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Twiglet #264
A Still Life of a Winter’s Night The fireplace is lit, its flamedancing with the surfaceof the window. A candlestiff and still on the table, with the last heel from a loaf,dried onions and cheesewith a sip of sweet wine. No need to whisper thatthe cupboard is bare, orthat the empty knocking isnot the beat…
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4.02.22: The Russian Girl
The Russian Girl at the Duck Pond There’s too much looking on bright side, she says. She has rod-straight black hair and a Russian accent that makes me nostalgic for Rocky the Flying Squirrel, and Boris and Natasha – not everything was bleak and fatalistic during the Cold War. And she says, lots of people,…
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GoDogGo Cafe Haibun Wednesday
Her Eggs Mum had a Victorian demeanour, posture as if stitched into a corset. Very few emotions she’d let slip, except boredom tightening her face. I remember her studying the back porch steps. She’d painted them shiny parrot green, the July sun scorched her neck, and bubbled the paint like the crispy edges of a…
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The Greens and Blues of It
The Greens and Blues of It Here I am wandering around,lost on oak-spiked hilltops, and admiring the serenityof sheep and shadows, and I am as surplus to this dayas ribbons are surplus to a gift. And until today, I’d never seena kestrel kill a rabbit. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #apoemaday on Twitter
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2.02.22: VV February 22
A Hundred Butterflies She’s soothed in the colourof old gas light, andsways to a piano’s moan. The warm, dense airhas put her in a weary sort ofsatisfied mood. The moon hanging pregnantly full,and the stars up therehum like bees at the jasmine and honeysuckle.It’s a thick scent thatmakes her head swim, makes her feel light…
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1.02.22: dVerse Haibun
Winter Digs In The way dark digs itself out of soil, or the way February always shivers as ice settles on the straight lines and arches of its letters, and the way the sunrise swells, red and sore as neglect, and yet we always expect morning to reign over us with hope and generosity .…
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01.02.22: Unravelling A Universe
Unravelling A Universe One part of the brain lights upwith memories, smell and soundlights up another part. Occipital for sight. Buttons holdingbits together, like points of conflictin a picture book. Some memories surface, a poolof happiness, some, like sadness,keep themselves imprisoned. Some are raw without husk or shell,like a promise of injury if revisited.But I…
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V.1 Ch.1: Fractional
Originally posted on That's No Way to Wash a Dragon: I was given my first pocket money at the age of six. It was a fraction of money. A quarter of some number. A quarter of an apple, according to Mum who explained money by cutting up fruit. Apples, mostly – we had lots…
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That’s No Way To Wash A Dragon
Not daily, that’s for sure, but occasionally I’ll reblog posts (less than 150 words) to It’s a Still Life from a new prose-based blog. It’s called That’s No Way to Wash a Dragon, which although it makes me grin, is a rubbish title. It’s bound to change often and regularly. Changing a blog’s title doesn’t change…
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31.1.22 Pseudo Analytical
Pseudo Analytical I.I know a woman with a dusty atticof a mind. She picks apart her past. It’s like she carries Freud’s couchwith her wherever she goes, and she is best described asthat moment when dawn is lost. When doors go shutting.When pigeons bubble sounds. And I am her bag of spare parts. II.I dream…
It's Still Life 