Category: Poetry
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AprPAD Day 5.1 NaPoWriMo
The Brugge Fish Market The poor arrive from evening mass, fluid as water, they pour into the market. It’s late doors, after hours, orders of the church, but not ’til 8:00. After the best is gone, perfection is sold. Atlantic. Baltic. Whole and fillets. Fish gone soft and eyes gone milk as the chipped…
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AprPAD Day 5
Platform Number 4 Legs crossed like the number 4, he reads a book, sets a backpack at his feet. Eats rolled lettuces that drip red sauce. Home is wherever he removes his shoes. Intelligent eyes, and a face like old lava. There are some people you just beg to know. It’s National Poetry Writing…
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AprPAD Day 4.1 Pantoum
A Case for Cake (a Pantoum) It was a party, after all, a clown, raspberries and noise. I can still taste the cake. I can still see the red balloons. A clown, raspberries and noise, and we ate on pink paper plates. I can still see the red balloons. The clown had flipflop feet.…
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AprPAD Day 4
A Case for Spring (Villanelle) Has gone, be gone, I said, this weather’s all wrong. Winter’s too long, its wet months spread. Has gone. Be gone with a blackbird’s song. Unsung. Unsaid. This weather’s all wrong. The wind’s too strong for March has fled, has gone. Be gone Rain. Rain, all nightlong. Falling silk,…
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AprPAD Day 3.1
Periodic I’m reading the Periodic Tables. I learned all this useless stuff in school, but forgot it all. Anyway, it seems that I am a saline nothingness, a chip off the moon, a muddy spring day, I am mundane, maiming, an uneaten fruit, the sound of speech, a comforter, comforting, dusty, flaking, bone white…
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AprPAD Day 3
I. Lilies I stood tiptoed, looking down the throat of a white trumpet flower. It was open. Wide. As a hungry child, or a belligerent baby bird. Stamens bright as a sunset, deep as a vein. Lilies. Spilling white everywhere. All over Grandma’s coffin. Couldn’t stop looking at them, haunted by flowers. I was…
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3 April 2018: Dialogue 1st 2nd 3rd Person
Originally posted on The Journal: Say Something We’re eating breakfast, and can I hear the clock tick. You have to say something, I say. I’ve interrupted his oatmeal, and he asks me, in that way he has about him, Something? Why? And I tell him I have to write something. With dialogue. He finishes his…
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2 April 2018
Originally posted on The Journal: Mum was full of “shhhhh’s” and “quiet you” but my sister and I had a blind spot for him. This distant, and long dead relative that my uncle said was a foul against our blood. Billy was his name. A wind-grazed face, rocky as a landscape. Dusty as death. Those…
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Day 1.1 A Den Enn (Revised)
Introducing Misky’s new poem form called: “Den Enn”. Untitled It’s more than hunger, eating Nutella straight out of the jar. I hate getting caught out. It’s humiliating. Chocolate at the corners of my mouth. A red-arsed baboon sure wouldn’t care. Tomatoes cause riots, you know. They’re too easy to throw. It’s like that baboon I…
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Day 1 AprPAD
Against the Wall Quick smiles. Sweets. And treats. Like, I eat Nutella straight from the jar. Hate getting caught. It’s humiliating. Chocolate at corners of my mouth. A red-arsed baboon wouldn’t care though – they eat whatever whenever they want, and then they throw a riot of cabbages at the wall. Secret: AprPAD…
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