Tag: memories
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A Dedication to Clever Fingers
A Dedication to Clever Fingers My mother had very clever fingers. Our family tree’s leafy with cleverness. They made things. Lots of useful things. They know stuff. Lots of useful stuff. And, my sister with her pink alabaster skin says our Grandma told her a secret — don’t soap your face; use mineral oil. 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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Class 5: Whitman’s Civil War: Writing and Imaging Loss, Death, and Disaster – Memories and Senses
From a Sea-Salted Dock We wore black. Wore our perfumery like strung pearls and affection, and spoke whispered words that left us tongue-tied and arid. God watched, tasted our tears; stirred our petrichor, calm-scented as grey-fringed clouds. And we stood on the sea-salted dock, released his ashes to the air, to the sea. There on…
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for dVerse: Haibun #18
The Victor Writes the History I keep those memories, treasure them, fall in love with them – over and over again. I colour each one with a whitewash tint to fit, add lilac fragrance like punctuation, form and reform (memories are so delectably malleable), and no one corrects perception, ones private and privileged view,…
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Poetic Bloomings: 24 July
Here to Stay These are immortal days where my memories keep vigil to passing years. Memory-etched scenes, as if drawn from favourite books — forever loved, forever comforting, they become old friends — a kindness for resting bones. And in my late afternoons, I stretch into a feline dream, a divine summer sleep, that’s as…
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Poetic Bloomings: 22 July
Gazing Into Puddles It’s July, and I’m star gazing at black seeds in watermelon. Gazing at rainbow sprinkles on ice cream. I count miles — 1 (one-hundred), 2 (one-hundred) … between lightning and thunder. I count fireflies; so unaware that they’ll dim and go black as those watermelon seeds. I’m gazing at miles between us.…
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Poetic Bloomings: 16 July
The Summer We Lost Childhood We were 6th grade. The big kids, and we walked the rail line. Its steel shining, a thin string of silver silk that disappeared into the distance as if swallowed by trees and life’s path. It was a balancing game. Practise. To see who’d go the farthest. Those summers were…
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Pressed Between Estop and Ethiopia
Pressed Between Estop and Ethiopia I’ve never heard a cuckoo sing. I lost that moment of spring to the big city, to its noise, and roar and smoke and feet, which might explain why I press flowers and leaves between unabridged dictionary pages, (usually between estop and Ethiopia) in weighty books and scrapped paper, and…
It's Still Life 