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Wordle #337
The Postman Only Brings Bills I’m waiting for this ink to spin and bend my pelican-beach thoughts. Gentle words to de-blur my brain. Maybe inject a salty sun, or a sense of minty warmth into my hoar-smitten spectacle. I missed your call last night. Wish you’d left a message, but we both know, everything’s already…
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for Visual Verse Vol. 5 Chapter 4
The Woman Who Refused to Wear Shoes Don’t take this wrong, but she was strange. The stranger the better is what I always said, which is what I thought when she told me, You can’t hear Earth speak if you wear shoes. You’re deafened by barriers, so be vulnerable, and listen to Earth’s wisdom, she…
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Three Line Thursday #2
Unbridled We close doors against it. Wind. Barnstorming shadows of unsteady oaks. It blows by north, right through us, moans and utters, and sets bedsheets free into nature’s curl. Three Line Thursday: fly free
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for Three Line Thursday
Fall I saw it, those thunder lines on your face. Time to leave, and believe, I’d cut the chain. But I fell. Not for you but like rain. written for Three Line Thursday
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dVerse Quadrille #49
A Road and Pork Happiness We’re at a lay-by on the old road to Dover. It’s unexpectedly spring in January, and we dine sitting on folding chairs, eating pork pies and sipping iced tea. This is happiness, you say. Poetry. An oyster’s life. This is a poem, I say. dVerse Quadrille #49 (44…
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Sunday Whirl #336
Dreams Slip There’s a band of rain sweeping in dense and horizontal, flat as me laying on this lumpy bed that tramples my dreams and ransoms sleep. It’s 2am. I’m awake. Staring at the cat. Its amber eyes are aimed right me. We exchange looks — that cat feels like dark magic. It belong in…
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Poetic Asides: “Sick”
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dVerse Poison
To a Tanacetum Parthenium Sweet daisy aster, my ornamental dream. Speak to me, Featherfew. My faithful Feverfew, release your cool hand on my head my head, this chewing throb. Be of purpose, sweet daisy aster. Curative febrifugia — white button blossom rays. Shine on me, disks of scented bright. dVerse Poisonous Plants
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Twiglet #60
Deep It’s the last finger of winter scouring the moon full and flat. I swept tongue-cold spiderwebs from the air this morning. Wisps of meadow fog on the drift, cat-whisker soft. It’s a boundless deep. Twiglet #60: a boundless deep
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Haibun 22.01.18
Her Lunchbox Spoke Volumes But that business of a first kiss was hard for my little sister — she hit Christopher on the head with her metal lunchbox (mine was Royal Stewart red plaid; her’s was bright flowers). Between us, she was always the softer one. I lived in jeans and summer t-shirts, even when…
It's Still Life 