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dVerse Quadrille #37
He Dreams of Gin When he dreams of gin, he takes this, not that road. This fork, not that one. Claims that despair’s his wisdom — he’s no damned fool. Blasphemy is vanity’s prayer, he says. This man fears his dying sounds. He sleeps with rats. He dreams of gin. dVerse’s Quadrille #37:…
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31 July 2017
To Stitch Time She finally found a way to say goodbye. Mum took Dad’s remains to his favourite river, tipped out the urn, and he slipped away. A sliver of cloudy light that spread like spilt milk. She stood there, in the shining rain. Quiet. Thoughts lost in the pine-scented air, Mum wearing an old…
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Twiglet #31
The Small Of It i. Vinegar keeps shells from cracking but broken eggs are just small mistakes. II. Vinegar kept the shells from cracking but we still have to peel them. Twiglet #31
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2 July 2017: Remix
Heavy Fingers She hollowed out the tide raised me in a well with lightning bugs around my head a flood of roses like a little shrine and I raised hell like Frankenstein. It’s bigger than speaking Remixed from “Take Me to My Grandmother’s Shrine” by SC Machlay
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Haibun #40: Summer
Lemonade Daze That particular summer was endlessly hot. The sun withered my sister and me into fragility, splayed us in a reach for breezes as we sheltered in dark corners. We whined when mum insisted we go outside and play. “You two act like you’re afflicted, struck by some serious brain condition.” So we stalked…
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Twiglet #29
The 11:42 TRAIN TO LONDON This is the London Bridge service, a recorded announcement. Sorry. excuse me. a girl with a daisy chain tattoo takes the window seat. She’s talking on her phone. from Brighton the announcement continues I’m bloody annoyed too. I’m not his substitute, says the girl. She looks out the window. Excusez-moi…
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A Sunday Whirl
Crow It’s out there in the trees, under the wilt of summer heat, and it’s a gnawing whistle, a tinnitus ring. Apart and pitched. The craw tone of a string plucked, broken threads falling into echoes for crushing under wheels. And then it was lost, like words never committed to print. I once heard a…
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Those Old Days
Those Old Days Those were the old days when the air was treacle-blue and stars were rancid bright. We drank to the miracle of water, walked within our own whispers, pricked our shadows with pins, and watched the world ripple. Those were our washed days when we read ourselves into a trance and ignited paper…
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dVerse Does Lai
A Bear’s Picnic Our hike ended here. Sun risen. Sky clear. Twigs snapped as we walked in fear of grizzly bears near. In fact we could overhear growls — oh dear, bear tracks! for dVerse Poets. Poetic form: Lai. aab/aab/aab/ a=5 syllables and b=2 syllables
It's Still Life 