Tag: AI Digital Art
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4 December: Sunday’s Six Sentence
The Witches of Arundel Side by side bones of two women,blurred and buffed by earth’s shiftand rewritten by centuries of ink –their plainness hardly drew an eye. Memory of that day at Tumulus Copseis lost, a faint scrap hint of a footpathpasses a flat grey stone, the treesalways bone-riddled with bird song. Pentagrams regularly knottedto…
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2 December: The Old Samurai
The Old Samurai On his white sheets and pillowstir the faces and those deadblank eyes and liquid last words. On his robe, silk stitched birdsand a flood of cherry blossoms. On the table, a tea ceremony waits. On his face, uplifted, winter falls,watery eyes as he remembersyouthful evenings in the village. On his head a…
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28 November: Sunday’s Six Sentence Story
Mum’s decided it’s time to take me to the doctor because my 1st grade teacher, whose name is Mrs DePugh, which I think is the funniest thing ever, told Mum that I don’t seem to be listening to anything being taught. Mum’s already looked inside my head with her flashlight and magnifying glass that she…
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27 November: Journal
27 November:It’s still morning. Time slows when there’s no external noise. No radio. No telly. No talking. No music … except for the shallow sound of his breathing as he reads the Sunday’s paper. Sunday always becomes Monday, if you judge the date by a newspaper. Saturday is thicker than weekdays. Sundays less so than…
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26 November: Journal
25 November:I’m sitting in my chair. Reclined. Fingers locked across my lap. Eyes closed, and headphones isolating me from vague noise. I’m listening to I Walk With Ghosts by Scott Buckley. Violins in deep centred waves. Spiral rebirth – I fall into a shallow sleep. A shallow breath. Strings drawing out my every thought into…
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25 November: When You Listen to Music
When You Listen to Music While You Sleep When you listen to musicwhile you sleep, you’ll hear Hammering on ironAnd a scent familiarAs a husband’s smile. Weather’s calmed.Air’s greyed.The ground remains softAnd wet clinging to clay. She follows the sound.Brings him a wedge of dark bread,And an apple. He nods.Their words are few and far…
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24 November: For Red Wolf
24 November: 6ºC, feels like it should be frosty, but it’s not. First coffee of the day, and I’m looking out the kitchen window at a woman in a blue plaid lumberjack shirt. Her white dog is wearing a matching gilet. I never clothed my dog. My dog was a dog. A neighbour dresses her…
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19 November: She Without Name
She Without Name You know that time between dreaming and waking, when you roll over and your dyne starts for floor, but there’s still enough covering your legs to keep yourself on the side of being covered … Well, that’s when she arrived. She’s white as northern new snow that sparkles like laughing stars, and…
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18 November: A Dance Beyond
A Dance Beyond We’ll dance over the sun,amongst the weeds and red dust, dance with the backdoor hangingon one hinge. We’ll dance light as a moth’s wing.Dance our way into sunset’s throat as it beats upon our senses, an old drum-plucked strut. Skirts in a twirl, hand-fanning music,and feet feathered beat. We’ll dance to the…
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15 November: Lampposts
Lampposts Mum said babies should arriveat night, they should cosy upto the moon and stars, goodbabies that is, but I was bornin the glaring sun, and becamea lamppost’s shadow. I grew up asking too manyaching questions, headachethumping what-if what-ifs,and Mum insisted she hadn’tlicked me clean at birth, likea newborn calf, or Bambi, ’cause back then,…
It's Still Life 