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dVerse Blossoms
March 29: A firestarter returns us spring. I breathe the air. I breathe the sky. It’s a cherry blossom’s wild sunset dance out of winter. A burner against April’s pale blue. A garland for the clouds. The sky is leaking warmth and bees, and this worn soul wants to live again. ruby throated springfrom powdered…
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for Sunday Whirl #496
The Suppression of Green She’s wading too deep in gluey,sucking cold. In a biting winterstreams leached clear by dirt, ordisguised as spring water racingunder the green of cress leaves. Green is hope, she believes, and on this bright bleached day, shesees shadows blanket truth, goodand evil, and souls snagged onfish-hooked lines, waiting, baited for heaven’s shame,…
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Overlooked Margins
Small Flies and Other Wings There in the overlookedmargins of the windowsill, unpaired wings and websof grey lace and dust aredefused by the sun’s stare. Wings lay mutilated likesome mental disturbance, brushed by darkness andsideslipped in the wake ofa free-hand or brushed breath. They’re gathered into the wetgrasp of a cleaning cloth, and their fragments…
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for dVerse Quadrille #124
Who Knew I pull out a green shoot, hoping it’s a weed. One year, I pulled outmost of the poppy seedlings, thinking they were weeds. Opium poppies, so I am told. And there next to the weedsis a worm – tied in a knot. for dVerse Poets Quadrille #124 “knots”Photo by Bruno Figueiredo on Unsplash. Shared with @Experimentsinfc…
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dVerse’s Being Human
Being Human This being human isa glance over your shoulderto see if the pastis catching up with you. Other days, it’s a drudgerythat lingers on your handsas a stain or an odour. It’s a search for wordsin the pit of your stomachthat feel odd in your mouthwhen spoken. Sometimes, it’s when rainsmells like mould insteadof…
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dVerse Prosery: 16 March 2021
The Stick All winter that limb hung there as if baffled by gravity’s indecision, and sometime between dark and daylight it fell from the sky and plunged to the earth. The white beechwood bark peeling, and curling back onto itself, lichen-poxed, and laying in the mud-soaked grass like a diseased long bone. It’s what my…
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For Sunday’s Wordle No. 494
Rise I love a sugar-spun dawn,earth unable to ignore the sky. It’s that moment when a thoughtmakes its mark. Opens the skin. It’s self-explanatory, and simpleas following a straight line road. It’s a singed dry leaf, an edged ghostfringe, foreign to its landscape, or a new thought that’s lying in waitright around the corner, where…
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Miz Quickly’s Word List #2
The Quilt When her husband died she torehis shirts into tiny squares andstitched the squares together again. She made a quilt to cover the bedwhere she and her husband slept. All’s fair where there’s small love.She turned her grief to art. Unpicking her grief, restitching it with death it’s-natural tonal thread as she coped with…
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For VV’s March Image Prompt
Winter’s in the Sky Winter sleeps in the sky. Up there,a frozen swamp. A shock of wet. It douses summer leaves and doesstrange things. It can send a bitterchill in July, act odd as a full moon. It’ll leave you standing on a street,condemned to shivering in June. Winter doesn’t seems to grow old.Summer does…
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This Might Be The Most Depressing Thing Ever Written
This Might Be The Most Depressing Thing I’ve Ever Written For pen. For paper. I fumble the nightto write these stammered words. I grievefor its loss. Its misuse. This deluded lightthat I might write, and pretend to believe myself poetic. A witless froth at any age,I know not grammar, my words are awaylike disjointed vertebrae.…
It's Still Life 