Category: Poetry
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0509: Journal of SenHai
SenryūThe path says nothingI follow its listeningdeeper into green. HaikuListening through green,stone path curves toward the seawind enters the tree. SenryūThe tree stands its groundgrass comes running with the windstone wanders away. HaikuBrown trunk in deep greenthe stone path stitches through grasswind unpicks the seam. Written for SenHai Saturday: #68. Not all images are created…
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0509: Everywhere Poems
I.his feet are on the coffee table,arms crossed,glasses inches down his nose. I never noticed thatBirkenstockshave squiggles on the soles. ah rain. and thunder. II.never rake leaveswhen the wind is blowing. the pigeonis standing in the birdbathdemanding water. III.saturday.rain. steadyand soft dripping from the gutter. ‘money on which plant revives first?’ I say.he shrugs, ‘fiver…
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0409: Stick of Butter
Stick of Butter when I was ten, maybe nine, but certainly no younger because we were living in the house where we lived the longest, and my bedroom window emptied its view straight into the yew tree and the park beyond, so I must’ve been ten … or nine … anyway, I spent the night…
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0309: dVerse Veils
This is a haibun poem for dVerse Poets. We were asked to recall a wedding, but that’s a personal memory I shall keep for myself. So here’s something that deviates a bit from the prompt. Veils Dust swirled behind the car and I remember thinking, I want a long white lace veil when I get…
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0209: Journal of Thoughts
If There Were No Love if there were no loveI would still let summer’s last secretfind my face. just for the love of it to watch the lift and fallof leaves giving themselvesto the breeze, and if I believethey are hope,then they are. I once knew a manwho said, “I will die in a countrywhere…
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3108: The Liturgy Episode 4
Episode 4: Dead Men Don’t Drown — Liturgy for the Antique Shop(where the dead linger in the objects they once loved) I. The Shop That Holds the PastThe antique shop breathes softly,beeswax and dust holding the warmth of roomswhose fires went out years ago. Objects wait for hands that will not be theirs. Silver has…
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3008: cí pái Lyric Poetry
The Sunflower The Old Woman’s patient hands,tie sunflowers weakened by wind.Crow perched on the fence,greedy for seeds soon his, while Cat, superior in disdain,‘Such fuss for fading gold’,he thinks, ‘this laboured strainfor what autumn can’t hold.’ Some images created with Midjourney; all writing is my own work.©Misky 2006-2026.
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat and the Man in the Moon(Or: A Feline Lunar Audit) The cat sits on the windowsill,nose pressed to the glass,tail curled around its paws,gazing up at the pale, glowing coinof the full moon. “Old Woman,” he says,without turning,“I don’t see a man’s face.I’ve been studying.Intently.For minutes now.And there is no man.There is a…
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2908: Journal of Thoughts
Pygmalion it is a quiet,deliberate working: the moment you open your mouth,someone begins decidingwhat you are worth. Londoner.east end.cockney.midlands.northern. foreigner. a life reducedto the shape of a vowel,as though birthplacewere evidence,as though the mouthcould confess a classbefore the hearthas said a word. it is a flimsy mechanism,yet it survives. audible,inherited,almost polite. and so easilywe mistake…
