Category: Poetry
-
From the Oracle in Hindsight
Her Shadow Work Her mother counts pennies,grapes in a bag,pages in a book. More is better—she heard that somewhere. Her father says double yolks are magic, “Eggs are quieter than hens,”and moonlight quiets a dreambecause it sweeps the stars. Words of war wrap the house, a bitter path,the cards are castand signs read. Desk, plough,…
-
25.2 dVerse Indigo
Knolling Indigo Indigo blueit fills the twilight scene,Spills inky songs in a secret tongue andWarmsso soft with it tints serene. Indigo blueswept from depths of wonder lies, So truethis blue that colours my dreams Sanctuary lies in your indigo eyes Written for dVerse Poets Quadrille Monday (Quadrille: 44-words sans title, include the prompt word “indigo”). Some artwork is created…
-
23.2 A Cadralor Poem
Wild Poppies … I. In a Danish fieldyou ripple, ridinga breeze. Your seedsfrom dark to bright, blossomsscattered like broken vows. II. Wild peals of feathered voice,the wind that envies yoursilken red. Quick!Root your brethren to a fieldin drifts of delirium. III. You scorn shadows nestingin shafts of wheat, scorn the corn and its rigid rod.…
-
21 Feb: A Miracle Done
You laugh as if a cool sweep of sea has touched your feet, touched your toes white as snowdrops. In your wonderfully wide eyes, cool grass on a summer day is a miracle done. What will your first word be: some sound no one will comprehend until a tide of liquid laughter ripples beyond babble.…
-
19 Feb: Journal of Thoughts (and AI)
The I in I Want I want to look at crows on a limband not think Hitchcock. I want to remember the tasteof soft sticky sweets wrappedin dull waxed paper. I want a poetic mould, a soulof mellowed rhyme,of wit and shine. I want to remember wordsand names and famous songsthat sit on the tip…
-
15 Feb: Winter Daybreak
Daybreak 7:15 a.m. Saturday.The sky is the same dreary expanseof rain sodden soil that mirrorsmy emotional tone. Grey hills that catch the light,lifeless as steel—the samelandscape as Sunday, Tuesday, and every daythis February. It’s a Brontë sort of colour,of stunted joy felt by a blossom spurnedand snubbedby a winter chill. Some artwork is created using…
-
9.2. Wisting
It’s Saturday, 21.00, and I am watching Wisting on BBC 4, Norwegian, subtitled in English, although I don’t need the subtitles, and there’s a man standing on a wooden dock that rocks with the brush of each wave under its pontoons, and a large dog standing on heaped mounds of rock that look shaped by…
-
9 Feb: 12 Minutes Past 8
Twelve Minutes Past Eight (A List Poem) Chimney Smoke in curls Grass hard with frost 2 doves pacing the roof ridge Scent of oatmeal A spoon stirring coffee A blackbird singing in the apple treeIce melting in drips Clock-radio playing upstairs Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.
-
A Haibun to Darkness
Waiting for the Dark I sit by the window, the winter trees watching over me as daffodils push through soil and crocuses wait for tomorrow’s sun, and I write this, the light fading until gone, until the paper is more part of darkness than day, and I sit through the hour into night, alone by…
It's Still Life 