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1 February: Last Photo of the Month
This photo is for Brian’s (Bushboy) Last Photo on the SD card (or phone, or whatever device you use). No explanation. No editing. I did, however, change the image size to something more manageable, and changed it from a RAW format to JPG, so as to not waste space. Anyway, here’s the last photo taken during the…
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1 February: The Beekeeper
The Beekeeper In a white smockand netted hat, weedingand keepingthe secret of bees. AI Digital Art is mine and created using Midjourney’s bot (v4). Image and poem ©Misky 2023 Shared on Twitter #amwriting @midjourney
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31 January: Visual Verse Anthology
I’m very pleased that Visual Verse published my submission for their January anthology, Thanks to Worms for giving me the heads-up. Looks like I slipped in just under the wire. Every month Visual Verse reveals a new image for our muse (no, I don’t have a muse) to write 50-150 words within an hour (poetry…
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30 January: A dVerse Haibun
There’s an assassin at the heart of the winter, it’s a cold muscle, forcing itself on everything. The chairs and the wrought iron table are up against the wall, upended and blown away. Frost covers the grass. Snow covers the roses. Ice covers the creek. Children are skating on it every day. The creek’s only…
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31 January: A Tanka of Water
The Philosophy of Water a glass of water, ridiculous to think itmight solve life’s problems, to drink in a moment’s calm of water’s philosophy. AI Digital Art is mine and created using Midjourney’s bot (v4). Image and tanka poem 5.7.5.7.7 ©Misky 2023 Shared on Twitter #amwriting @midjourney
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29 January: Stream of Consciousness
Sunday morning: (304 words) He’s sitting in his brand new car, my neighbour, reading the user manual, I assume, although a moment later I see it’s The Times newspaper. He turns the page, shakes it straight, and folds it into a manageable rectangle. It rests on his steering wheel, and he’s drinking coffee with a…
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28 January: for Fireblossom’s Word List
This Isn’t About Trains or Armadillos That starched ribbon in her hair,its of dubious use. Absurd to thinkit can tie smoke, or restrain hairthat’s the colour of Moroccan wind. And she leans over the jukebox,f-me boots up to her anymores. She’s a superstar Wurlitzer genius, a mix of nightbird, and tar soap. This society girl…
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27 January: Fallen
Fallen He’s unbalanced by gravity, plummets like currency. Tumbles on the trail and then disappears from view. There’s a bolt of noise through his head, and he looks around – a slow forest of ebony, trees of speech, lanky, a green canopy of limbs. The ground is thick, muddy, and bitter, and his eyes are…
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25 January: dVerse Grandmothers
Granny Eunice Granny says she’ll give mea dish of tonguesif the screen door slams. The screen door slams. Fly paper swingsand snags sunny yellowin the summer breeze. Bacon’s fryingin curls and shrinks.Spits. The flame jumps. Granny’s arms are dressedin skin and flour.Butter on her cold fingers. It’s a blessing to a baker, she says. Scones.…
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24 January: An Imagist Poem
It’s Ideal It’s small becauseit has to be small. Room for a cup of coffee, and her feet. Corner view.Two sash windows.Third floor. A wide window sillfor wildflowers.Jam jar for a vase. Desk.Chair.Lamp. Rattling traffic. The overground.Horns, and a clattering radiator. Heels and trainers.Coats and brollies.Into the wind A rabble of litter.A newsagents’ debris.A chippy…
It's Still Life 