Category: Poetry
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Bloganuary Day 1
TEN THINGS I’D TELL MY MUCH YOUNGER SELF 1.She will make you a donkey, though she says it’s a bear, and you’ll name it Cedric, (go ahead and spell it with an S if that’s what you want). You’ll take him with you everywhere, and his ear will fall off. 2.You’re the only one you’ve…
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Day 1: The Book of Difficult Fruit for GoDogGo Café
1 January 2022 It’s “The Book of Difficult Fruit” … assuming that fruit arefrightened children trying to understand howlove is the back of a hand. Day 1: The Title of Book is the Title of your poem today at Go Dog Go Café GoDOGGoCafe ©Misky 2021 Shared with #amwriting and #apoemaday #GreatReadsPromptChallenge ©Misky 2022 Shared on Twitter.
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1.1.22: A Stream of Consciousness
A Stream of Consciousness: The Winds of Change No, please, ladies first…Those were the days when the world held the door open for you, when a seat was proffered to a woman of a certain age, meaning that age when you shouldn’t ask because she might’ve forgotten (…like did I turn 70 this year or…
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Hidden Letters in a Sock Drawer
Hidden Letters in a Sock Drawer Windermere peaks are a perfect place to cry, I tell her.And she is. A calm breeze rocks our small boat,this lake where poets and writerscome to live. And create. And die. The air is on the edge of lifeless, and the sun catches on Mum’swedding ring that hangsloose on my…
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for Go-Dog-Go-Café: #TW
TRIGGER WARNING: #TW, This Post Relates to Suicide EVEN WITHOUT YOU I was too late.You’d already made your wayout of this world, beyond sins and intoa deep thicket. Darknesstrampledyour edges. Did you ever find somewhereto land – maybe a void beyond here to there. I remember you said, The moon’s obviouslya boat – a rocking…
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Nothing To Do With Anything
A Haibun: Nothing To Do With Anything Our town’s name has nothing to do with anything, like almost everything around here. Like Cowfold, they don’t fold cows. Or Handcross. Or Wychcross. Bear Green never had a bear. Or Pease Pottage, although that’s an exception, the soil clags-up like peas porridge when it rains. But we…
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The Winter People
THE WINTER PEOPLE This is winter’s astrophe. We’re stuck in a black and white fogbreathing thin air, breathing in a writer’s ache on blank sheets of white paper. It’s a silent semaphorelanguage that reducesthe sun to a small white stone. It’s…
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Falling Back on Miz Quickly: The Table
THE TABLE (in three parts) … that meal of polenta filled tamales, that New Years dinner in Colombia when I had flu, fever, and a gnashing headache. that meal I couldn’t face, couldn’t eat it. I was so embarrassed. apologetic. for three days, she prepared that meal. she looked so sad when I left the…
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The Man Who Sits on a Step at the Duck Pond
The Man Who Sits on a Step at the Duck Pond I’ve yet to see that man smile, a faceset like thick-sawn wood. He movesonly rarely so as to not appear dead. He says everything in this little townis one of two things – either alive ordead. Yet he’s never happier in life than when…
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Occhiolism: On Feeling Small
Occhiolism: On Feeling Small how many birds are in that song.is it one ortwo.does is takemorefor their waterlogged notesto break throughrain. how many shades of green makegrass.is it one ortwo.does it takemore for mossfor leaf-filtered green to reachthe colourblack. those birdswith their sibilant song,as if they’returningand turningthe pages of a book.I think birds see the…
It's Still Life 