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25.02.22: A Poem After “Two Old Ones Eating Soup” by Goya
A Poem After “Two Old Ones Eating Soup” by Goya Held like a leash in his hand,grasped fingers at the expenseof pain and joints. Then a turn of a spoon,and golden broth from bone and stonestouches his lips like a warm kiss. The wonders of triumphfrom a thin clear broth. A bowl of soupon this…
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24.02.22 A Choka Poem
Write Me a Silver Lining The turn of a wordthat ploughs deep as the note ofsharp-toned larks, that word, that coldlike Rostock winters,but we still so love to watchthe breeze writing on birch leaves. Poetic Form: Choka (5.7.7/repeated) Photo by Simon Berger on Unsplash. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #apoemaday on Twitter
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23.2.22: Haibun Wednesday
The trouble with Salt And then the sea dawns. Its salt dissolves into salt, into itself. It’s a new day of slow dehydration. A life-long osmosis into dust and dryness. Dry words, dry humour, dried up and wrinkled … wrinkles on thin skinned; wrinkles in plans; wrinkles in love … And the sea’s tongue grates…
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23.02.22 White Bean Soup
White Bean Soup Italy’s in my white iron pot.Bless her,Marcella,and her simplicity. “What you omit is more importantthan what you put in,” she says. No bacon.No ham.No bones.No onions.No carrots.No kale. Soup that stands upand salutes garlic. So, I’m doing a Hazan.Doing her white bean,garlic and parsley soup. It’s soup season.It’s winter. Recipe for Hazan’s White…
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22.2.22: It’s TwoTwoTwoTwo Two Day
Catch Of The Day That fish on crushed icedoesn’t knowits beauty. Doesn’t knowits silver-plated shine. It thinks there’s no gloryin a tail’s slow sway,or lazying throughsea grass and ropey kelp. Where’s the gloryfor a fish on crushed icewhen you’rethe catch of the day. Photo by Jakub Kapusnak on Unsplash ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #apoemaday on Twitter
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23.2.22: Story Problems
A new post is live at That’s No Way To Wash A Dragon. Image is from British Library Medieval Manuscripts, Digital Archive: Illuminations. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #apoemaday on Twitter
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22.02.22 The Grave of Arigdor Kara
The Grave of Arigdor Kara He returned to cool soil, and took his own truth with him. A cup of poetry beside his faith. They buried him below a granite slab, now lichen skimmed and shadow roots. The rabbi said his was a short lived bliss. Now strangers mark his passing, walk by his grave.…
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15.02.22 That Old Chestnut
That Old Chestnut It’s still gnarly-bare,no leaves yeton that old chestnut tree. It’s old.It’s arbitrary.Bang-bang out of order, like a belligerent judge,a rigid thought growing wherenothing near it is its equal. There’s nothing symmetrical about it.Hit by lightning years ago.Blew sprinters and branches aboutas if hit by God’s own fist. But that tree’s dying.Slowly.Bleedingfrom its…
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Published on Visual Verse
I’m delighted that my ekphrastic poem, A Hundred Butterflies, is included in Visual Verse’s February anthology. A new image is posted on the first day of each month, and I encourage anyone considering a step into publication to have a go. They publish one hundred of their favourite poems or prose each month. ©Misky 2022…
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for Twiglet #266
Her Godbone What we believeis what we want to believe.Like my sister says a white dove flew over her carwhile she waitedin a queue for the ferry. That was the day Dad died.It was Dad, she said, but she mournedhim even before he was dead. She has a locket with his ashes,and a small silver…
It's Still Life 