Category: Poetry
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Twiglet #24
Her heart is a watch’s tick. His words are lyrics to delicate ears. Sandbags against the wall, sagging, like tired ears that have heard too much. Note: two American Sentences of 17-sysllables. Written for The Twiglets
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for Twiglet #23
He did seem taller than I remembered; maybe his hair was shorter. #17Syllables for Twiglet #23 “his hair was shorter”. Image is from Unsplash, used without restriction.
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It’s May at Visual Verse
When the Thunder Died Paint it as you want but there is no we. No more us. It’s just you. You and your pebble-brained tales, and blue birds of sappiness. And somewhere between Christmas and mid-February, your tone turned from white noise to shocking blue. Blue noise; you filled the air with static graffiti and…
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dVerse’s Haibun #36
It’s May. The streets are wet from this morning’s sharp shower, apple blossoms are falling from the trees, and the birds are singing and whittling twigs into nests. The air seems a song. My dad, bless him these 10-years gone, used to whistle that zip-a-dee-doo-dah song. He’d smile as if Mr Bluebird was on his…
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dVerse’d Limericks
Bricked There was bricklayer from Surrey who mistook ice cream flurry for mortar, and as the sun shone and he talked on his phone, the mortar melted in a hurry. dVerse Does Limericks
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Miz Quickly’s Day 4: Unexpected Tales
The Night I Smiled at a Fox I saw a fox in the garden last night. It was the colour of rusty iron. Or Kenyan soil. Sturdy little thing with a long thick tail, just like the tail on Daniel Boone’s hat — Fess Parker’s Daniel Boone. On telly. When I was twelve or so, I…
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vVerse: One Tick at a Time
The following is written (and submitted) to Visual Verse: Vol. 03 Chapter 12. Those Arpeggio Days If we were flowers, we’d be crisp around the edges by now. Fragile and bee-stung, holding on to our last harmonic breath. Grasping at last aesthetic hope. This morning you said that you finally understood the world. It’s…
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Refining Brighton Road
On Brighton Road I want my life to end happy, a road endless until it curves eternal in the clouds. © misky 2016: cubist/impressionist. This is a version of yesterday’s poem, put through a refinery. +++
It's Still Life 