Category: Poetry
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15 March 2019 – American Sentence
I’m up for a bit of turmoil, like feeding paper to a pen Poetic Form: Allen Ginsberg’s “American Sentence” 17-syllables
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for Red Wolf Poems #427
Too Easy, Far Gone Do you remember when we were breezy? We laughed like birdsong. Adieu, you said, like wind that slips through windows. Where is your breeze now? Too easy, far gone. Do you remember when we were harmony? A two-part chorus. Cold burns my ears. You still burn my heart. Do you remember…
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Twiglet #113 Constraints
Playing with Twiglet #113, the phrase “a pinch of fog”. Same Thing Four Ways A man’s eyeing my garbage bins, Gnats heavy around his head. He’s thinner than a pinch of fog. I’m trying not to be annoyed. I’m trying not to be annoyed. A man’s eyeing my garbage bins, He’s thinner than a pinch…
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Quadrille #73
A Gathered Net And what if my brown-eyed wishes gathered into a fisherman’s net, into oil and greased twine and knot, and soused silver-finned fish big as a whitened loaf. Would all my wishes come home to roost, if my wishes were kisses, would I be loved. dVerse Quadrille #73
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for dVerse Quadrille #72
A Fall Skyward It is blowing out there in that field where rapeseed grew. The old oak laboured and fell, roots skyward. It snapped through icy power lines, and splashed like a whale on to the rain-steeped fallow soil. Today was hijacked by a weathercock spinning wild. dVerse Quadrille #72: Steep
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for Twiglet #110
A Conversation with a Crow My arms that lack your feathers, to my sides held firm. My dreams that rustle in the woods, kiss the darkside of the moon. For Twiglet #110 Photo by Amarnath Tade on Unsplash
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for dVerse and Sunday Whirl
Alone with Trees Walk. I walk with my thoughts, wild. Wild as wind, pebble-sharp. Chipped. And I think, Repent. Repent. I drink in loneliness of air, and wonder how I’ve come to love despair This week’s Sunday Whirl #387 words are: walk, knees, despair, world, love, pebbles, wild, air, lonely, calls, trees, repenting…
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for Poetic Bloomings #230
And It Keeps On In the east where the sunrise sings, faint horn of a train rings. Dawn is gone — a flash and burn, counting milestones. I want to live where I can remain. See the seasons. Rain scour — blow against my door. Live. Let live today. PB #230 Motivation, Poetic Form…
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Twiglet #108 and dVerse Haibun
Gone. Too soon our celebrations done. Customs. Quaint. Traditions and rites. That was then. But now, on this stretch of unhurried street, all’s quiet. It seems tarnished. Drowned in icy rain and galvanised sky. A Christmas tree hidden between bins and the wall. It’s seen happy days — good will and peace on earth. Now…
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For Wordle #385
Man o’ Manischewitz There’s a man, thinks he’s invisible but he’s not; he’s just blind. Not a beggar, not a tramp, either. He lives under the railroad trestle. And by night he stores his right eye in his pocket, slips it back into its socket by day. Gets a kick out of telling people it’s…
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