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5 April 2020
Originally posted on The Journal: reH pum naH I am an old tree. Apple most likely. I could tempt a head into a turn years ago. My mother once said, “Where’d you get that cute little arse.” I see Mum when I look in the mirror. Well, not really; she’s dead, but there are laughable…
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AprPAD: 4 April
Day 4 PA: “Wish” War Reflections on the St. Stephen’s College Massacre In a corner of the old church yard, next to that tombstone that’s drifting deep into damp peat, there’s a small plaque beside the Yew tree remembering a child killed in Hong Kong on Christmas Day 1941. I wish him God’s speed and…
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AprPAD: 3 April
Following On Washed and refilled the birdbath today. Chaffinch arrived. Took a drink. Bathed. Left behind a rose-coloured feather. Then crows. Three of them. Fighting. Water level dropped by half. Then a pigeon. Wings lifted for airing. A tidal splash flooding the tulips and emptied the birdbath. Another day unravelling. https://miskybr1.tumblr.com/post/614368794294550528/found-on-3-april/embed PA…
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AprPAD: 2 April
SPACES I. There’s a small space on my desk where a calendar sits. It takes up the whole year. II. There’s a space between my teeth that used to catch bits of meat so I became vegetarian. III. Move over. Give me some space, and let me grow, said the acorn to the oak. A…
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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.…
It's Still Life 