Category: Poetry
-
23.2.22: Haibun Wednesday
The trouble with Salt And then the sea dawns. Its salt dissolves into salt, into itself. It’s a new day of slow dehydration. A life-long osmosis into dust and dryness. Dry words, dry humour, dried up and wrinkled … wrinkles on thin skinned; wrinkles in plans; wrinkles in love … And the sea’s tongue grates…
-
23.02.22 White Bean Soup
White Bean Soup Italy’s in my white iron pot.Bless her,Marcella,and her simplicity. “What you omit is more importantthan what you put in,” she says. No bacon.No ham.No bones.No onions.No carrots.No kale. Soup that stands upand salutes garlic. So, I’m doing a Hazan.Doing her white bean,garlic and parsley soup. It’s soup season.It’s winter. Recipe for Hazan’s White…
-
22.2.22: It’s TwoTwoTwoTwo Two Day
Catch Of The Day That fish on crushed icedoesn’t knowits beauty. Doesn’t knowits silver-plated shine. It thinks there’s no gloryin a tail’s slow sway,or lazying throughsea grass and ropey kelp. Where’s the gloryfor a fish on crushed icewhen you’rethe catch of the day. Photo by Jakub Kapusnak on Unsplash ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #apoemaday on Twitter
-
23.2.22: Story Problems
A new post is live at That’s No Way To Wash A Dragon. Image is from British Library Medieval Manuscripts, Digital Archive: Illuminations. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #apoemaday on Twitter
-
22.02.22 The Grave of Arigdor Kara
The Grave of Arigdor Kara He returned to cool soil, and took his own truth with him. A cup of poetry beside his faith. They buried him below a granite slab, now lichen skimmed and shadow roots. The rabbi said his was a short lived bliss. Now strangers mark his passing, walk by his grave.…
-
15.02.22 That Old Chestnut
That Old Chestnut It’s still gnarly-bare,no leaves yeton that old chestnut tree. It’s old.It’s arbitrary.Bang-bang out of order, like a belligerent judge,a rigid thought growing wherenothing near it is its equal. There’s nothing symmetrical about it.Hit by lightning years ago.Blew sprinters and branches aboutas if hit by God’s own fist. But that tree’s dying.Slowly.Bleedingfrom its…
-
for Twiglet #266
Her Godbone What we believeis what we want to believe.Like my sister says a white dove flew over her carwhile she waitedin a queue for the ferry. That was the day Dad died.It was Dad, she said, but she mournedhim even before he was dead. She has a locket with his ashes,and a small silver…
-
16.02.22 A View From The Roof
A View From The Roof That albino pigeon(the one that convinced me it was a dove)has returned. It’s up there on the roof ridge.Slate-grey like a storm,a perched gargoyle,or a wild stone. And it looks down.Left.Right.Wings move,as if shrugging off the weather. And then it’s off,into the air.To the next house. New view.New roof.New pitch.…
-
18.02.22 A Storm Called Eunice
A Storm Called Eunice In front of me, a massacreby dark and crossed arms.But the garden will mendfrom this crystalline damage.From tempest spinning circles, and pitched storm spectres.Phantasm thrumming andrequiem squealing at windows.Our bare ghost trees cut fromcard are yelling and coughing.It’s carnage from a sunken sky. edited 18/2/22 10.43am Image The Storm by E Munch 1893.…
-
17.02.22 Dunes
The Dunes Back then summer waswhite dunes with cowlicksprigs of crabgrass and mounded hills of sandscrubbed the wind. Sand ramped across scrubas if pulled alongon tiny toy wheels. And with wind at your back,you’d put down a blanket,open your favourite book, and expose your skinto as much sunas it could take in. Back then,that was…
It's Still Life 