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dVerse Ekphrastic Poem
Seems that While We’re Alive Our holidays include the dead. Visiting parents, gone. Family members, gone. Dutiful. We pay respects. We bring flowers that wilt and die as if mimicking us. We’re highly compostable. My in-laws are resting beside a white-washed stucco church built in the 14th century. They’re buried next to each other, box…
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for dVerse Quadrille #80
There’s a Dead Rat in the Attic so says Carla, the TV-aerial-man, though I swear she’s a man. Says it’s mummified,not recent. Carla-the-man thanks me for the coffee while I tip sugar into eggs. I’m making cake. If I were a violin, I’d crave music; I crave rich, dense cake. for dVerse Poets…
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for Twiglet #126
We’re On the Old Road to Spokane I’m 10. It’s a Saturday morning. Early. Before the worst of the heat sets in, and turns the I-90 into peanut butter. By noon, the road shines like ice. Dad says it’s a mirage. I say it’s water. Mom says she has a sick headache. My sister’s sitting…
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dVerse Elements
An Elemental Trough My mother filled me with yin, metal from my father. He tasted sweet. I taste sour. Universal soft as a dark shadow. Depressed. Swallowed in a depression, I am the trough of a wave. My mother gave me earth. I feel her in the spring as the cold soil turns. Elemental wood.…
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for Wednesday’s Muse & dVerse
Reflection This mirror grows old. A mirage of flaked silver. Flecked specks of questioning looks where time shines. Some fine young woman of centuries ago looks back at herself, looks to change her past. Looks to the future. And now it’s mine. It hangs on the wall. Catches the late afternoon sun. Reflects through the…
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for dVerse Quadrille and Twiglet #125
Don’t Recall His Name But I Remember Him. Up there, sitting on the school bleachers, king of it all, lean as James Dean slipped in-between day dreams. Him, buttoned into blue jeans, tight white t-shirt, and hair slick as a snail’s streak. He didn’t see me wearing my pink poodle skirt. for dVerse…
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Draft for VV
An Old Photo Reminded Me That — Mama loved her bedtime stories, back when I was small enough to get lost in my bed. She’d tell me tales of the pottery woman who, all day, all night, turned out pottery in a pin-prick-small corner of her room. She’s in there, somewhere, behind silvered layers of…
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Day 30
Found Poetry from source: “Flowers In The Attic” by VC Andrews (pg 148-151 iBook version). staring at blue sky, you forget how long a day can be. so I coloured patience gray ©️ Misky 2019
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Day 29
Truth — Fairytales are often born ugly. Source: “Flowers In The Attic” by VC Andrews, pg 87-89
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Day 28
Found Poetry from source: “Flowers In The Attic” by VC Andrews (pg 80-81 iBook version). The miserly moon is up there, swinging on a rope, catching the sky. We leave the windows open so stars fly in. Life is nothing that sandpaper can’t smooth. for PA’s Writers’ Digest PAD, Day 28 Remix…
It's Still Life 