Category: prose
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18 Aug: After the Sway of Summertime
Louis Armstrong’s Ghost is on the Porch Swing(a poem after the sway of Summertime) Heat drips like honeyfrom the sleepy F of the trumpet,your hips unspoolinga blue notebetween a screen door slamand a cricket hymn. Piano keys stickto the backs of your knees,while a bass line digs a gravefor all the unlived livespooling in your…
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16 Aug: We’ve Misplaced Friday Again
For days when reality misplaces itself and the crows are only too happy to explain why. We’ve Misplaced Friday Again Then let’s be thievesof child-logic today.Let’s pocket the gravel sparkles,argue with cloudsuntil they huff into rabbits. Let’s declare our shadowsvery good listeners(even when they yawn).Let’s whisper the wildest poems —and kneel in the grass to…
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15 Aug: MicroDosing 150 µg
The Keeper of Lost Things – Micro-dosing 150µg (150 words) The drawer was narrow, oak-lined, and smelled of camphor and the kind of winters people used to name. Inside: a brass key, a single pearl earring, and a postcard from Marseille—unsigned, unclaimed. Each morning, Mrs. Havelock touched them with care, her fingers reading their weight…
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14 Aug: A Slow Detonation
A Slow Detonation I. Imprisoned Stone frames a freedomthat swallows every horizon whole.Iron teeth bite shut the sky,keeping light’s whispers out.Here, the freedom is absence,and absence is forever. II. A Slow Detonation Poem Power is the liethat fits their fist, that names the bruisenecessary. That tells the wound —this is right. Their boots don’t care.March.March…
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12 Aug: Featherhung – The Liturgy
15 of 27 Featherhung – The Poem – The Fragment: Unfinished Flight I. The Almost-ForgivenNot a wound, but its afterglow —an ash-rose stain between them,where Brigid’s silence hooks Felreil’s wingand his ink pools flat at her feet.They circle the unspoken,two crows with the same bone in their beaks. II. The Crooked LandingA word tilts mid-air:You…
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6 Aug: Gravity Is Its Own Language
This poem remembers a bicycle ride this week beneath Nordic sun, and the moment I left my grandmother’s ring in the creek beside her old house. I wore it on my thumb one heedless summer as a child. It was time to release and return it. Gravity is its own language — and the land…
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5 Aug: The Year I Knew
Note: I braved Brenda’s Sunday Whirl . It is a challenge, for sure — her 12 words this week are: souvenirs, free, touch, know, cracks, siren, window, waves, sting, show, ring and give. I have based this poem on memories from my summers in Sweden, where I am at the moment. The photo (taken today) is of a…
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26 July: MicroDosing 100µg
Feathers and Stones — (microDosing / surprise – 100µg) It’s a child’s view — watching the morning sun moving round the kitchen. It pulses through the lace curtains in fragments, like memory unraveling. The house hums. The walls remember more than I do. Grandmother does, too. She startles like joy, or prophecy. “Fetch me the…
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23 July: dVerse Prosery
Equinox She was a daughter of light, yes — but even as a child, she watched the shadows move first. They gathered beneath her bed like cats. Flicked the candles when no wind stirred. Knew her name before she did. She tried to stay loyal to the sun. Woke early. A sunrise child. Let its…
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20 July: MicroDosing 70µg
Soil’s Song ( a 70µg microdose of 70 words) I know soil. Its memory hums beneath my feet, my hands deep in its dark gospel — decay turned bloom. A cradle for seed, for bone, and eternity’s silence — where roots whisper, gossiping like neighbours over the fence. I know the hush of unborn gardens,…
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