Category: Poetry
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Twiglet #44 “a bare room”
Dear Departed It looks like the outside in here with shadows feasting on dust, on webs and invisible draughts, and dried leaves dancing the floor. A creaking space. Empty. No echoes of your goodbye goodbye goodbye. Twiglet #44 “a bare room”
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Friday Forms: #2 Wood Smoke
Kiss Us Bye Wax the moon, and scrub the sky, Our days of summer, Our ways of green. Drown in amber, ruby leaves, Still as baby’s sleep, still My days shall speed. Oh when autumn comes, blossoms Kiss us bye. Greenest promise, Ever after, summer falls. Acrostic poem form for Gnomes
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A Draft for Gnomes Project #1.1
Lines in italics are from “On the Beach” by Neil Young, album On The Beach, 1974. For “Gnomes Poems” Project
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Poems for Gnomes
It’s a Small Matter it felt real, as real as a shadow, or a wrinkle across the water. dreams feel like that. this one was bright as an orange lamp, and the sky was smooth and waiting. I dreamt that I couldn’t sleep. it was a small matter. for Poems for Gnomes
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The End for dVerse Poets
Underfoot Morning breaks. She watches over the roses with a squint of scorn, then pulls the clothesline tight. A grooved branch holds its weight. And she pegs his shirts by the side seams on the line. Upside down – a distress signal. Socks paired, then pegged. Jeans, wrinkles flicked away by the breeze. Clothes billow,…
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2 July 2017: Remix
Heavy Fingers She hollowed out the tide raised me in a well with lightning bugs around my head a flood of roses like a little shrine and I raised hell like Frankenstein. It’s bigger than speaking Remixed from “Take Me to My Grandmother’s Shrine” by SC Machlay
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Twiglet #29
The 11:42 TRAIN TO LONDON This is the London Bridge service, a recorded announcement. Sorry. excuse me. a girl with a daisy chain tattoo takes the window seat. She’s talking on her phone. from Brighton the announcement continues I’m bloody annoyed too. I’m not his substitute, says the girl. She looks out the window. Excusez-moi…
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A Sunday Whirl
Crow It’s out there in the trees, under the wilt of summer heat, and it’s a gnawing whistle, a tinnitus ring. Apart and pitched. The craw tone of a string plucked, broken threads falling into echoes for crushing under wheels. And then it was lost, like words never committed to print. I once heard a…
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Those Old Days
Those Old Days Those were the old days when the air was treacle-blue and stars were rancid bright. We drank to the miracle of water, walked within our own whispers, pricked our shadows with pins, and watched the world ripple. Those were our washed days when we read ourselves into a trance and ignited paper…
