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Quadrille #73
A Gathered Net And what if my brown-eyed wishes gathered into a fisherman’s net, into oil and greased twine and knot, and soused silver-finned fish big as a whitened loaf. Would all my wishes come home to roost, if my wishes were kisses, would I be loved. dVerse Quadrille #73
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for Twiglet #112
A House of Sticks and Straw There’s a place in my head where I sing to myself. Talk to myself. A space for my very small voice. I’m loud and bold inside my head, but in truth I’m a half empty cup pretending that I’m half full. And, carrying a tune is no small thing.…
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for Twiglet #111
To Walk in My Shoes I keep my shoes behind the door. Toes pointed toward the wall. Neat. Tidy. Aligned. I once saw a grey rabbit while wearing those shoes. I saw sunlight on granite, and made peace with God. Written for Twiglet #111 “Behind the door”
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for dVerse Quadrille #72
A Fall Skyward It is blowing out there in that field where rapeseed grew. The old oak laboured and fell, roots skyward. It snapped through icy power lines, and splashed like a whale on to the rain-steeped fallow soil. Today was hijacked by a weathercock spinning wild. dVerse Quadrille #72: Steep
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for Twiglet #110
A Conversation with a Crow My arms that lack your feathers, to my sides held firm. My dreams that rustle in the woods, kiss the darkside of the moon. For Twiglet #110 Photo by Amarnath Tade on Unsplash
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for dVerse and Sunday Whirl
Alone with Trees Walk. I walk with my thoughts, wild. Wild as wind, pebble-sharp. Chipped. And I think, Repent. Repent. I drink in loneliness of air, and wonder how I’ve come to love despair This week’s Sunday Whirl #387 words are: walk, knees, despair, world, love, pebbles, wild, air, lonely, calls, trees, repenting…
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for Poetic Bloomings #230
And It Keeps On In the east where the sunrise sings, faint horn of a train rings. Dawn is gone — a flash and burn, counting milestones. I want to live where I can remain. See the seasons. Rain scour — blow against my door. Live. Let live today. PB #230 Motivation, Poetic Form…
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Twiglet #108 and dVerse Haibun
Gone. Too soon our celebrations done. Customs. Quaint. Traditions and rites. That was then. But now, on this stretch of unhurried street, all’s quiet. It seems tarnished. Drowned in icy rain and galvanised sky. A Christmas tree hidden between bins and the wall. It’s seen happy days — good will and peace on earth. Now…
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For Wordle #385
Man o’ Manischewitz There’s a man, thinks he’s invisible but he’s not; he’s just blind. Not a beggar, not a tramp, either. He lives under the railroad trestle. And by night he stores his right eye in his pocket, slips it back into its socket by day. Gets a kick out of telling people it’s…
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for Twiglets #105 & #106
It’s No Surprise I Can Still Hear It Those skyscrapers that stood tall were heroes to us kids. Looking down at us, laughing at our little round faces as we shot hoops in an over-lit tennis court. ‘Make it count, kids’, I can still hear her voice — and she’s been dead for more than…
It's Still Life 