Category: Poetry
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Witnesses
a collection of moments: nothing grand or forced. just soft, slightly askew truths of ordinary days — witnessed 19.03.26, 11:46 eve before equinoxwe keep to winter’s last breath,palms in cooling soil.no fire, not yet. in the fieldthe hare lifts its head, listening. Happy Ostara to all who celebrate it. © MB 2026
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Witnesses
a collection of moments: nothing grand, nothing forced. just soft, slightly askew truths of ordinary days — witnessed 18.03.26, 11:28 windows left ajarthe smell of soap and wet soildrifting through the street. first warm day of springcars washed, gardens speaking back,doors open at last.the doctor’s wife tells me:he died there, weeks ago. © MB 2026
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1603: Journal of SenHai
Senryucenturies watchingstill the mountain greets the sunas if the first time Haikufirst light on granitenight loosens its quiet gripthe valley exhales Written for SenHai Saturday #43. ©Misky 2006-2026.
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1603: The Liturgy
Liturgy for the Confluence of All Things(for Lyon, where the rivers join and the age does not) I. The Place Where Waters Meet Here the Saône loosens its dark bodyinto the clearer Rhône. No treaty.No argument. Brown water takes green.Green water takes brown. They braid,shoulder to shoulder,and go on. Brigid watches the seamwhere difference disappears.…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman’s Wisdom Delivery Service The old woman stirs her morning tea,and tucks a bit of this too shall passinto her apron pocket,next to a stray raisinthat might be hopeor might be breakfast. Her entire philosophycould fit on the head of a pin,(if the pin was slightly bent)and smelled faintly of orange marmaladeand mothballs.…
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1403: Spring Thoughts
The blues bow their heads.The yellows shiver.Purple crocuses tighten. They do not know the wind is turning,do not feel North’s cold bladeat their throat. “Of course they don’t know,”says the crow from his bare March branch,“they believe in tomorrow.That’s what makes them flowers.” Some images are a collaboration with Midjourney; all writing is my own…
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1303: Journal of Thoughts
The House Learns Its Tune Decades I’ve lived here,and only now do I hear it when the wind comes off the sea,south by southwest,my house sings. The gales are no destroyers.They are fingerson the roof tiles,a hand at the chimes.Each slate, a note.Each ridge, a phrase held long. Gusts draw themselvesover the windowsills,thin lips to…
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1203: RDP Image
Image of a cow having a good ol’ feed in the hedgerows — and blocking country lane traffic in Devon UK. Posted for Ragtag Daily Prompt: Cow ©Misky 2006-2026.
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1203: Three Poems for Sahara Air
I. Senryudust from distant sandseven the old oaks seem unsurewhich land they belong to II. Haikusahara driftingbare branches fade into mistfar from their desert III. Sahara Morning, West Sussex This morningthe woods forgot their colour. Oak and birchstood quietly in borrowed air,their branches holdinga breath from another continent. Somewhere far awaya desert wind lifted its…
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