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AprPAD: April 1
A Glimpse Over Yesterday for Poetic Asides Morning shines, despite all things that darken night. Last night’s splash of thunder and lightning’s lash of tongue. Puddles of rain and a pale breeze that spells of absence. Despite all things that darken night, the church bells ring to the swell of the sea, and wild garlic…
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A Gogyohka on Restlessness
A Few Observations on Restlessness I woke at 2AM writing poetry in my head I yawned and it was gone When I wake I’m greeted by a floater in my eye it bathes on a tide with every blink Yesterday I woke with a sea-legs and music in my ear – it’s high pressure I’m…
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A Poem in the Style of Raymond Garlick
ON BOGNOR BAY A Poem in the Style of Raymond Garlick Bognor Bay divided into two tongues. A spit of shingle tossed by salty lips, and a broad flat of sand where the wind sung high to seagull cries. Riggings rang on a whispering breeze, woodwind tunes and sea- borne souls. Restless feet floundered upon…
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for dVerse Prosery
We children had so little, although we always had just enough. Absent parenting, well more like absentminded parented, but Mum and Dad did their best. Mum said it is all about setting the right examples. Her mum was an ice cube, so she was a chip off it (or chipped, or something like that). That…
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for Twiglet #167
Say What? You say, the language of rain babbles against the windowpane, and that language is mad on fizz and wine, and that some words are simple eyes. And sometimes I don’t understand what you say. for Twiglet #167. “Won’t Translate” ©️ Misky 2020 image from unSplash CC:00
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Poetry: An Espinela
Iron on the Wall There’s the northern and the southern. Hallelujah, they sang for him, and amen ending every hymn. Brothers. Sisters. Baptist. Brethren. On the wall, a cross of iron, wooden pews so unforgiving. Discomfort. Complaint. Forbidden. God, they said, punishes living. Death, they said, is all forgiving. In that building, they’re still singing.…
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Quadrille #99 and Wordle
The Approach The barn door’s open to birds singing, and he comes into view, born out of smooth fog. The floor’s a chill. His damp stirs. Rips the fog, lifts from his heat. He’s a virus. A panic. I felt old enough. I’d just turned twenty. for dVerse Quadrille #99 and Wordle Words…
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for PB’s Personification of a Tree
And Then The Tree Said … Oh God of Green, give me strength, there’s something pecking at my neck, something other than this birdbrain poem about old barren trees & cold skin-pricked days & lichen knitting into my limbs, & hold me strong against this blowing back & forth & thresher rain that chops my…
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Her Fruit
Her Fruit She’s in the corner with the brass and bronze, like a passing thought that takes refuge in wrinkled silks of sweet grape gold and liquid purple. Arranged, liked an orange whose peel scantly exposes juice and fruit — so provocative — and arresting. There for the taking. Her fruit. Her sweet wine. An…
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Quadrille #98
The Peel And again those white chalk cliffs near Dover peeled away and crumbled into the sea. Grief feels that way, the crumbling of it. It tore my heart, and peeled my bones. Raw days in a flood. Its flawed blue horizon is now my familiar. dVerse Quadrille #98 “peeling” (constraint: 44 words)…
It's Still Life 