Category: prose
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25 August: One Liner Wednesday
Rain filled the old steel bucket, and I emptied it onto the parsley, watched it spread around the chives, the basil, and the thyme, and I recalled that fisherman on the coast casting his net over the sea. Written for Linda Hill’s One Liner Wednesday. Shared with @Experimentsinfc #APoemADay on Twitter Prose and image ©Misky…
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Seventeen Syllables and Some Prose
The clipped wings of prayers still rise through the morning mist and falling raindrops. It is no effort to stay, rooted in the moon’s clatter, in this oily dusk, but when all parts of me are worn out, I’ll be freed to dissolve in the lipped waves of some spacious stream, gone from the green of…
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Day 11 NaPoWriMo 2021
NaPoWriMo: Day 11 – 2 poems: A letter written to a person, and their reply My dearest heroic Mark Antony, I remember the sun so bright that it bleached the days colourless, the ground was wounded, naked and unbending, and it raged at us. We were the ruins of yesterday’s moon. Under what shifting sands…
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With a Proverbial Grain
The Prose of Romance with Miz Quickly I think Mum secretly wanted to travel, but since she didn’t know how to drive, she had to go where dad wanted to go, and usually, that was fishing, however, Mum dedicated Saturdays to the public library, and she always brought home a few books about travel, which…
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dVerse Prosery
Sometimes Sometimes weather flings itself in a tantrum at my feet. Such wild abandon in its reach. And sometimes I am lost in my own deep stare. Deep in the face of angry clouds that flood my sight, deep in rain punctuating the ground with broad, cursive raindrops. Sometimes the great bones of my life…
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dVerse Prosery
The Drowning of Capel Celyn A village gone. Into dark stillness that roots it to its soil. It lies weed-hung with the fish. It is too deep to feel the weight of a wave, or to hear a lamb’s bleat. It sleeps where it died in a purple silt. The store. The church. The butchery…
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Prosery: 18 August 2020
Mausoleum Marble My hand is on the oblong flatness of white marble where you sleep. Your death sleep. Your soul’s rest. And I expect the marble to be cold, but it’s not. It’s warm. Though not by the low November sun, perhaps it’s your eternal warmth. I think heaven opened its door when it saw…
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2 September 2019
AND ONE POTATO, TWO POTATOES, THREE And I say, 3 for you and 2 for me, and I’m serving up dinner, and you ask, Why do I get 3 and you only get 2, and I say, Because that’s the way it’s always been – Because I don’t need as much as you, and then…
It's Still Life 