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Northbound on Brighton Road for dVerse
This is a rough draft for dVerse: cubist/impressionist observations during a brief drive on Brighton Road this afternoon. Northbound on Brighton Road I. the road is endless until it curves away straight on eternal blue in clouds II. the line is white centre on straight solid double broken the radio hums III. love, love me do…
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dVerse and Poetic Arrangment
The Fragility of Memory She and I, sisters of a common skin. We charted and deconstructed our childhood like avenging angels. Episodes of bitter dullness and beaten love. We organised those memories into tidiness. Displayed them like moths, wings pinned to dry — crisp and fragile. She swore never to forget, and she cursed me…
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dVerse’s Quadrille #17
Moonlight I am under the shadow of white. There where night falls in response to the turn of the moon. There where time is an old squabble, a stopped stone, that moon-hard slope. I am an apparition. Faceless. Cold blue and dim as dusk. dVerse Quadrille #17 including the word shadow
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Poetic Bloomings Does Goodbyes
Goodbye to Summer I’m reading this past summer backwards. Like a book. From a distance. And I’m uncertain why I hold this season in such high regard because for most of it – I was flushed hot, barely able to breathe in dripping humidity and swarthy air, and then came those dry sheets of wind…
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Poetic Bloomings In-Form: Naani
I’m content to cook, to fill platters and gather up friends and family — time is lost on us. written for Poetic Bloomings In-Form: Naani The NAANI is one of India’s most popular Telugu forms introduced by poet Dr. N. Gopi. It consists of 4 lines, totalling 20 to 25 syllables. It…
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dVerse Poets Haibun Monday
Conversations with My Mother I wish her a happy birthday. She turned 92 yesterday. She once said she prefers that I phone. Don’t bother with a visit, she said, we get on better when you ring. I make allowances. She 92. I wonder if I’ll make it to 92. I wonder if anyone will make…
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Poetic Bloomings Does Autumn
Plucking Autumn This autumn day is wrapped in grains of golden light that falls as rain might gather or as hours might braid without a hand’s restraint. We pull wheat tight through fingers, and pluck ripe berries that trickle purpled heavy stain. And winter waits another day. written for Poetic Bloomings
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Journal: The Fishmonger
Joseph Harker returns with an essay on writing, carving out habits to keep in mind, pairing random combinations that feel unlikely but comfortable together. I’m very pleased that Joseph is posting articles again. His latest post is at Carving Wood, Poaching Eggs, and anyone interested in writing should Follow his blog. Process Notes: Before supermarkets moved…
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Poetic Bloomings Explores Food
As I Recall It wasn’t the white cake with white frosting with shredded coconut, or pink spindle-turned candles, or all the balloons that Dad blew-up before he drove off to work, or the all-beef hotdogs with green pickle relish and squirts of yellow mustard, or as many potato chips as I wanted to eat, nor…
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Coffee with Sunday Whirl #265
Ten Minutes Over a Coffee I leaned in for a listen – like a windmill tilting into the direction of talk. Such silliness, I know, wild gossip. “Where’s the authenticity in doubt,” she said. You see, she and I, we meet at the same time every day for a 10-minute coffee break. The coffee goes…
It's Still Life 