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25 July: of Leather & Weather
a journal 10:33Ode to the Repairman Who Mistook ‘Noon’ for ‘Never’You said “morning” —which, in the dialect of hammers,must translate to:I’ll arrive when the moon divorces the tides. 11:14He arrived three hours late,bearing the holy wrench of redemption.Fixed the Quooker with a prophet’s calm,then drank three cups of tea,as if each sip was a sacramentto…
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25 July: Same Old Skin
Same Old Skin — (after a song by Asaf Avidan – My Old Pain) The willowweepsbut notfor me.(fucking willow —danceslike a noose.) It bendsfor windsI cannotsee.(wind.it ripsthe skyfrom its ownmouth.) I wear my achelike leather worn —(torn,cracked,smilingthrough itsseams.)This old skin with teeth at my throat. I’m a hull splintered where ropes once called me —useful.(It…
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25 July: Journal of Thoughts
Where the Heart Goes Then, without warning, the sky splits its seams,dumping light like stolen jewels,and we gulp the calm,foolish as sailorskissing the shorethat will betray them again. Happiness is a spider’s bridge,spun between gunshots. And still the heart—ever the fugitive—steals into the next verse,into the next stranger’s mouth,into the next wardisguised as lullaby. It…
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24 July: A Thursday Door
The old service doors sighWith stories etched in their grainDay’s bustle fadedStillness wears yesterday’s rain Bushboy (Brian Dodd) shares photos of doors, but not just any doors. Spectacular doors from his journeys. Dan’s Thursday Doors opened the door on this. I love doors of all sorts. I’ve trawled through my photos and found a few to share.…
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24 July: Ten Things of Thankful
In no particular order: ett: I’m thankful that I noticed the cat who walked in my house through the open patio doors, had a good look around the living room (cat hair on the sofa), and then walked by me like it owned the place, brushed against my leg (which until then I hadn’t realised…
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23 July: dVerse Prosery
Equinox She was a daughter of light, yes — but even as a child, she watched the shadows move first. They gathered beneath her bed like cats. Flicked the candles when no wind stirred. Knew her name before she did. She tried to stay loyal to the sun. Woke early. A sunrise child. Let its…
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22 July: Journal of Thoughts
A Chip, We Cried The French cried “Mais non! We made pommes frites!” But history winced and called them twits.For Belgium fried the golden wand,In oil so deep, so rich, so fond. They claimed the name, those saucy Gauls,While Britons munched in seaside stalls.“A chip,” we cried, “not frites, you fool!”Then wrapped them hot in…
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22 July: A Six Sentence Story
14.2 of 27 – Driftspire: Lindisfarne – Before dawn, dreaming Part 3: Driftspire’s Tidemark Brigid dreams in crow-black ink and saltwater glyphs — names she realises she wrote herself, now unspooling like psalms soaked through by rain. Felreil stands at the edge of her sleep, voice soft as worn vellum: “Of course you dream this…
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21 July: A Six Sentence Fish Story
MicroDosing: 55µg – The Depth of Blue-Grey Cold Year on year, that trout knew the river’s elbow-turn. Its icy thieving bite at bait. The humming tone of my father’s hook circling the same blue-grey crook of curved water. Depth was measured in patience. He’d cast and recast, quiet as the current. And the water, full…
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21 July: The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman and Schrödinger’s Cat — The Collapse (part 3) The old woman wakes to find the box again — open, empty, and whispering like a kettle just before the scream. Inside, a note — written in her own precise hand, but the ink smells of ozone and forgotten rain: “Observation completes the curse…
It's Still Life 