-
Flash Fiction Prosery
Flash Fiction: Prosery 144 words Dead I am dead. I don’t know the how or the why of it. Or even the when of it. Details. Details. These things are unimportant. That information is in the past, it’s for the living to unravel, they want to know how it happened, they need the science of…
-
Double Quadrille #81
A Dragon’s Dream I’m dwarfed by mountains rising from the shore. I’m watched over by the moon. My centre point in the sky. Watch me. I can fly. Milky clouds stretch like a python in the night, and I walk warm shallows of waves that recoil at my touch. I can fly. The sun rises,…
-
Refrains
From One Refrain to the Next Back then, when I lived life as if it were a song, when each minute was a note, each day its refrain, when a rude suggestion could make me blush red, back then I thought I’d be content to reach 50, maybe die blowing out my birthday candles. Back…
-
PB’s Exercise #2
FOR PB’S BUILDING POETRY EXERCISE #2 1. A proper walk requires a red flannel shirt. The colour of iron rust. Or a strawberry stain. 2. My feet scuff through autumn leaves. My shoes lift dust from dust. 3. Old Myths and a Long Thirst And it’s a lie that a pebble quenches thirst. Tie a…
-
dVerse Observations
SHELLING PEAS The monotony of midday summer heat flattens my thoughts. Spreads them thin. I take a sip from a tall glass, ice cubes clink and ring like wind chimes. The sky is the colour of Dad’s blue eyes, and I’m not going anywhere today. My back, up against the sun. It’s sticky sweet on…
-
dVerse Ghazal
I. IT’S THE LITTLE THINGS THAT STIR A STORM Like those things that make us smile. Like life’s annoyances, too well we know. You hold your finger, crimson bubbling, perhaps, you say, I should slice the tomatoes. I adore cabbage creamed and parsleyed, you want brown gravy and new potatoes. I prefer soft-edges and floppy…
-
for Wednesday Muse
The Night the Sky Turned Lilac And then the sun set. It bit the horizon, and disappeared into a run-on-sentence. Sometimes, your brain won’t shut off. The date. The time. Nope, I really can’t remember. I could, if I tried, piece it all back together. Diagram that entire day when she died. Sometimes, it just…
-
dVerse Ekphrastic Poem
Seems that While We’re Alive Our holidays include the dead. Visiting parents, gone. Family members, gone. Dutiful. We pay respects. We bring flowers that wilt and die as if mimicking us. We’re highly compostable. My in-laws are resting beside a white-washed stucco church built in the 14th century. They’re buried next to each other, box…
-
for dVerse Quadrille #80
There’s a Dead Rat in the Attic so says Carla, the TV-aerial-man, though I swear she’s a man. Says it’s mummified,not recent. Carla-the-man thanks me for the coffee while I tip sugar into eggs. I’m making cake. If I were a violin, I’d crave music; I crave rich, dense cake. for dVerse Poets…
-
for Twiglet #126
We’re On the Old Road to Spokane I’m 10. It’s a Saturday morning. Early. Before the worst of the heat sets in, and turns the I-90 into peanut butter. By noon, the road shines like ice. Dad says it’s a mirage. I say it’s water. Mom says she has a sick headache. My sister’s sitting…
It's Still Life 