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for VV ‘s August Submission
To Those Proud Mums and Those Kids of Theirs For 8 years, I pretended to swim. Their kids, their mothers said, can swim in the deep end. Well this was too much for my mother, and she’d heard enough of what her kid couldn’t do, and that, she said, was going to change. So I’m…
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6 August 2019
Cows under the oak tree Grass cool as a spring day It feels like Sunday ©️ Misky 2019 – Poetic form: Ginsberg’s American Sentence (17-syllables)
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Wordle #415
Wrapped in a Blackbird’s Song I hear a blackbird. Its call lifts the day. A shellacked spray of rose and dawn, a smear, a scar that chokes the last sham- bles of deepest night. I fit tomorrow’s dreams into empty corners of my pillow. The stars shimmy, fade, and I wrap myself into a new…
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Miz Quickly’s 30 July
A Poem in the Style of Kendra DeColo I’m reading a cookbook because it’s midnight, and I don’t feel at all sleepy because that coffee after dinner was a foolish idea because I know caffeine is the devil poking at my brain because a brain doing pogo sticks isn’t sedated counting sheep, so I’m reading…
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Miz Quickly’s 29 July
Rubber Bands I keep them in a plastic box, rubber bands hold its lid on tight, rubber bands keep coffee beans airtight, rubber bands hold my cookbook together, rubber bands to snap my wrist, rubber bands so I don’t forget, rubber bands tied on tomato trusses, rubber bands in all bright colours, rubber bands that…
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27 July Miz Quickly’s Secrets
A Poem Starting with a Line by Jimmy Baca Yesterday, the sunshine made the air glow hot as an itch. I sat, in the shade of the laurel, and removed my shoes, tugged off my socks, and exposed my corncob feet to the bite of nature’s nibble. And my toes sighed, Mercy, mercy me. …
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for Miz Quickly: 26 July
Autopsy on an Ice Cube It’s like Welsh-noir with twists and turns Or fireworks and magic within an ice cube. But now I hear that the Arctic is on fire. Time to put the kettle on. Read tea leaves. 26 July: This for Miz Quickly’s “Yes/But” poem form, which I’ve probably mucked…
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Once Upon 200 Moons
Once Upon 200 Moons it’s all to play for, Boris, kipper-brandishing, from a farm in Somerset. He will love bomb us with hanging baskets, and milkshake tax plans, turn on the spending taps on the hottest day ever recorded, and find Amelia Earhart. Truth is an art. This is a Found poem constructed…
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for dVerse Prosery #2
Untitled Prosery #2 I dreamt that I was naked inside some blackness of thick night, floating amongst the rarest of silken clouds. I was cream on milk. Quicksilver folded in some ancient language of smoke and waft and alter fire. I drifted with constellations, crossed swords with Orion, and placed myself into every childhood. Blame…
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PB’s Day 19
“Tradition is not the worship of ashes, but the preservation of fire.” – by Gustav Mahler I CAN’T THINK OF MUCH BETTER I still love Campbell’s Tomato Soup and a grilled cheese sandwich with white bread that dissolves into compressed paste against your front teeth, and mayonnaise that deconstructs into its basic elements of oil…
It's Still Life 