Category: Wordles
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A Brief Moment with Sunday Whirl #262
Jury Duty And then that long misty day yawned like some sleepy jury. The wall clock ticking as time unspun itself into games and daydreams, paperbacks with minuscule print and no pictures. What to read. What to do. Two weeks. The man next to me cringes; he’s called for jury selection. I do a mental…
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In a Fog for Sunday Whirl #261
Through a Fog That moment is a snapshot. That wooden dingy breaking through the fog with red sails in a perpetual stretch, reaching for deliverance. Its hull gleaming with thick blackened tar and pitch paint, the bow chipped by storms and miscalculations and agitation. Such a headstrong and trusting craft under the determined eye of…
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Singing for Poetic Bloomings
Édith Piaf When she sang it was raindrops. Falling diamonds. A firestarter with those drizzling tones. Édith, my Édith, a beacon for angels, who made the saints weep. I know her every song — they were like medicine, cured my heart. Words to stop my furrowing rot. I’d become old — dry wood, but my…
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12th Night
12th Night a red-handed wind carries that sort of crow-black heat. a curious quiet that’s always just off the boil. a rapt listener; devourer of flush and glow; delver into sweeps and swarms. grabs and gasps. your ear. your neck. your heart. boils your bones whilst painting shadows wherever there’s a vacancy. heat, just heat.…
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Rattling Along with Sunday Whirl
“Honey is the only food that doesn’t spoil” — anon Cars rattle, and that could move my dad to break into a howling burst, an echoing drawl of purpled complaint. And my sister and I, we’re split apart by pillows and sleeping bags because we encroach on each other like a red tide, and we’re…
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Protected: Sunday Whirl & Miz Q: On The Edge of Wind
There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.
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Sunday Whirl #251
The Perfection of Pine It’s May. Enter the flowers, and the perfection of pine. The boys are by the lake – it took days for that fish to take the bait. And a perfect silk of clouds screen the burn of the sun, the hours hung slow, though less we couldn’t have cared. I remember…
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Sunday Whirl #250
Under a Bare Grey Block There was always talk of her slipping chains and those asylum gates. She wandered about like a roadmap, and always in a ranting chant. After a while, the rumours flowed. Someone said that she walked on water, but mostly they said it was a bit of a show. People came…
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A Tritina for Wordle 249
A River’s Moment That river owned grace. Boundless shade from sunshine, and wistful thirsty banks of silken silt as dense as any forest. That river joined roots in a tangled forest, washed slender from tender cells of shade, and it spoke as a single skin. The banks drank up the egg-washed tides, muddy banks of…
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#7
Oreo Black It was a thrown down dare, that sinew fragment sound, like a Joplin-siren-howl. Those Oreo-black crows, they stood still as salt over that swollen wreckage. — a fox, I think. For Sunday Whirl Wednesday’s Six Words: siren fragment wreckage swollen still salty
It's Still Life 