-
Red Wolf Prompt #320
Summer Blue The garden gate is slamming — the wind’s picked up, and August is disappearing into drizzle; sets petunias on their weary way. A march toward mould and mess. Odd how a slick of rain melts purple blossoms into streaks that stick to your fingers and stain you like a typesetter in a print…
-
Poems for Gnomes
It’s a Small Matter it felt real, as real as a shadow, or a wrinkle across the water. dreams feel like that. this one was bright as an orange lamp, and the sky was smooth and waiting. I dreamt that I couldn’t sleep. it was a small matter. for Poems for Gnomes
-
Twiglet #37: See It
For Twiglet #37: The phrase is “See It“. I stray from the usual poetry or prose approach. This print encapsulates the phrase “See It” for me. I may try to throw a few phrases at this week’s Twiglet, if I’m inspired beyond this painting.
-
dVerse Quadrille #38
She Forgot to Weep my mother’s years call her to rest. says, it’s a long-lost dream. cold winter mountains. just a bit of sleep. comes with heart’s desire, care-free as a new dress. those old joys: her long-lost bright gleam; youth. her dreams know nothing of old lips. Quadrille #38: Dreams
-
The End for dVerse Poets
Underfoot Morning breaks. She watches over the roses with a squint of scorn, then pulls the clothesline tight. A grooved branch holds its weight. And she pegs his shirts by the side seams on the line. Upside down – a distress signal. Socks paired, then pegged. Jeans, wrinkles flicked away by the breeze. Clothes billow,…
-
Twiglet #35
A Change of Heart i am the smell of rain, wind napping in trees. i am lily-clouds chasing light and dark. cool as a shiver, i am a change of heart. for Twiglet #35 “Lily-Clouds”
-
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:…
-
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…
It's Still Life 