Category: prose
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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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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…
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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.
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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…
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18.12.24 Ink in Thirds
Every Ebb and Sigh I sit here, on a bench, a memorial seat to someone I don’t know, taking in a breath of salt and secrets drifting from the rising sea. This incoming tide is a melody of brine; my dreams; their ghosts; rushing in on the keel of an old ship, sails like fallen…
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9 Nov: Poem-a-Day Challenge
Well, Maybe Not a Thousand … It was the sort of summer that one vaguely remembers – an idle summer of a thousand different hours, except for a few days when Farmer Lars harvested the fields and left stubble and nowhere for rabbits and field mice to hide – hawks waiting in the trees with…
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6 Nov: dVerse Prosery
Paper Trail Somewhere out of the ninth month, midnight came on me suddenly as the first of January. I had lost three months to emails and copious (mostly illegible) notes of maybe-there’s-a-poem-in-this, and to-do/shopping lists, blog comments wanting attention, dozens of daily mail shots from the postman for funeral homes, assisted living, stair lifts, vitamins…
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4 June: dVerse Prosery
THE HOSTILE WITNESS His fate, governed by a clock. Break for tea. Break for lunch. Break his neck from the end of a rope. He trickles sweat like a nervous tide, and whispers, “I pray to God that she may lie forever.” With unopened eye, movement of its blind swivel hidden, an old woman places…
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