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dVerse Quadrille #118
An Old Small Song There’s smokefrom the dying fire in her eyes, it bites deep at her heart,and she sings an old small song. Laughs. Then cries.Old flames never die, she says, and then nods-off into her past years as the inglenook’s firegoes cold. dVerse quadrille #118 “inglenook”. 44-words, sans title. © Misky 2020 Photo…
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for Poets United
The Look I rememberit was the season of acornsand blow-sideways long-winded cloudsand tidal nights,and the weather was a serpentthat God had createdfor poets to muse over, like they do about a proper English summer, or a cast iron cooking pot preferred by cannibals in New Guinea, …
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dVerse Prosery
It’s Life She pays a woman to tell her fortune. Her future. Says this woman is brilliant. Sees stuff. All done over the telephone. You should talk to her, she’ll tell your future, she says. But I don’t want to know my future. I prefer to roll along like a drunk stumbling over my own…
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for dverse “Synesthesia #2”
On a Lightning Edge with Bob Dylan Somewhere between the sun’sburnt-orb fall and evening’sblackened toll, we saw freedomslip inside midnight’s door. Thunder flashed,purple streaks,shook our windows,and rattled walls. Lightning fingers, violet pearls.We saw night’s dark eyeswild a wolf as ever did fight. Our tongues were brokenwhen freedom flashed.This purple light,how does it feel. How does it…
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dVerse Travels #2
She said, If a Red Fox had Crossed Somewhere, That Area was Safe* No red fox has crossed my path,or blessed this journey, butI’ve crossed the line enough. Hands down, this day isbecoming an argument. I dropped a plate this morning.It broke into angles and pieces.I stared at it far too long. Just stared, and…
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dVerse Poetic Travels
Travelling in the Wilderness You can never read too much into anything.That’s what my granny Nne Nne says.She opens up the newspaper, and pointsher poppy red fingernail at some words. See here, she says, all words need spaces,a buffer for safety, it’s so those conflictingwords don’t bash into each other. And now I’m thinking of…
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Quadrille #117
Out of the Fog Comes the sun.it’s a clutch of warmth,a canopy suspendedover winter’s muscle.the sun abides in cheeks of roses,and on tensiled tailsof a comet.bright as a smile after sex.the horizon isNovember.licked and kickedby the sun. Miz Quickly’s Day 30 and dVerse Quadrille #117 “Abide” © Misky 2020
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24 November 2020
Haibun: Blown Home I remember the wind as grape-skin smooth as it flowed through the window. It lifted the voile panels — inhaling and exhaling time. The grandfather clock, I turned its key daily, and its oaked-box voice ticking solid and deep, geared-teeth grinding away at our eternity. That wind always came out of the…
It's Still Life 