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dVerse Quadrille #22
Sliced You’re so random, like an accident or a scar, like when you blurted out I don’t understand pickled cows sliced in half. Poor beast. It’s been Hirst’ed. Damien’ed. Like that canvas of dead black flies, or framed shells and cigarettes. I mean — bite me for dVerse: Quadrille #22 “Scar” – 44 words in…
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For Sunday Whirl #275
Mosquito Chatter mosquitoes chattering at the porch light, tapping, demanding entry at the back door, tangled in the patterns of the bedding nets, screeching bugger banshees flying by my ears, and I heave myself at the fly swatter, swinging and swatting. see that mosquito splat on the wall? it’s an anatomy of dead. and here…
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dVerse Haibun #26
I’m unable to sleep. Again. Winter makes me a bit flighty. Makes me fidgety as shivers. But when the sun does appear, it’s all the more welcome. This morning I watched the sun rise and focus and burn away fog so thick that the end of the street had disappeared into its own depth, and…
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dVerse Quadrille #21
Between the Days Somewhere, between harvests and rain storms, and lingering wooden crates with mythic mounds of apples, (seems only a week ago) the moon raised itself, as if to order our world to rights. It was a ripe spoon-fed ball, and it took our breath away. for dVerse: Quadrille 21 with 44…
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PB’s Changes
And Here Comes the Noise Merry and merry, and jingling jolly, and twinkling lights stuck on plastic holly, and I’m drawn by air shimmering from heat, there where I stand in my kitchen, foraging for silence and peace. Poetic Bloomings: “Changes”
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dVerse Gardens
And So It Seems The leaves are still falling, caught inside a whip of wind, and I can’t recall such stillness, the quietness of a churchyard. And the sky’s so blue, the ground in shades of yawning amber and maple scarlet — which seems unmatched in this light and shade, all those leaves floating slow…
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dVerse Haibun #25
To a Moon Trellis Did you see the moon race across the sky? Like a witch rising from the roots of stars, and the breeze through November leaves, teasing those percussioned bones. That moon, dressed in night, black and white, and hung oblong in a twine of pallored skin. On strings, it seemed, played by puppet…
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Poetic Blooming Does Spooky
The Piano Man His fingers hammered those keys. It was a noise like thin bones rattling, that sound of ivory tunes. It’s how bitter sorrow might sound, and his flour-white skin stretched drum-tight on his hand, a doff and coughing rhythm as his fingers tapped his signature songs. He died in a dance-hall, had a…
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Sunday Whirl #272
That Morning in Norcia After the shaking and the rubble, the air fell still. It was hell. Hands busy, panicked, curled around stones and bricks. Every passing minute echoing disaster, and every breath a silvery dust. A man tripped, dropped to his knees — from exhaustion or maybe sorrow, maybe there’s no difference anymore. Is…
It's Still Life 