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19 June: A Thursday Door
Concrete doorway frames the silence.Stairs climb nowhere, moss risingwhere engines once screamed past.Number 25 stands above emptiness,ghosts of speed flicker in the grass.Spectators’ shadows linger,waiting for thunder that never comes.History breathes in cracked stone,memory etched in fading white. This is a photo of the old Reims-Gueux Formula 1 race track in France, which was actually…
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19 June: Journal of Thoughts
Baptism in Green Ink The forest pours itselfinto your lungs—petrichor sacrament,rain’s wet loom weavingyour hair with the oak’sslow, conspiratorial gossip. Cicadas drive golden nailsinto the hour’s spine.You, half-woman, half-wanting,let thunder tune your ribsto its grey-tongued timpani. And the green—oh, that vicious green—how it sculpts your mindinto a cathedral of moss,how shadows lick their teethbefore kneeling…
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18 June: The Old Woman With No Cat
The Joyful Old Woman at Customs(A Ballad of Bureaucracy and Untaxable Delight) the old woman presents her bagsto the very serious manwith the very serious stamp. “anything to declare?” he asks.she smiles.“joy,” she says.“four kittens’ worth.also one (1) slightly used sunset.and this alleged cat—”(she gestures to the cat,currently meltingout of her carry-onlike a guilty butter…
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17 June: A Six – Brigid’s Journal
Brigid’s journal unfolds beneath the Caledonian pines, where light moves differently, and the loch keeps its own counsel: Brigid and the Scots Pinecone – A Soft Geometry 17 June – Glen Affric, Scotland: pencil, paper, watercolour and brushes—dawn’s sun holds a single fallen pinecone in its grasp, and Brigid writes: an offering from the unpainted…
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17 June: A Six Sentence Story
10 of 27 — The Truth Told Too Late She remembers the lime-green hydrangea wallpaper, metallic flecks catching the light like something that failed to be beautiful, and the mirror above the sink—it’s too high for her body, but just right for her face. Felreil sits on the bottom step, still as guilt, watching the…
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17 June: Journal of Thoughts from Last Week
A few weeks ago, a flail mower came through the lane. This is what remains. And After the Flail Mower, the Wind Said … the earth knows grief—how it pools in your palms like rainwater,heavy with severed rootsand the startled silence of neststorn open too soon. You are allowed this sorrow—because the world tries to…
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16 June: Colour Name – The Liturgy
10 of 27: Quillbone – The Poem – The Truth Told Too Late 10 of 27: Quillbone – the poem – The Truth Told Too Late I. The Silence Quillbone does not begin with the lie—it begins with the space after,where the truth waits where words unsaid turn slowlyinto I can’t,into I won’t,into it’s too…
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16 June: The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman’s Unwritten Rules – Vol. II 1. When the kettle screams,listen for what else it might be saying—a hymn, a warning,or the crow’s third attemptat opera. 2.Let the cat claim your lapeven when you need to rise.Some debts are paid in purrs,some in patience,and some in the tiny victoriesof a well-timed “oh, fine.”…
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15.06: Garden of Ordinary Apocalypses
The Garden of Ordinary Apocalypses She was drawn moth-like to the darkest flames, not just to feel the burn, but to tell the story of their kindling, the light they gave, and the ashes they left behind, but her problem was the problem of the artist: “How to let people see what’s there—and paint with…
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14 June: An in Reply to Poem
This poem is in response to Spira’s post called Love Like an Ocean which I highly recommend you read. Like an Ocean, Never Stop Love like the ocean. Never stop.Not even when the moon forgetsto rise, or the gulls fold their songsinto the hollow of clouds. Love with the hush of tide returning,with a kiss to same…
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