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GloPoWriMo: Day 5 – Mythical
Hey Mum, My Name Is Icarus I said the sun was too far away,and I ran like a stag, head down, and fast as scenery flashing bywhen you sit in a car, and stareunblinkingly into a forest whileDad speeds along the dirt track, and I jumped off the brick wall,my arms feathered in pillowcases, and…
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5.04.22 dVerse Quadrille Season
Forgive Me Your Plums In the tight centre offlesh pressing its flesh,a rough skin stone waitsin this small yellow plum.It inspires poetry, it’s cold,straight from the icebox.It’s the season for Post-it notes,for sweet plums whose stonesare tight-wound in its rug. Written for dVerse Poets, Quadrille Monday. Inspired by William Carlos Williams,”This Is Just to Say”…
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Glo/NaPoWriMo: Day 4, A Prompt
For Old Women Who Find Their Wings You wake up, and leave the curtains closed. What will the neighbours think: a. you’re still sleeping, b. you died in your sleep. Listen to the weather. Give it a colour. Sit on the edge of the bed, feel your weight. Give your weight a colour that clashes…
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for Visual Verse April ’22
The Woman Wore Red I dreamt of a woman in red,and when she spoke,I heard her heart in my ears.I heard her blood rushingheavy rhythms of storms,and she stood therein all weather, as if victorious. She, with no shadow,no equal,and no angel’s trumpet,followed me likethe wind’s direction. She, a rustingiron sign post, seeking direction. Arms…
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GloPoWriMo Day 3: A Glosa Poem
A Glosa poem form in response to a quatrain from Old Man Throwing a Ball, by David Baker “dodders out, she’s old as the sky, wheeling her green tank with its sweet vein, breath. She tips down the path he’s made for…
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for Twiglet #272
In Her Own Shadow The old woman I’m becomingis pestering me. It’s leaped on me the wayJuly does. There’s nothing gradualabout it. Written for Twiglet #272 “Shadows of Silence”. ©Misky 2022. Image WikiArt: Head of an Old Peasant Woman with White Cap by Vincent van Gogh, 1884; Nuenen, Netherlands. Public Domain. Shared with #amwriting on Twitter
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GloPoWriMo: Day 2
An Old Woman Full of Light Her man wanted a roomwithout light. A cube ofdimness, and colours dark as bark. He’d whisper in her ear“Are you asleep?” andshe’d fall into a deepened still. She told me she’d not seen a dawn,a rising sun, a glisking lightnever entered that room that held his plague,prophecy, and sleepless…
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A Triolet: On Danes Hill
On Danes Hill The thought of being on that hill,in that wind as hard as marble . . . it’s such a thick and smitten chill,the thought of being on that hill. Fingers cold, nose so froze untilmy every word is icy garble. The thought of being on that hill,in that wind as hard as…
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Glo/NaPoWriMo: Day 1
Written as prose: The Fall When old women fall, they lose their voice. Their legs go funny angles, all catawampus like Bambi on that frozen lake. And when they call for help, their voice shrinks, an echo in their porous bones, a wobble sound that no one hears . . . . . h.h.h.help. And…
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31.03.22 Stream of Consciousness
Hum It’s Bees.Like when I walkedpast the laurels.Bees.A roiling key of F. Call it humming.Buzzing.Whatever. It buildscrescendo fright. So would you,if you’d steppedin a nest of mud waspswhen you’re 8. Electric toothbrushesall sound likepissed-off mud wasps. Sketch by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, The Beekeepers and the Birdnester 1568 on WikiArt. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter
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