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Day 3 NovPAD
3s We’re rolling dice, and it’s coming up 3s. Oddness coming up everywhere, and there’s a skull on my doctor’s desk, 2 eyes and 1 nose, again holes in oddly 3s. And I saw a child, a ghost in a shroud, 2 rounds for eyes and one for its mouth. Is it an omen, these…
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Day 2.1 NovPAD 2017
I. Walking with Dreams You hold your shoes in your hand, and climb the stairs for bed. I tell you, rest before you sleep, because when dreams chase country roads, your feet will tire before you start, and even though this is a dream, and you know this is true, you cannot disguise bone weariness…
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Day 2 NovPAD 2017
Trap if my prose speak in tongues, are my words disguised, and is a trap a trap when sprung without a mouse, or a teacup when it’s filled with milk, or a clock without two hands, and is it dawn if you can’t sleep, and is it fear without a fright. and is your disguise…
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Day 1.3 NovPAD 2017
It Always Rains When the Bus Is Late If I take my glasses off I still exist, even though it’s dark as death outside. Winter’s light deflates me like a weak sentence missing punctuation, and so I stand below the flood of a street lamp, my shadow stuck to the pavement. I’m waiting for the…
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dVerse Haibun Monday
The bird bath is frozen, and the house stares out on a silvery fog. Crows on the hop. On the lawn. Pepper on white. Onyx on the hop. They argue. They joke. It’s a caw a caw — it’s a stabbing incantation as their beaks seek small creatures hidden in the soil, hidden like deep…
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Found dVerse
Erasure source: “The Poem of the Future” by J.R. Solonche from Invisible. “Pulvis et umbra sumus” (We are but dust and shadow.) ― Horace, “The Odes of Horace”, written for dVerse
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Twiglet #47
Running Parallel Mum has a dark edge, like sun in and out of clouds, but every story has a bit of meat. I’d know hers anywhere. In one or two of my lives, she’s been my root – roots run parallel. I look like Mum. Mum looks like her father. Same eyes. Jaw. Same frown.…
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Pantoum for Gnomes Poems
If The Wind Be a ship and her sea a moon, travelling run and drift a trimmed sail is a whirlwind, occasional dew and mist. travelling run and drift in avoidance of its fury, occasional dew and mist, is uncertainty of direction. in avoidance of its fury, sailing around a compass, is uncertainty of direction,…
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A Knee for Miz Quickly
Living on Spent Waves He raises his eyebrow slightly, and says, “or a brainless opossum. Did you know that one survives for hours after its brain is blown out, “ I shake my head, no, I didn’t know that, and could’ve gone without knowing that for a very long time. But I try to keep…
It's Still Life 