Category: Wordles
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for Wordle #339
It’s the Way of Bruised Flowers Between dreams and death’s sleep, between winter’s rustling reeds, I heard the hollow sound of hunger. I fought the urge to shout at bearded madness, or hissing vespers and endlessly confess to boundless wind. Memory is sand. Stormy. Fleeting. It’s the scent of damp iron. Lonely as wind. I…
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For Sunday Whirl & RWJ
At Least for Now She folds sheets, snaps their rasping frozen weave against the gusty breeze. It’s hazy, monotonous work. This life is a poverty, likely a saint’s holy calling, but she keeps at it. At least for now. Life is a long twisted rope, so said her mother, and she’s glad for a warm…
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Wordle #337
The Postman Only Brings Bills I’m waiting for this ink to spin and bend my pelican-beach thoughts. Gentle words to de-blur my brain. Maybe inject a salty sun, or a sense of minty warmth into my hoar-smitten spectacle. I missed your call last night. Wish you’d left a message, but we both know, everything’s already…
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Sunday Whirl #336
Dreams Slip There’s a band of rain sweeping in dense and horizontal, flat as me laying on this lumpy bed that tramples my dreams and ransoms sleep. It’s 2am. I’m awake. Staring at the cat. Its amber eyes are aimed right me. We exchange looks — that cat feels like dark magic. It belong in…
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Sunday Whirl #335
Stood There I stood there under bare-knuckle trees, a final buckling void to spring. Stood there admiring a white vinyl sky. Listening to rain-soothed birdsong cutting deep grooves. Chimes sung by design. One tune. None other. I stood there, like a sponge. Soaked. The word “plethora” is like two left shoes; it just…
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Wordle #329
A Hint of Siberia Without Producing a Passport Sub-zero wind is a hard nudge An assault A deep breath feels like your last It dropped into minuses overnight Blizzardy snow and icicles hanging hard as Sheffield Loose teeth aiming to fall And there goes the wind again Against the house a bashing steel bar at…
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Wordle #328
Together They were a Shipwreck He existed in a California Dreaming, as if betrayal and loss were minor abrasions, and Monday’s intelligence was a profound art. He thanked poetry and disasters for his inspiration. And she was shifting sunlight. Laughter never-settling. A thirsty sound of simple phrases that filled the air. Like party songs or…
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Wordle #327
Empty Frames it’s a puzzle, she thinks, as she twists her hair into a stream of rings, she paces, stands, then sits trim and prim, her thoughts a perturbing amble. She wishes she knew who, and why — her view was stolen and only the frames remain. for Sunday Whirl
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Day 12 NovPAD
Touchstones and Shifty Natures That side of the hill was a dirt slide after it was logged clear, though the loggers claimed the land was of shifty nature, but it turned into a seething body waging war on fifty or so families who called this dirt home. Hindsight knew it a fat belly begging to…
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31 July 2017
To Stitch Time She finally found a way to say goodbye. Mum took Dad’s remains to his favourite river, tipped out the urn, and he slipped away. A sliver of cloudy light that spread like spilt milk. She stood there, in the shining rain. Quiet. Thoughts lost in the pine-scented air, Mum wearing an old…
It's Still Life 