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17 Aug: Almost Always
Almost Always It’s autumn. Farmers move bales of hay on the county lanes, and almost always a bale falls free, unravels, dusty debris in the air, catching on brambles, thistles, and twiggy rib-caged hedgerows… and as it happens, you’ll regret not taking the motorway with its thick-as-bees morning traffic, because now you’re stuck behind a…
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16 Aug: Still Raging
Still Raging Ebony on amber embers. The remains, a forest scrubbed.The flame, fast as a finger’s flick.Earth’s stretched sinew and string. For P’Bloomings “Fire”. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter
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15 Aug: Prose #FFFC
Another Song A passer-by offers confetti cubes of stale bread, casually thrown into the thicket of wings, and the air is trampled. What does it mean, all that hysterical noise that shakes the air, those elbow wings cutting sunlight, and enfolding space. Birdsong echoes against the clouds. Shrieks that cling as if by claw. Its…
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15 Aug: Short Verses from the Garden
Cat’ssat inthe shady laurelwatching birds perched stillas nails on the drybirdbath. Poem form: Elevenie. Photo by Sparks Johnson on Unsplash. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter
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14 Aug: Short Verses from the Garden
Drought.I betyou never thoughtsuch a blue skywould send your eyeing moodplunging. Image: my own from the garden. Poem form: Elevenie or Elfchen. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #micro-poetry on Twitter
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13 August: An Octelle
Waiting for the Words to Come It will come, what I want to say.Paper. Pen. Held a certain way.Inspired by that full moonWhose light fills an empty room.Those amber and scarlet leaves.Creek. River. Or ocean breeze.It will come, what I want to say.Paper. Pen. Held a certain way. for dVerse Poets: Poetry Form Octelle. The syllable…
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12 August: Petite Pen
A Day Bronzed by August It was a day spinning in my ear,unbothered by rain or regretor lost love or virtue, there wasjust pale light and the call of gullssinging like plucked piano wires,and a child with a kite coaxingthe last breeze out of daylight. for K’s A Petite Pen. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter
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11 August: dVerse Quadrilles
Two Quadrilles I.The sun rises,white as truthshining down on us,and we feel a typeof fearless freedom, even though one dayour ashes will be freeunder its watchful eye,so we’ll let the sun fill us up,like green refills a forest. II.No two clouds are the same.No two leaves.No two trees or drops of rain.No two thoughtsare quite…
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10 August: My Road
My road is at the top of a hill. It drops steep, turns here and there, and ends at a footbridge over a creek where boys with bare legs catch crayfish, and the local cats prowl the boys’ buckets, and the crayfish snap at the cats’ noses, and beyond the creek is the village school…
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9 August: An Ekphrastic Poem
The Return of the Flame I am stopped dead, clutching a water bottle again. A hostage to withered rivers. Burnt faces. This scotch bonnet heat empties my head. I will never get used to this sort of thing. Heat unleashed from some- where else, and spilling on you. A barbarous soak. Phaethon’s set the air…
It's Still Life 