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They Slip, and Are Slipping Still
They Slip, and Are Slipping Still I wake. Go for my pen. Capture your dreams, I was once told. This day is a wrought iron oak, black enamelled, slick as shine. In a town on the coast, hills fall to the beach into pebbles rushing on waves. In a museum, with tin prints of nude…
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dVerse Quadrille #26
I. Living In a Quiver I remember your mouth, soft and sea salt sweet, awake as a scattered melody. Lighthearted and revealing as the moon’s careless truth. Our buried whispers. We moved through the years, lost happily in a quiver. Those memories are ghosts but we’ll pretend we’re forever. II. Up In Smoke He’d…
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Sunday Whirl #286
This Morning’s Walk was a winter’s song, a white-faced bracing melody, and I heard a robin’s rag and all that jazz, singing half note suburban charms. And as the wind bit stiff and grey, I saw snowdrops clumped below, deep-rooted, cold and thorny bare, a resounding challenge for a bird. So flit little robin, perched…
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Dreaming for Miz Quickly
If I Could Remember My Dreams This Poem Would Make More Sense I have dreams that barely scratch the surface. Unpronounceable by morning. Forgotten like a throb from yesterday’s headache. And my narrative (primal) voice, just where does it go? Does it slip into some middle distance, or in-between parallel seams? Intuition. Not hardly, but…
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dVerse Mixology
Straight Up Rain I still toast this twist of love. It’s troublesome at times — on rare days, it’s sour as cold weather or straight-up rain. It’s a tipsy life, this tonic that drowns our sorrows, and I think of you, your forged smile it’s a quiet vesper, and you are a heart’s elixir. This…
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dVerse Haibun #30
Back When back in the day when I wore pink gingham dresses and my cotton socks were lace trimmed, and my world seemed delightfully old as a smothering summer of wallflowers and big willows and poplars and broad brimmed sun-hats. back then when I was seven, or maybe it was eight, and I didn’t know…
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Sunday Whirl #285
The Lodestone In my hand a chisel, carving deep into this lodestone, into its iron-brown body releasing dreams caught, prayers said, ancient fires that once sparked and bled. A thief of fire, it burned down our open doors. And so, its return I will set to paper, recite scribo volo, repeat incantations, scribo volo, words…
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Miz Quickling’s More of a Good Thing
Howl She was howling, but that’s the way of laughter. It’s a filament’s thread from a smile, from a teardrop, between a blossom and wilt. written for Miz Quickly’s Thursday prompt:Too Much of a Good Thing.
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Miz Quickly’s Too Much of a Good Thing
And It’s Written That woman, she has a tyrant’s walk, with her suits in shades of dry bones and rained-on tweed, with her hair of molten silver, and I’m sure there’s some proverb or precept written that warns — step aside, and avoid the reckless ambitions of deposed gods. written for Miz Quickly’s…
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Twiglet #9 “It’s a Ball”
She’s a Ball she’s a ball, bright as chemical green and just as bouncy, a percussion bite like a pricked balloon, and only when she’s steady as a very long fuse does her skin fade into silence. written for Twiglet #9 “It’s a Ball”
It's Still Life 