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Day 19 NovPAD
The Happy and Sad Side of Things I’ve never been to Nicaragua but I’ve seen photos — those red tile roofs and narrow streets and church fronts and spires and bells that I suppose ring on the hour like our church bells do, and ivy-laced trees and stone arched bridges over near-dry creeks that swell…
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Day 18: NovPAD
Headless Yesterday, I tried to repair a gnome. A cat, with a small gesture of its tail, knocked its head straight off, knocked the cuteness off its shoulders, and I’m useless with small scale, and besides, a gnome without a head is not much use at all. Day 18: write a good for nothing…
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Day 14 & 16 NovPAD
Whispered Encomiums And when the earth is dead, when it lays stiff and cold with one candle by its head and another set at its feet, we’ll mourn its passing in whispered encomiums of bird song and cedars, blue chiffon skies and seas salt-dyed and unkempt as we say rosaries, and recite from flyblown books…
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Day 15 NovPAD
A Grey Strange [a very drafty draft] Fog has me thinking about grey, its illusion of flatness, its angles of play. Like the village pond, a still grey — fog has no reflection, and the edges of trees are absorbed in its brine. Nothing hums. Nothing sings. Birds are unhinged by it. Mist washes green…
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Day 13 NovPAD
An Alley in Old Cartagena I will forever be in your red clay bricks, amongst a thousand footsteps. Tread upon and equatorial bake. I want to be part of your streets, of cobbled narrows, and alleys into gardens. My secrets coveted by heavy doors of wood caramelised brown by the sun. I count centuries of…
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dVerse Haibun Monday
Courage Winter is courage. It’s a well-disciplined march stopping for nothing. And it’s those middling, dead-centre winter months that possess all our complaints, and illnesses. And tragedy. Winter stalks the frail, takes them into its crushing tranquility, leaving us in deepest grief and melancholy during the whole winter journey. We are for loss of green…
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Day 12 NovPAD
Touchstones and Shifty Natures That side of the hill was a dirt slide after it was logged clear, though the loggers claimed the land was of shifty nature, but it turned into a seething body waging war on fifty or so families who called this dirt home. Hindsight knew it a fat belly begging to…
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Day 11 NovPAD
whispering all that hope that she inhaled deep into her lungs — unlucky girl, she’s afraid to her own whispered wishes Poetic Asides: Day 11 “Unlucky”
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Day 10.1 NovPAD
Where Do the Hours Go It’s just past 4pm, and the sun is going down, but for now it’s caught on crisses and crosses of aeroplane contrails. Those tic-tac-toe kisses, each trace an hour passing, rose-hued and translucent, and glued to the sky. Poetic Asides Day 10: Go Somewhere
It's Still Life 