Category: Poetry
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0602: Journal of Thoughts
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground. Letting a foxglove grow wild in your garden is a way to kneel. Your dignity is not in your command, but in your constant, devotion to the love that moves the sun and the stars. The Foxglove in My Garden Speckled throat.Bell-tower of the…
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0402: Journal of Thoughts
The Unraveling Atlas All of it vanished. An atlas of her mind,its cities and borders,quietly disowned by its own map. She tries, but my nameis a syllable without a home, a drift of familiar musicthat slips off the edge of the worldevery time I leave.Or finish a sentence. I learn to search her forgetting.To check…
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0202: Liturgy of Unmasking of a Beach
Liturgy: The Unmasking of a Beach (Or: Where Water Meets the Wound) Note: This week, I am trying something completely different with my Six. Not a six sentence story (as usual) but the (anthropomorphic) psychological effects of storm-driven tides on a local beach. I. The Withdrawal of the SeaThe tide does not come to cleanse.It…
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0202: Journal of Thoughts
Senryuwe call it orderbut the stones made their own waylong before we named Haikurain sleeps in the cracksof a thousand quiet yearsgold dust in the hush Written for SenHai 37 . Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI. Poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2026.
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat’s Koan(Or: The Sound of One Paw Clapping) The Old Womanis reading a book of Zen poetry.The cathas claimed the sunbeamthat crosses the page,and with it, her attention. “I have a koan,” he purrs,without opening his eyes.“What is the sound…of one hand clapping?” She looks at him over her glasses.“You don’t have hands.” “Exactly,”…
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First Darkness
at dusk, everything looks blue First Darkness In the eastern sky,the first star is out.A single bone, whiteand sharp, socketed. At dusk, everything … First Darkness
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Csárdás Part 4
Csárdás — (the heart’s Final fire) First,the bow drags slow.A raw, dusk-coloured moanrising from the fiddle’s belly,pulled from soil olderthan any spoken name. A field at sundown stirs there:the sag of an empty chair,steam rising from a bowl gone cold,a love that lingerslike breath on winter glass. Then, the spark catches. The heart remembers fire.The…
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2701: dVerse Quadrille
The Yellows There was a timewhen time was everywhere.Autumn leaves meanttime for school,time for yellow pencils with rubber tips, and winter meanttime for rain coats,and tripping in yellow rubber bootstwo sizes too big —“Grow into them,” Mum said. Written for dVerse Poets Quadrille #240 (44 words including “Trip”). Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2026.
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2601: The Liturgy for the Watching People
Liturgy for the Window Vigil I. The Geometry of WitnessingA window is a frame.Not for art,but for the ordinary.We think we are looking out,but we are really looking in. Into the small, sudden theatre of endings.Where medics close a defibrillatorlike a book whose final lineno one wants to read aloud. II. Of DistanceWhat we see…
It's Still Life 