Tag: AI Digital Art
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24 April: NaPoWriMo
The Book When I was young and opened this book, I could hear wind chimes. It was like air, cool and dry on my fingers. Leather grain, and oiled from fingers, a subtle worn smooth surface. Leather strong and softly pliable. Resistance of the binding suggested an aged spine but it was much older. Grandmother…
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24 April: A Six – Part 6: How To Break Eggs
At an Intersection Named After an English King and a SaintSix Sentence Story: Part 6 How To Break Eggs From Brigid’s diary: 17 April – Pierre’s standing at the end of the worktop, watching me, stone silent … butter foaming in a pan over a barely visible flame; 3 eggs lightly beaten; stir until curds…
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23 April: NaPoWriMo
The Flashy Spangle Spots It’s one of those gloomy music days that I allow to pour out in spoonfuls from a small back room of fumes seeping in from a previous century, a room somewhere along the Moors where wet overcoats and woollen caps are hung to dry on hooks and whose muddy boots go…
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22 April: NaPoWriMo (a haibun)
It’s lazy-hot for mid-May. A few days before she finishes 6th grade, and she can hear her mother talking, voices slipping in and out of her open bedroom window, “somethingsomethingsometimes she makes my flesh crawl,” so she knows what she’s telling the neighbour. She swings her feet off the bed, she’s wearing white cotton socks…
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21 April: NaPoWriMo
A Stark Hand I am in the strange hands of wind that reach the cliffs and pebble beach. I have come here to hear the voice of time’s sentinel, its sun-washed ancient secrets. Tell me of your lost lore, what guards your stark hand so well. I turn my face to the sky where by…
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20 April: NaPoWriMo
A (Prose) Poem Starting with a Line from Armageddon by T. Silverman Every time I see you, I ask if Bruce Willis is dead. For months, the days repeated and the windows were blank with winter, and then it was April – an eclipse, red-tint full moon from Sahara dust, and a devil-horned asteroid, and…
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19 April: NaPoWriMo
A Blot Upon It All She calls me her blot. Her watermark. As if she’d looked directly into the sun, or a flashbulb had gone off in too close a proximity. Like January eyes – bokeh’d, fogged, a wet ache, foot-loose, if those eyes were feet. Forlorn perhaps, but not always, just as night can’t…
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18 April: NaPoWriMo
The Old Woman Who’s Not Whistler’s Mother She’s not Whistler’s mother,but if she were, she’d describeherself as the shape of cloudson the way to a different life. And she might suggest thatshe is a dinosaur … not plasticas that’s not been invented yet,who’s bored with herself. And that her cheeks, once pink,are now the colour…
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18 April: NaPoWriMo (17/4 prompt)
Duality’s Voice She is the morning,And the birds mistake her for it.But this worldIs an indifferent parentWithout a guiding heart. Life is an eddy. A swirl.One day her heart will forgetTo beat,But today she smiles and wonders,Who am I to feel so loved. Written for Miz Quickly’s 17 April prompt: Two poems with a title that…
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15 April: NaPoWriMo – Pizza
Of Myth and Mozzarella This great human reverence,that we will call a pizza,that scatters laureates’ wordsto spark and kindle flamesin overheated ovens. Stone-baked.Oregano perfumed,and for the love of basil,heavenly ripe tomatoes.In spite of ones hungry heart, I plead a thousand-foldfor a knife sharp enough toslice through this ecstasy.This angel gate.This ecliptic circle. FEED ME! Written…
It's Still Life 