It's Still Life

Baby Ladybird         out for a walk on the windowsill,smallas a pinhead,largerthan a mote.Loston the windowpane,sun on your belly,warmthon your legs.brushoff your wings,ladybird,ladybird,fly away home. Image is from Unsplash. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #apoemaday on Twitter

Spontaneous That gust of wind wasa sort of natural psychosis. The sort that artists paint. A full-breached bleed, andthen easing into composure. Like shifting a baby from one hip to the other. As if to say, Behold,your glass is still half full. All thatin a spontaneous burst of wind. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on…

Hey, Snowball I used to know a girlwho was a snowball. Every bit of information she readjust stuck. She was always on a roll picking up stuff.Friends, fortunes, luck. And then it all melted,a melt-down, just the waysnowballs do. But like I said, I used to know her.Haven’t seen norheard of her in years, and…

Those Weathermen The sun is like an eggy wobble,between the blown clouds, and I’ve lost my trust in weather lore,trials by sunrise colour, and those wise men, anointed, appointedweathermen, tapping away with their clicky sticks on charts andpoking into spring’s sharp peep. We still remain in winter’s hug. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter

No Stopping There’s a stop signat the end of the road, andone day I’m going to ignore it. Aim myself straight through it,like a contrite objection, an oldrusty bell that vows to chime. And I’ll be quietly steadyin the spirit of well-landed words,like bold nouns on a book’s spine that neither spell out thoughtsnor deeds,…

Down by the towpath along the creek, walking against the insect noise and twists of roots from trees that no longer exist, past the rustling thistles of last summer’s dry shadows once indefinably green against the brittle sky . . . there once was a tall wooden fence as white and straight and even as…