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Poetic Bloomings: 23 July
The Summer of 1966 Another regimented summer, idle hands (my mother warned), so I was never idle for fear the devil’d find me, and for eight weeks I whittled sticks, dipped matches into wax, waterproofed them, protected, and stored them in Kodak film roll cases. I sang to campfires that breathed hotter than July heat,…
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Poetic Bloomings: 22 July
Gazing Into Puddles It’s July, and I’m star gazing at black seeds in watermelon. Gazing at rainbow sprinkles on ice cream. I count miles — 1 (one-hundred), 2 (one-hundred) … between lightning and thunder. I count fireflies; so unaware that they’ll dim and go black as those watermelon seeds. I’m gazing at miles between us.…
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dVerse: Twitter Poetry
Tidy Mowed the grass into narrow straight lines, trimmed the edges sharp. Deadheaded roses. The apple tree needs spraying. I had my haircut today. for dVerse: Twitter-Length Poetry. 140 characters total
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dVerse “Sevenling”
A Flinch I was smaller. Younger. Sharper. Like gravel. I spoke in consonant chords. In song. I was like earthquake weather © Misky 2016. for dVerse “Sevenling” themed music
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Poetic Bloomings: 20 July
Wednesday, 20 July I listened to the timbre of crows last night — fighting over scraps. I chased them off into the drizzle. Into the trees. I can’t forgive their charred voices. I can’t forgive the end of peace. © Misky 2016 for Poetic Bloomings: “Last Days“
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dVerse Quadrille #13
A Fluttering Folly Time’s not making this any easier; I wear your memory like a ring. Twist it when it’s too tight, curse it like a floundering rite when it aches. Memories of all my failures, fluttering follies like sails on little boats fleeing this journey. © Misky 2016. For dVerse Quadrille #13…
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Poetic Bloomings: 18 July
In My Room This room is a dainty whim. Its north light dimmed through lacy sheers. And against the wall an old soft chair, covered in ivy green — it holds the corner with photos, frames, books boxed and scattered, and a stuffed lizard with a bored grin. A room for dust held tight, here…
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Poetic Bloomings: 17 July
“I know I am but Summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year” ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay On the Hard Points of Pebbles Feels almost prehistoric now, it was that long ago. I was paid a pittance for watering the neighbour’s gardens. Every evening I spilled the coolness of…
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Poetic Bloomings: 16 July
The Summer We Lost Childhood We were 6th grade. The big kids, and we walked the rail line. Its steel shining, a thin string of silver silk that disappeared into the distance as if swallowed by trees and life’s path. It was a balancing game. Practise. To see who’d go the farthest. Those summers were…
It's Still Life 