Tag: childhood
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Miz Quickly’s Limbo Week
Why My Favourite Sound is a Lawnmower As I recall it was the summer that dog bit me on the thigh — a black dog named Ought Not. The doc stitched me up with beige twisty string, like the thread that Mum used for sewing on my coat buttons. And all during that summer I…
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dVerse and Poetic Arrangment
The Fragility of Memory She and I, sisters of a common skin. We charted and deconstructed our childhood like avenging angels. Episodes of bitter dullness and beaten love. We organised those memories into tidiness. Displayed them like moths, wings pinned to dry — crisp and fragile. She swore never to forget, and she cursed me…
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Poetic Bloomings Explores Food
As I Recall It wasn’t the white cake with white frosting with shredded coconut, or pink spindle-turned candles, or all the balloons that Dad blew-up before he drove off to work, or the all-beef hotdogs with green pickle relish and squirts of yellow mustard, or as many potato chips as I wanted to eat, nor…
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For dVerse: Quadrille #15
Up a Tree My childhood was up a tree, on a limb, a branch, twigs too far. It grew, I grew legs long and arms to reach up through colours – spring, summer, fall’s scent on bark, sticky, pitchy, sweeping ’round my head. Those leaves falling. Falling. written for dVerse’s Quadrille Monday (44 words)
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Poetic Bloomings: 23 July
The Summer of 1966 Another regimented summer, idle hands (my mother warned), so I was never idle for fear the devil’d find me, and for eight weeks I whittled sticks, dipped matches into wax, waterproofed them, protected, and stored them in Kodak film roll cases. I sang to campfires that breathed hotter than July heat,…
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dVerse “Sevenling”
A Flinch I was smaller. Younger. Sharper. Like gravel. I spoke in consonant chords. In song. I was like earthquake weather © Misky 2016. for dVerse “Sevenling” themed music
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Draft – Up & Up for Miz Quickly
The Unwritten Rules of Repetition I was adrift in my own story but that’s what children do. Draft themselves into an idea and run with it as if those ideas are playmates. I lost that ability to slip in and out of self-indulgence, the owner of my own centre. My universe. And I’m not sure…
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dVerse: Quadrille #8
Virgin Green These days are virgin green. A sultan’s feast upon our eyes. Satin pillows, violet’s spring, bluebells skipping a breezy song. A child sits, picks bouquets. Daisies. Clover. For her mother. These are her brightest days. Her curly head unaware of lonely nights. Broken hearts. for dVerse: Quadrille #8. 44 words…
It's Still Life 