Category: Poetry
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6 Oct: Steampunk Gardens
Thisgarden withscarlet parted lips,blue eyes, and crispgolden heads might speak, ifallowed. Image: AI digital art. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter
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5 Oct: Found Poetry Month
Day 2: It’s October, and that means it’s Found Poetry Month with a group from The Poeming on Facebook. This month we’re using books written by R.L. Stine. I’ve been assigned Night Games from the Fear Street series, and I’m using digital art that I’ve created with Midjourney’s bots as the image layer. These are…
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4 Oct: Tracking dVerse Quadrille
On the Beach On that bright August day I stood before the Atlantic with its slow sloping depths and cliffs and plateaus, where deepest blues are as black as a Merlin’s trick, and as the sea delighted my toes, I watched each wave track along the sand. Artwork is mine, Midjourney rendering. ©Misky 2022 Written…
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4 Oct: Fairy Tale Whimsy
Fairy Tale Whimsy There, the ghost of trees.Cut like wheat, to fallon a knee and a prayer. Like a woman’s summer skirt. This air is wed to dialogue,a blur of colour, of copperand whispering gold. Like sewing sequins on sails. And the sky hangs dulland washed by comparison.It’s fairy tale whimsy speak. Digital artwork created…
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2 Oct: Last Photo on the Card
Christine is hosting Bushboy’s Last Photo on the Card for September. Here’s mine, taken at Tatton Park. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter
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2 Oct: Chester
I’ve always wanted to see Chester. It was my birthday treat: we’re going to Chester for the day, and then dinner afterwards at a steak restaurant. I rarely eat steak, except on my birthday. It was excellent. And Chester was everything I hoped it would be. A perfect birthday. Note: click the images for full-size…
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30 Sept: On Dunmail Raise
On Dunmail Raise The wind on Dunmail Raise plays tricks on the ear. Can’t see him, but you can hear him. Up there on the hill, shouting at his dog. One man and his dog, and the wind carrying them both. And then you see them. White specks, a fleeting flock across the bare hill.…
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28 Sept: The Bookcase
The Bookcase When I dream, I write it down. He says he never dreams, but the bookcase says otherwise. His side, which is the right side, is filled with folded road maps. He dreams of being carefree as a river, or a thin-line horizon. His Michelin in hand. To drive across roads of Norway and…
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27 Sept: dVerse September Song
September’s Song Summer’s deathbed; here comes autumn. It’s an old woman’s bed, where the air yawns wide as ancient oak and its crisp leaves untether, glowing in clingy vicious colours. The soil smells of wet dog, and the forest drips of dew that smells of liniment. Tomato vines hang greyish limp and weary. Pickles sink…
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