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Junk Mail
Junk Mail Dear Sir and/or Madam Thank you for your letter. Your new artificial leg is being made by our handicraftsmans today. We attach invoice for your payments – bank details required. If questions, hit reply. Very kindly, J M Mooh, Dhaka Artificials, Dhaka, Bangladesh. tele: +00880 2384 83645 Blocked & deleted because: 1) I…
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dVerse Questions
Where can you find a bell that will ring in your dreams? – by Pablo Neruda Old world bells ring on the hour, half hour, and quarter hour, they ring for weddings, for funerals, on Saints’ days, for feast or fast, for mass and … the bells want the sky to howl — to…
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Poetic Form: Ryūka
In the Groove A beat in her ears A spring in her walk She played songs over and over until the groove wore smooth PB’s Japanese Form: Ryūka 5,5,8,6 and Poetic Aside #502 ©️ Misky 2019
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for PB’s Ity Poem
The Old Lady and Her Kitty There’s an itty-bitty lady of unknown age and antiquity who lives in a teeny house with her uppity kitty. The cat plays the piano, primarily Handel, while the lady howls meowing irascibility. It’s a perplexity, this oddity that tests normality, but they are, quite truly, the height of serenity.…
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Quadrille #89
The Sun Upon Us You rise in defiance of darkness, seize tight the sky. Draw oak’s twisted sinew limbs, and glitter clouds with dreams. Life labours below your gaze while casting constant flame. We blossom in your rise, and flee your thorny light — but marvel as you set. 4 dVerse Quadrille #89…
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for Sunday Muse
Untitled: 71019 she is wind. her footsteps imprinted across the sand like ripples and waves as if her direction is earth’s mindfulness, and she watches us play with her future. written 4′Sunday Muse ©️ Misky 2019
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5 October 2019
This is a Storm Water choked the bridge below, arches stopped, nowhere to go. A boat to float, to sink or sail. A keel, a wheel, fell knees to rail. Our oars are held but tight this mud, this storm it swells, this night of hell. ©️ Misky 2019
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Dverse Food
To Stir I sleep, profound in a dream of molten chocolate. We are cannibals stirring an iron pot, drenched from eruptions of its gentle simmer. We are a whirlpool of dance. And then I wake, speechless in a blaze of sunlight. Morning always comes with its deep blue skies, laughing me awake. 4:dVerse…
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You Can’t Outrun a Rain Storm
You Can’t Outrun Squally Rain Outside a fisherman ties his dingy to the dock. He runs for shelter below a lean-to sheet of plastic, as if a person can outrun squally rain. Nothing compares, being chased by a tropical maelstrom. I’ve sheltered in a cafe with plastic chairs and tables. I glance up at the…
It's Still Life 