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for Sunday Whirl #277
And Not Only That, The Girl Had No Rhythm Third row up, stood at the end, she draws the tune under the momentum of breath. rum pah tumtum High notes are thin skin, beyond her reach to hit, so she answers the lyrics with those three words — rum pah tumtum She’s rehearsed this far…
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Free-Write Prompts at The Twiglets
A twiglet is a short phrase. Or a word. Maybe two. Its aim is to “prompt” a flow. A thought. A memory. If something comes to mind, write. A polished piece isn’t the goal; creativity is. Leave a link, if you’d like your work read, but note that comments should not be expected. Twiglets are […]…
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dVerse: The Music of Words
I. Staccato Heat Siesta, and the streets are free, noiseless, bright and hot. Flamenco hot. The rain in Spain, she says, the rain in Spain, but there’s not a drop of it. Sitting there, still, be still, white hot skies, and she’s in the midst of magnesium light. On the edge. Combust. Ignite But there’s…
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Twiglets #1: He Knows Boats
He Knows Boats He knows boats. Old boats. New. Salt-brined and wind-whistled and tied to a pier. He knows their songs. Their sound by ear. Steel clips slapping hard, hitting on aluminium masts. Just by the tone of it, he knows who made it, knows its length and its name. And he knows how to…
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dVerse: Recipe Poetry
Winter Sips It’s the season’s sour face, slowly moulding, held and cured in curdled mud. Those crisp leaves dredged with frost, soon to dilute and dissolve to dolce compost. Winter sips, an enophile, drunk on rain and sleet and hail, while I, who feels pinched as old mutton, waits for a robin’s song. …
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dVerse Quadrille #22
Sliced You’re so random, like an accident or a scar, like when you blurted out I don’t understand pickled cows sliced in half. Poor beast. It’s been Hirst’ed. Damien’ed. Like that canvas of dead black flies, or framed shells and cigarettes. I mean — bite me for dVerse: Quadrille #22 “Scar” – 44 words in…
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For Sunday Whirl #275
Mosquito Chatter mosquitoes chattering at the porch light, tapping, demanding entry at the back door, tangled in the patterns of the bedding nets, screeching bugger banshees flying by my ears, and I heave myself at the fly swatter, swinging and swatting. see that mosquito splat on the wall? it’s an anatomy of dead. and here…
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dVerse Haibun #26
I’m unable to sleep. Again. Winter makes me a bit flighty. Makes me fidgety as shivers. But when the sun does appear, it’s all the more welcome. This morning I watched the sun rise and focus and burn away fog so thick that the end of the street had disappeared into its own depth, and…
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dVerse Quadrille #21
Between the Days Somewhere, between harvests and rain storms, and lingering wooden crates with mythic mounds of apples, (seems only a week ago) the moon raised itself, as if to order our world to rights. It was a ripe spoon-fed ball, and it took our breath away. for dVerse: Quadrille 21 with 44…
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PB’s Changes
And Here Comes the Noise Merry and merry, and jingling jolly, and twinkling lights stuck on plastic holly, and I’m drawn by air shimmering from heat, there where I stand in my kitchen, foraging for silence and peace. Poetic Bloomings: “Changes”
It's Still Life 