Tag: Poetry
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21.10: dVerse Haunted
Two Poems for the Rain Woman I. Rock-Steady Ice Rock-steady ice.That is the precise truth of her.Not a storm that rages,but a glacier that’s settled in the marrow.The rain inside is ancient, patient,frozen at its core.She is not haunted.She is holding a winterthat no spring can reach. II. The Weather Within The sky is mute,…
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19.10: dVerse Quadrille
A Man with Moonlight she hums sounds of sleep,soothes her child as she observes — behind screened windows,blotched yellowed-whiteby the moonon the gated garden wall, a manwalking in the moonlight. alone. and in her loneliness,she wonders whatthoughts and hungercross his mind. Written for dVerse Poets, a quadrille of 44-words including the word ‘screen’. Some images…
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19.10: The Liturgy
#11 Liturgy for the Advice You Did Not Want(for the wisdom that arrives disguised as a suggestion) I. The Voice That Speaks Softly The advice came quietly,as a suggestion,offered with the lightnessof someone who knowsyou will not listen at first. It was wise,it settles like a stonein quiet water. But you did not want it,because…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat on Time(Or: Why Clocks Are Just Decorative Anxiety) The cat sits before the mantelpiece,one paw raised toward the clockas if delivering a closing argumentin a case he has already won. “Consider,” he begins,“the clock.A round face.Two hands.Constant ticking.And for what?To tell you it’s 3:47when your stomach knowsit is now.Now, Old Woman.Now is the…
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17.10: Stream of Consciousness
Pitch the mountains at my back, lace-up waterproof boots crunching through the ice-crust on yesterday’s snow, and the air flying white as fine gauze, the sort of weather that flattens curves and rubs out distance, where light makes no shadow and you can’t quite tell where the ground stops and the sky begins, except there…
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12.10: The Liturgy
#10 Liturgy for the Memory That Lingers(for the tricks the past plays on the heart) I. The Scent That Refuses to LeaveYou open a closet door,and though the clothes are gone,given away to someone else’s life,the scent of the one who wore themstill hangs in the air like a held breath. Strawberries and cold cream.Tobacco…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat and The Ants(Or: A Game of Tag with the Very Small) The cat is sprawled on the warm stone patio,one paw extended,ears forward,watching tiny black specksscurry across the surfacelike a secret on legs. “They run,” he whispers to the Old Woman,“and then they hide.And then they come back.And then they run again.It’s like…
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10.10: Stream of Consciousness
A Stream of Consciousness about Familiar I’m sitting on a cold bench beneath an umbrella and a tree half-stripped by the autumn wind off Pevensey Bay, while the world runs silver at the edges — it’s like listening to a familiar voice; I was born where it rains, though people born to it rarely bother…
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08.10: Memory of a Spare Key
The Memory of a Spare Key I am eight, which is very grown up, old enough for my own front-door key. Happy birthday, Mum says, dropping itinto my palm. Keys are power. I know this from the way they danceheavy on chains, keeping time against my father’s belt, from the way grown-ups wear them like…
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05.10: The Liturgy
Episode 9 Liturgy for the Lawyer’s Quiet(for the facts that sit in silence) I. The Office That Holds Its BreathFenella steps into the lawyer’s office,a room that smells of old paper,dust settled into the bindingsof books no one has openedin decades. The man himself is elderly,his hands marked with the slow workof documents,his eyes the…
