Tag: a.i.Art
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat Studies Tai Chi(Or: The Slow-Motion Pounce) The Old Woman finds himin the middle of the sitting room rug,moving with a slowness usually reservedfor glaciers or drying paint. One paw lifts,hovers,descends—as if placing it on the very heartbeat of the earth. “What,” she asks,“are you doing?” He does not look up.“Tai Chi walking.It is…
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2303: The Liturgy
Liturgy for the Confluence(where two rivers meet and the world does not) I. The MeetingThey do not ask permission, these waters:the Saône, thick with silt,the Rhône, clear and urgent,driving south. At the narrow tip of landthey arrive still separate,dark and light,slow and swift, then lean togetherand go on. No treaty.No vow.Only force. II. The SurfaceFrom…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman Delivers Wisdom in Small, Reusable Jars The old woman stirs her teawith a cinnamon stickthat once doubled as a wand,then tucks itinto her apron pocket,right beside a raisinthat gave up being lunch. She says philosophy can fiton the head of a pin,but you’ll have to squint. Rule 4. Be a blossom.Roots are…
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1603: The Liturgy
Liturgy for the Confluence of All Things(for Lyon, where the rivers join and the age does not) I. The Place Where Waters Meet Here the Saône loosens its dark bodyinto the clearer Rhône. No treaty.No argument. Brown water takes green.Green water takes brown. They braid,shoulder to shoulder,and go on. Brigid watches the seamwhere difference disappears.…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman’s Wisdom Delivery Service The old woman stirs her morning tea,and tucks a bit of this too shall passinto her apron pocket,next to a stray raisinthat might be hopeor might be breakfast. Her entire philosophycould fit on the head of a pin,(if the pin was slightly bent)and smelled faintly of orange marmaladeand mothballs.…
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1203: RDP Image
Image of a cow having a good ol’ feed in the hedgerows — and blocking country lane traffic in Devon UK. Posted for Ragtag Daily Prompt: Cow ©Misky 2006-2026.
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1003: dVerse Quadrille
my dawn crowarrives —black oracle of skyfeathered shadowon winter’s perch. you listento my whispers,small words to morning’sfinal stars. rise my breathto your bright eye,stir the sky, my crow.keeper of quiet waysguardian of unseen paths. Written for De’s quadrille #243 to birds. Some images created with Midjourney; all writing is authentically my own original work.©Misky 2006-2026.
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0903: The Liturgy
Liturgy for the Weaving City(for Lyon, 1834, where silk and blood ran together) I. The DeclarationThis is not riot.This is declaration. Men, women, children —children thin as breath,tear-streaked, sharp-elbowed,forcing through the crowdfor one lungful of air,one moment of being countedamong the living. They carry no weapons.They carry themselves: hollow cheeks,empty hands,that terrible refusalto die quietly.…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat Establishes Dominance (Or: A Hostile Takeover) The dog arrives with a wag and a woof,all floppy ears and hopeful eyes,unaware it has just walked intoa carefully fortified sovereign nation. The cat watches from the mantelpiece,tail slow and deliberate,like a general surveying a battlefieldbefore the first shot is fired. “So,” he murmurs to the…
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4003: The Weight of Iron
The Weight of Iron They hang now in museum lights,mute ribs of a vanished beast:plough and pitchfork,sickle with its patient crescent moutha wooden beam bowed like a tired shoulder. But once—they were thunder. A man rose before the sunwhen winter still stitched fields in silver thread.His breath smoked like a small engine of faith.He wrapped…
It's Still Life 