-
Sunday Whirl #342
All That Noise Curious disguise, this youthful mimicry. When we lost the gift of silence to stormy wind, it marred the sky like a viral draft. We watched stillness falling on all manner of stars, in a stutter, in a song, a sparkling charge. In my youth, I was hot wired to fry like desert…
-
dVerse Feelings
A Second Reading When I am gone and critics give my life a second reading, will they know the right questions, so they find the kindest answers. Which parts of me will stay behind, and which parts will sweep along with the wind, with the shadows. Am I verb, or adjective. A warm glow or…
-
A dVerse Haibun
Originally posted on The Journal: Mum wants to bring the garden into her apartment; wants to paint all the walls green. I love the sea but I’m sure not going to throw salt water or coral sand or haddock at the walls. I love tomato soup but the same holds true for that, too. Maybe…
-
Twiglet #66
Hung fat balls from the apple tree. Incoming. An avalanche of birds. Poetic form: Ginsberg’s American Sentence, 17-syllables. written for Twiglet #66, and dVerse Open Night
-
4 March 2018
Originally posted on The Journal: Home and Hearth Blood is thicker than water; I’ve never had any trouble telling them apart. Really, it’s a small thing, Dad would say with a modest … pfffft a never-you-mind about that snarling scar on his arm. I think it was the year that the Russians put the first…
-
2 March 2018 for V.V.
Strange Medicine I can only describe it as a feeling of time ticking toward an end, when a man sat opposite me, a scarred face that read like a philosophy of violence. “Is this seat taken?” he asked. I shook my head. He continued, “It’s cold outside.” I nodded. When I eat lunch, I prefer…
-
01.03.18: TLT
I drift like hard grey snow blowing up the street. Lost to cold company. written for TLT: Lost . 17-syllable American Sentence.
-
dVerse Concepts
Pulling in the Thunder The fisherman plants his hopes against the current. Sand and salt and sea, it stings his lips. His life is pebble-rattling, like thunder pulled from the sky. It’s a lullaby to deafened ears. His fairytale songs of seagulls white, and nights crow-black. Wings beat the air, as long nets draw in…
-
Quadrille #51
Roots of Fiction my first waking thoughts are never of morning, never what pills I should take, which joint ointment for knees or sore muscles, or is it Monday or Tuesday. I wake to my pens and paper, scribbling down remains of dreams, burning roots of fiction. written for dVerse Quadrille #51
-
Wisps for TLT
Untitled Like muslin clouds. Or ballerinas. Pirouettes turning like wheels, waxing and waning. Moonlight melting into dusk, and I stared at smouldering smoke, and candles sputtering. for 3-Line Thursday at Ink In Thirds
It's Still Life 