Category: Poetry
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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. +++
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A Bit About Horses for Visual Verse
And That’s a Fact I’ve only tried once. Fell off. Slowly. Slid like animation. Like marmalade off hot toast. Right off the saddle. I was soap on a slide from that horse’s first stride. Dented myself up a bit, too. Hit my head heavy on the August-dry clay. Ended up with a soot-black eye and…
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Class 6: Whitman’s Civil War: Writing and Imaging Loss, Death, and Disaster
Reconciling Shadows Once upon our time, we turned the grey face of war into timid rain. Sent flags falling while ours rose like the sun. and I hoped never to touch dark horrors again. Hoped never to feel steel’s heat, to see its blood. Its sticky matte. these are Curious times, where I expect the…
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Class 5: Whitman’s Civil War: Writing and Imaging Loss, Death, and Disaster – Memories and Senses
From a Sea-Salted Dock We wore black. Wore our perfumery like strung pearls and affection, and spoke whispered words that left us tongue-tied and arid. God watched, tasted our tears; stirred our petrichor, calm-scented as grey-fringed clouds. And we stood on the sea-salted dock, released his ashes to the air, to the sea. There on…
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Class 4: Whitman’s Civil War: Writing and Imaging Loss, Death, and Disaster
A Widow to His Wildfire He was wildfire devoured By the dry ribs of summer, And he slipped into eternity, That long legionous march . His wife became widow’s wear; Told to be strong, to keep her faith. But her loss widened. Widening Into circles upon gone. His fruit Fallen to ground, and she’s still…
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Class 3: Whitman’s Civil War: Writing and Imaging Loss, Death, and Disaster
Buried at Colleville-sur-Mer We buried the dead with symmetry. Set with precision under white crosses. Très précis, our marked men. In laylines. In rows, in order to be called to march on heaven. Orderly attention arranged. The conflicted contrast from how they died; scattered like celebratory confetti. It was as if God’s hand mistook them…
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Class 2 Assignment: Whitman’s Civil War: Writing and Imaging Loss, Death, and Disaster
Trônes Wood: The Somme They expected the heavens to fall. The stars to wail. Expected the night to rupture white, smite their eyes and pour down ice. They feared their own creation. Now we fear our own forgiveness. We’ve lost their lessons in long green grass, in wide meadows of rye, and in tin-tune birdsong.…
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Class 1: Whitman’s Civil War: Writing and Imaging Loss, Death, and Disaster
London: 7/7 We call it seven seven, the day bombs detonated. The Underground. The buses. Explosions in backpacks. We returned to the darkness, crippled as spine-broken books. But we are nowhere near dead. © Misky 2016 The response: The London Bombings of 7/7/2005. We lived in false security, a false sense of safety. So…
It's Still Life 