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dVerse Quadrille 9
It’s Deeper Than Skin We are each other’s skin, an inherited thorn touched by lineage, memory’s echo. Soft as silk, as green is to spring. I sleep in quilted flesh. I dream to breathe, my heart; its voice. Skin … my moral default when I wander far and flooded. for dVerse. Quadrille…
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Sunday Whirl #251
The Perfection of Pine It’s May. Enter the flowers, and the perfection of pine. The boys are by the lake – it took days for that fish to take the bait. And a perfect silk of clouds screen the burn of the sun, the hours hung slow, though less we couldn’t have cared. I remember…
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Driving Inspiration with Poetic Bloomings
Drive On Drive On A drive can empty my clapboard thoughts, tumbling lines when I drift and drown. I have my pencil. Paper. Always here. You drive, and I’m your passenger. Drive on, drive on, hear those tyres, so lost in their hum, they speak, associative preening, it seems to me, and I’m addicted to…
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Miz Quickly’s Carnations
The Secret Charm of Carnations Carnations are like childhood, like a mother-tongue language that’s as familiar as its name. Its cinnamon scent binds it to a different world, a Moroccan universe of spice and cumin and dates and raisins, a primary flower that’s as small as a comet or large as a moon. Satellites in…
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Jubilating for Miz Quickly & Christopher Smart’s “Jubilate Agno”
A Dream Without Title I am a dream, your storyteller, I am a lily white symbol in confused art, an artificial leaf on a branch. I’ll make you breathless, and fluttering like flags, a flaggy imperfection in a vision. I am dreams and doubt that don’t exist, a voice for its own sake in a…
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Drafting Miz Quickly on Tulips
Crowded for Solace After the windmills, after the millstones and ground flour, after cheese and waffles, after the canals and too many coffees, after all that, all I really wanted to see was the tulips. Pert groups of them. Tall in pots. Lingering in their fading colours. Like motherless children crowded together for solace. I…
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Miz Quickly on Caliban
A Puzzle in Scarlet He inherited his mother’s God. And her unfortunate differences, like her ability to unnerve the air. He’d stand there in the rain sweating symmetry, and occasionally being mistaken for a puzzle in scarlet. Or a posturing deck of cards. He sang harmonic chords, hummed Greek for protection, spoke to birds…
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dVerse on Doors
Cut and Cold My left hand worries, it knows about closed doors. All kids know about closed doors. Do not enter. Private. Get out. But my right hand is like an old woman’s stare – empty, so I grab the knob, bevelled glass, cut and cold, and push that door open on a loose creak…
It's Still Life 