Category: Poetry
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02.11.20
Most of November’s Challenge poems are being posted on a temporary page made for purpose at https://30daypad.wordpress.com Follow the blog if you’d like to be notified of new poems.
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For VV’s November Issue
A Different Sky I love airships and blimps.Huge. As big as a dinosaur.They fly past one another,and steal each other’s lightas their hinged wings spendthe air like copper pennies. I love the sound of rain poundingthe tarpaulin above my head. I love to fly with the rising sun,love to hear the wind shrill andrushing into…
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We’re Parked in Cupboards
We’re Parked in Cupboards I took a chair to the window,listened to the silence – it wassharp and thin as mountain air.And I have nowhere to go. Our cars parked up in cupboards,the trains are off their tracks,planes downed by somethingin the air. We’re all parked up. I watched the middle treeof three bending in…
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dVerse Does Halloween
Absolut This house with its bare walls and empty rooms and doors that slam behind you, and floorboards that groan and rise up to meet you under foot, that watches you with its wandering eye and hidden faces traced in windowpanes, and this house breathes rasping toothy sounds from up above and down below, a…
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dVerse Sounds
A Sweet Sparrow Tweet How can such sweet songcome from such dull coloured birds.Their striking bright rounded tones are sown in my memory to grow. Oh, pale morning, I hear from the tree,hidden in the deep greenery of leaves,a pip, a peep, a bleep, a trill and burst.O’ the bubbling squeak of it all. for Peter’s…
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dVersing Samual Greenberg
This Plain Grey Life We watched, prayed time’s chants,as the crimson leaves blew into his eternal six foot deep. I was wrapped in mourning clothes,comforted by a plain grey life, held my sorrow within my sorrows,within my creased and carded fleece,within my heart’s brow. A palmed rose tumbled on to his coffin,his memory kept with the skulls of…
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For Twiglet #199 & Red Wolf Prompt
This Time The light through the windowis spun in the beech tree.In the mirror.Across the floor.Breathes in curves along white walls.Cleaves to each cold-ash hourof your grandmother’s clock –its hands stopped years agoat ten past five – not rewound.Its brassy age-cured chimeas noisy as clashing colours. for Red Wolf Prompt and Twiglet #199. Image from…
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Poetic Blooming: Her Codex
Her Codex Truly, I’d say eat whatever she cooksbecause one day she’ll be gone.She and her recipes, written downin disintegrating leather-bound books,pages held in-situ with rubber bands,recipes written in foreign words, in quick short back-slanting strokes, in measurements that use her mother-in-law’s chipped teacup,and another measurement oftenreferred to as a scant knife edge,and kneading dough…
It's Still Life 