Tag: a.i.Art
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18 Aug: After the Sway of Summertime
Louis Armstrong’s Ghost is on the Porch Swing(a poem after the sway of Summertime) Heat drips like honeyfrom the sleepy F of the trumpet,your hips unspoolinga blue notebetween a screen door slamand a cricket hymn. Piano keys stickto the backs of your knees,while a bass line digs a gravefor all the unlived livespooling in your…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
How to Lick Stamps Properly (An Old Woman’s Bedtime Lesson for her granddaughter) TO BEGIN: the old woman hands her granddaughteran envelope,its corner waiting for a stamplike a tiny, thirsty tongue. “watch closely,” she says,and licks the glue—not too much (that’s obedience),not too little (that’s doubt),but just enoughto make the King’s profilewink. the crow caws…
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16 Aug: We’ve Misplaced Friday Again
For days when reality misplaces itself and the crows are only too happy to explain why. We’ve Misplaced Friday Again Then let’s be thievesof child-logic today.Let’s pocket the gravel sparkles,argue with cloudsuntil they huff into rabbits. Let’s declare our shadowsvery good listeners(even when they yawn).Let’s whisper the wildest poems —and kneel in the grass to…
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15 Aug: MicroDosing 150 µg
The Keeper of Lost Things – Micro-dosing 150µg (150 words) The drawer was narrow, oak-lined, and smelled of camphor and the kind of winters people used to name. Inside: a brass key, a single pearl earring, and a postcard from Marseille—unsigned, unclaimed. Each morning, Mrs. Havelock touched them with care, her fingers reading their weight…
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14 Aug: A Slow Detonation
A Slow Detonation I. Imprisoned Stone frames a freedomthat swallows every horizon whole.Iron teeth bite shut the sky,keeping light’s whispers out.Here, the freedom is absence,and absence is forever. II. A Slow Detonation Poem Power is the liethat fits their fist, that names the bruisenecessary. That tells the wound —this is right. Their boots don’t care.March.March…
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12 Aug: Featherhung – The Liturgy
15 of 27 Featherhung – The Poem – The Fragment: Unfinished Flight I. The Almost-ForgivenNot a wound, but its afterglow —an ash-rose stain between them,where Brigid’s silence hooks Felreil’s wingand his ink pools flat at her feet.They circle the unspoken,two crows with the same bone in their beaks. II. The Crooked LandingA word tilts mid-air:You…
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12 Aug: dVerse Quadrille #229
Last Laugh of a Dandelion That little flower refused to shut up —jabbering of moon-drunk alley cats,tomorrow’s lost socks,and how the dark craves mischieflike a thief craves silvered moonlight.“Hush,” I pleaded, but it only laughed,“I’m a dandelionwho refuses to be a weed.” Soundtrack note: “Some flowers gossip in moonlight, some in mercy — either way,…
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8 Aug: Wind’s Own Language
Wind’s Own Language I hated blackberries as a child—snakes in the grass,thorns whispering your blood back to you,wasps guarding sweetness like secrets. Grandmother’s in the kitchen, stirring blackberries in a copper pot. Special wooden spoon, stained a deep bruised purple. Clockwise to stir in wishes; stirring berries into jam. Into dye. Wine. Now I eathalf…
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7 Aug: Grief Is the Hook
Grief Is the Hook On this pew, I sit.Wood remembersmy child-bones, my grandmother’s norse-tongue,the holy hushshe split like kindling. Walls are whitewashed. Salt in the mortar.Elder gods’ runes live in this God’s house. In the door’s header, in the walls and floor.ᛉ Algiz (life),ᚷ Gebo (love),ᚦ Thurisaz (lightning’s fork). Old views. Rippled glass.Bubbled panes lick…
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6 Aug: Gravity Is Its Own Language
This poem remembers a bicycle ride this week beneath Nordic sun, and the moment I left my grandmother’s ring in the creek beside her old house. I wore it on my thumb one heedless summer as a child. It was time to release and return it. Gravity is its own language — and the land…
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