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Poetic Bloomings – Form: “Boketto” as a Senryu
Drinking Coffee as the Big Tent Goes Up I’m in vertigo — falling, Meditating on bubbles, A swallow of embossed night. Foam, right across An expanse, pretty As silk cheer and wakefulness. Calliopes and coffee, Hold that thought. written for Poetic Bloomings, Poetry Form: Boketto, which consists of two stanzas, One of five…
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dVerse Haibun #13
West Beach The sea breaks just inches from where I stand. It’s a cannon’s crash in my ears. A tempest. A churning purgatory. We’re walking fast along this wet sand, the tide pushing us faster, the beach paperflat and straight into the west sky, and we’re barefoot. Mom says it’s good for the arches of…
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Poetic Bloomings Does Mothers
The Difficulties of Dogwoods and Lilacs There was this worry, that we’d wear out her name. Mum! Mum! The way you’d wear out your Sunday best shoes if you wore them on Tuesdays or Thursdays. The years have carved us into a difficult relationship, but I have learned a lot from my mother – so…
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Sunday Whirl #250
Under a Bare Grey Block There was always talk of her slipping chains and those asylum gates. She wandered about like a roadmap, and always in a ranting chant. After a while, the rumours flowed. Someone said that she walked on water, but mostly they said it was a bit of a show. People came…
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A Golden Shovel for dVerse
Unimportant Strangers I was all eyes and hands back then, each moment rosy smiles or a quick descent into dusty tears. Five years old. Such is the way of small hands, little limbs, and as I chased the summer, graceful as butterflies I chased, as the dust rising underfoot, I saw the sky as a…
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It’s All Perspective
It’s All a Matter of Perspective God doesn’t care about walls or fences or boundaries, nor your politics or prejudices. I once knew a man who lived in the desert — wanted to be a hermit. So he built fences all around him, mended them, kept them tight and tidy, and when I ask him…
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dVerse: Quadrille #8
Virgin Green These days are virgin green. A sultan’s feast upon our eyes. Satin pillows, violet’s spring, bluebells skipping a breezy song. A child sits, picks bouquets. Daisies. Clover. For her mother. These are her brightest days. Her curly head unaware of lonely nights. Broken hearts. for dVerse: Quadrille #8. 44 words…
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#9
The Conversation They hurried along with gritty determination. A giant, his wife, a boy with a cow, a cat wearing boots, an ill-humoured mother, trolls and goats, a white rabbit, or possibly a hare, followed by an old woman wearing a grey veil. It draped the entirety of her head to foot. We nodded and…
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A Tritina for Wordle 249
A River’s Moment That river owned grace. Boundless shade from sunshine, and wistful thirsty banks of silken silt as dense as any forest. That river joined roots in a tangled forest, washed slender from tender cells of shade, and it spoke as a single skin. The banks drank up the egg-washed tides, muddy banks of…
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Day 28: A Wooden Door
This prompt called for writing music for poetry. It’s fun. Nor Grammy Award winning stuff but it was fun.
It's Still Life 