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14.04: A Six – The Book of 27
1 of 27: Veilwake(Six sentences. One soul. A Colour once felt, not seen. A shard of the First Colour: Veilwake.) 1 of 27: Veilwake Felreil walks where no wind speaks, and none dare follow, across a lunar-dry flatland that once dreamed of being sea but woke as salt-cracked stone—and when the black cloud drags its…
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13.04: The Old Woman With No Cat
Old Woman Explains “Full” to the Cat The cat parades in,feathers stuck to its grin like party confetti,the robin’s tail danglinglike an unpunctuated sentence. Drop it, says the old woman.The cat blinks, Make me. So she tries philosophy:“Full is when your belly is a bowl,and your soul stops licking the spoon.” The cat licks a…
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13.04: Poem-a-Day Challenge
III. How the Forest Gathers You listen—a single leaf, parchment-thin,twists on its stem like a keyin a lock you can’t see. it clicks open the breeze,and suddenly the whole canopyis whispering in code. feel—the light doesn’t fall here; it clings—to your arms like warm honey,to the creases of your sleeves,even to your eyelashes,until you blink—slow—and…
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12.04: Poem-a-Day Challenge
II.It Remembers touchthe cold bark. warm resin underneath—thick as a century’s worthof swallowed thunder. the tree does not speak.it remembers. press your earto its black veinsand hear the humof a thousand moons pumping like slow syrupup the spineof the world. this is where time folds: the mist at your kneesis the same mistthat once lickedthe…
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12.04: Poem-a-Day Challenge
Nature: Poem 1 or 4 I. To Stitch the Sky Green Here, the treespress close, and you’ll heara thousand summersstored in their veins. The leaves stitch to the skyso thickthe sun must thread itself,needle-fine,through every gap—every golden yarn. Breathe—the air is deep with scentsof damp soil,petrichor,and unfinished stories.Quiet—between notesas the wind listens. This is where…
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Day 8: Poem-a-Day Challenge
To Crave Milk Tea at 3 o’Clock (A Love Poem to Hong Kong) sidewalks breathe us in—hot, wet, loud,a chaos that flows, a crush of sleevesthrough humid air, a mortal hungerlifting night to day. the city lives—it heaves against the harbour. neon signs,tram bells ring—hush, hush, hushing tides.you learn to swim in it, let your…
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11.04: Ten Things of Thankful
Ten Things of Thankful (with a nod to near-rhyme and brevity) For my fishmonger in Eastbourne—fresh from the boat, cold catch, bold brine, day’s silver smoked. For a hunger to learn, wide-eyed and deep, books in a stack, and barely sleep. For the season’s turn—my apple trees flush, green in the breeze, sap in a…
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10 April: A Thursday Door
The soul of this quiet Dijon street lives in its weathered walls—cracked beige plaster, rough wooden shutters closed like sleepy eyes, and a low, warped door that has whispered secrets for centuries. The past lingers in the faded blue sign honoring a long-gone mayor, while brown arrows point the way to grand palaces and museums,…
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09.04: The Garden of Ordinary Apocalypses
The Garden of Ordinary Apocalypses “The Old Woman Wakes the Crow”(an ekphrastic poem after Caspar David Friedrich’s painting “The Tree of Crows/Raven Tree,”) The crow’s nightmare was this:a tree split open like a ribcage,its branches—vertebrae of dusk,its roots clutching a bellthat only rings for roots. “Hush,” says the old woman,peeling a lychee with her knife.“You’ve…
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9.04: A Six – The Book of 27
Prologue (or Before) Prologue (or simply: Before) No one remembers the First Colour. Before red bled into battle and blue sank into sorrow; before green curled into envy and gold haunted itself with greed, there was only one—a colour not seen, but felt. It was whole, unnamed—and when the world cracked, when truth was broken…
It's Still Life 