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Poetic Bloomings Dances a Quadrille
7:15 Coffee is made. Plates on the table. Radio’s on, but silence takes over. The dog sniffs the air; falls back to sleep. A morning cough from upstairs, emptying lungs of sleep. Rain drips from the gutter as I sip coffee. Silence never tasted so good. © Misky 2016, 3 August: Quadrille, 44 words.
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dVerse Does Fear
A Chase I don’t much talk about my fears, don’t allow them that much credit. I don’t welcome them with open arms, don’t offer them my spare room. I don’t let them cosy into my shadow, don’t set them up high for a view. I just keep moving; those old fears chasing me around ‘till…
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Poetic Bloomings: 31 July
Summer Sunset We picked these last days from the bones of summer, said farewell to seagulls wheeling on the wind. We’ll miss their cry that swells on waves, their flight is a handsome turn, as sunlight falls into a death by water. written for Poetic Bloomings Summer Entertainment: Day 31
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dVerse: Quadrille #13
The Birthday Dress Time is beige. A sepia moment on the run from invisible. That’s me. Two, maybe three. New dress. Brown plaid. Mum did my hair. Ring curls. My smile’s brighter than sun. For Dad. He’s the one with the camera. Smile, my girl. Smile for your daddy. written for dVerse Poets:…
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Class 2 Assignment: Whitman’s Civil War: Writing and Imaging Loss, Death, and Disaster
Trônes Wood: The Somme They expected the heavens to fall. The stars to wail. Expected the night to rupture white, smite their eyes and pour down ice. They feared their own creation. Now we fear our own forgiveness. We’ve lost their lessons in long green grass, in wide meadows of rye, and in tin-tune birdsong.…
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Poetic Bloomings: 27 July
Fades to Black A length of wind can run chase through summer. Limestone to sand, and blow white hot, then tempered pink into a shade that sinks the sun, chills the day, and sets to hide its crimson fragrance into the horizon. And palmed like magic, it fades to black. © Misky 2016, for…
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for dVerse: Drought
The Aftermath My sister has a photograph, a study in monochrome, and it’s a story of not what you actually see, but what was once there. An ox stood there once, stood in prairie grass that reached belly high, and there was a red barn for shelter, a farmhouse filled busy with noise. Orchards. Apples.…
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Poetic Bloomings: 26 July
Clouds I watched fugitive clouds chased across the sky. The wind was arresting. for Poetic Bloomings, 26 July
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for dVerse: Haibun #17
Heat: To Sweat & Turn & Tick By 5 o’clock, I’m buckled into heat. Its grim tactics empty me of summer’s pleasure – no appetite for sweet cherries, no thirst for berries. And tender leaves curl in distress, shrivel into brown and brittle spines as if devoured by cruelty. And so pitiful those cankered apples…
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Class 1: Whitman’s Civil War: Writing and Imaging Loss, Death, and Disaster
London: 7/7 We call it seven seven, the day bombs detonated. The Underground. The buses. Explosions in backpacks. We returned to the darkness, crippled as spine-broken books. But we are nowhere near dead. © Misky 2016 The response: The London Bombings of 7/7/2005. We lived in false security, a false sense of safety. So…
It's Still Life 