and its red welt eyes lack a point of view. brittle little thing is heading for the garbage bin. for dVerse: Quadrille (44 words) including “whisper”…
-
dVerse Haibun #28 and Miz Quickly’s Day 11 Image
Burlesque Girls I still think about that cafeteria, those downtown girls with bright red lips and hair sleek and slicked into ponytails. They slid like valley fog, slow and easy into the gaps of long leather booths. I watched, quiet as a speck of dust as they sipped Pepsi and ate and laughed, and to…
-
Miz Quickly’s Day 5: Limitations
A Withering Rain for example, he says, the rain drummed on small thunder, but we called the drought rain. The red ground naked by night — a fine drizzling, a withering rain. To dance, to dance, into all that falling and blowing at clouds, and men with mud faces spilling the air, and the mist…
-
dVerse Quadrille #23
A Cold Front The air is brisk. Engaging. Better than this day deserves. Close fog sniffs at curls of rising steam from the lake, and all I hear is the lapping of wandering waves against a metal rowboat. But summer will come; manicured lawns, yellowed by heat. dVerse Quadrille #23 “Curl”
-
dVerse Haibun #27 and Twiglet #2
Two version of the same piece. The first is written as a haibun for dVerse Poets using the word “night”. The second version is the original that uses linebreaks, created as a free-write exercise for prompt #2 at The Twiglets. I. Run Away I’ve drawn over my childhood where there’s no children’s hour, no storybook…
-
dVerse Quadrille #22
Sliced You’re so random, like an accident or a scar, like when you blurted out I don’t understand pickled cows sliced in half. Poor beast. It’s been Hirst’ed. Damien’ed. Like that canvas of dead black flies, or framed shells and cigarettes. I mean — bite me for dVerse: Quadrille #22 “Scar” – 44 words in…
-
dVerse Haibun #26
I’m unable to sleep. Again. Winter makes me a bit flighty. Makes me fidgety as shivers. But when the sun does appear, it’s all the more welcome. This morning I watched the sun rise and focus and burn away fog so thick that the end of the street had disappeared into its own depth, and…
It's Still Life 