Category: Poetry
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Sidestepping
SIDESTEPPING (poem form: Synchronicity) I can parse a crowd and walk rightthrough it, but now I live in thisvillage with its uneven pavements andnarrow framed walls, and it’s filled withpolite people who deferentiallystep aside, nod with forensicsurvey, and when the cobbles slip intoquiet dusk and low hung street lampsfill the air, and night comes into…
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Stream of Consciousness Saturday
In Search of Wild Garlic Spring ends on Thursday.Or it might be Friday. That’s what the weatherman says. Wintery showers.Maybe snow.Nonsense.It’s 19º and sunny today. I’m foragingfor wild garlicon the creek embankment. Maybe it’s too early, althoughmagazines are fullof wild garlic. Soup. Pasta. Pesto. Avoiding stuff by the footpath,or the road. The county spraysweird-smelling stuff…
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Reunions
Reunions You and I, loosely hinged friends.You rang. In town. We met for a meal at the intersection where rain soaks the pavement and forks off. You ate minced beef, raw to ruby redwith green capers rolling on the plate.You stabbed at the raw egg mountedon top, a bulging eye staring at you, and it…
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25.03.22: Twiglet #271
Up There on a tangle-thread-limbsits a crow,an eye on its next meal,a ratweaving between traffic. for Twiglet #271 Tangled Thread. Photo by Alexander Sinn on Unsplash. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter
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24.03.22 A Day On Foot
Sun. Fresh air. A 5k walk on the Downs around Arundel Lake. This is the old boathouse. People have carved their names on every available centimetre of wood. Nature never gives up. Knock it down, and it keeps on growing. Sunlight through the daffodils in the garden this morning.
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24.03.22: Baby Ladybird
Baby Ladybird out for a walk on the windowsill,smallas a pinhead,largerthan a mote.Loston the windowpane,sun on your belly,warmthon your legs.brushoff your wings,ladybird,ladybird,fly away home. Image is from Unsplash. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #apoemaday on Twitter
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23.03.22 dVerse Colours
Tea With Florence It wasn’t her real namebut if I had named her,her name would’ve been Florence. Her skin was as paleas proper writing paper.Paper from Florence, undoubtedly. We sat in her garden,the magnolia blossomshanging on a last heavy scent before spring pulledgreen out of its limbs,transforming it into a proper tree. Florence drank mint…
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A dVerse Quadrille
Living In Our Skin Packed lunch and tea.Today it’s spring. These days passfaster than starched clouds, as fast as sea airhowling in its shroud. We feel sharp as papertouched by fresh air. And we bring homeblushed cheeks, seashells,and sand in our shoes. written for dVerse Quadrille “Paper”. Image from Unsplash. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter
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22.03.22: Spontaneous
Spontaneous That gust of wind wasa sort of natural psychosis. The sort that artists paint. A full-breached bleed, andthen easing into composure. Like shifting a baby from one hip to the other. As if to say, Behold,your glass is still half full. All thatin a spontaneous burst of wind. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on…
It's Still Life 