Category: prose
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26.03: Let the Last Breath Linger
Prosery: Let the Last Breath Linger some memories, like thin bells,vanishing, a song faint and low. A summer of being. Thirteen. Surrendering my mornings to the public library—piles of books, biblichor, waiting quiet as secrets. Quiet as a librarian’s finger to her lips: shush. I devoured the Dewey Decimal System. It became a fiery furnace…
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20.03 Spring’s Arabesque
I dreamt of spring—such a strange little telling; blind, blue-eyed flowers straight from the dark brows of doom into a gentle dance. A swaying arabesque—so soft were its April eyes upon the woodland, its shock of white from a blackthorn’s blossom. There’s always a romp, a bird’s pantomime between branch and bough—a secret song, like…
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18 March: dVerse Prosery
And in the end,” she said… It’s my eleventh year, far from home, but oddly, I’m at home here—twilight in the garden, the sky open wide to a single star. It’s summer; I often sleep on the porch, and she says, “It’s not what we may be, it’s what we are.” …
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18.03 Cadralor for the Oracle
A Cadralor for the Oracle I.There’s a crow on the roof ridge,struts across it as if it’s the world,bends its wings, scolds, clamours,swears an ocean of words from itsdark battalions of creamy clouds. II.Petulant weather. Raining as ifspitting upwards by the dead.Splashing against the window,a drummed blur of silver fingersthat change tunes in whispers. III.Listen—a…
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14.03 The Oracle’s Cadralor
The Oracle Shouts Spring I. Winter was a sharp howling war, Sunday’s spring was utter calm; a day of molten glory and sun, of nights crowding stars pressed troubled faces upon the sky. II.The sea roiled rough though wind laid calm; thick-flecked with light under the light of stars, a shuffle of sands in lapsing…
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07.03 Ex Nigro et Albo Hiemis
Ex Nigro et Albo Hiemis It’s from the east facing window that I watch spring, although this morning’s winter fog obscures the view from anything beyond the windowsill, but no matter—I’m unmoored from gloom by an amber warning to winter that blooms bright as a lantern. Yes, the crocuses are blooming; yes, the birdbath has…
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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,…
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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…
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17.2 The Whisperoak
The Whisperoak Louisa had always been drawn to the old tree in front of the house. Its roots curled into the stone walls, its gnarled branches scraped the sky, and its massive trunk was hollowed into a darkened passage. Her grandmother said that it was ancient even when she was young and that those who…
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