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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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GloPoWriMo: Day 1
GloPoWriMo: Day 1 The first half of joy is a wave,rolling in, it curls on itself,soft as lip balm. The second half is the same waverolling out, or summer gone, gone kisses chapped and cracked. For GloPoWriMo Day 1. Inspired by the phrase “The second half of joy is shorter than the first” by Emily Dickinson’s poem …
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31.03.22: I Could Only Think
I Could Only Think … this unlovable land wheregardens are a summer thing, where snow shimmersand the air finds freedom and our language was inparsnips and potatoes,beetroot with its leaves boiled ‘til soft and eatenwith a vinegar’s mother, and I remember the skywas open and wise, neverclosing in on my world as we set maps…
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28.03.22: Child Labour
The Breaker Boys This is the way of it,black dust andgritty lungs and spending daysbent to other mindsand other lives. Time is an early old age,emblazoned on their spine. There’s a constant coughlike wild dogsat ones throat, and they fall to pieces,like a stoneunder a hammer. Photo US Library of Congress, Flickr Commons, Public Domain, US…
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29.03.22: Clowns
Enlightened A laugh is the wisest of words.Words,they’ll bounce off you,if you let them. A big word. A little word.A ruckus.A clown-car-paradeon high-beams and octane.A wave of your tongue, andhere come those clowns. Dedicated to poets who’ve spread laughter through the past two years. © Misky 2022
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dVerse Haibun Monday
A View of the Cherry Tree in Moonlight The cherry tree is kissed by moonlight, it wakes as I sleep, as silver slides between its limbs, as my heart gently knocks against my ribs like uneven stairs. It wakes me from soundlessness and breathing, and even in first hours after midnight, I see moonbeams spread…
It's Still Life 