Tag: Poetry
-
18 May: The Liturgy
Liturgy for the Burning of Iron(Sussex, 1838—where the poor refused to starve in silence) I. The Ledger of HungerEngland asked for more.Not more work —the labourers gave that already,their backs bent to the sickle,their hands calloused by the scythe,their winters surrenderedto a season that never paid its debts. England called for silence.For gratitude.For wages that…
-
The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat’s Vertical Oppression(Or: Why the Good Stuff Is Always on the Top Shelf) The cat stands before the pantry,face like grievance,gazing up at the top shelfwhere the good sardinesgleam like a golden fleece. “Explain,” he says,“why the best fishare alwaysout of reach. Not impossible.Not mythical.Simply…up there. This is not accident.This is architecture.Oppression.” The Old…
-
1105: The Liturgy
Episode 10: Liturgy for the Saturday Market Valence, 1836: Where hunger measures every stranger I. The Root The people of Valenceare rooted in hunger — missed meals,children whose ribslearn to count themselvesbefore they learn their letters. This hunger speaks.And calculates. Every loafa fraction.Every coina remainder.Every strangera divisor in an equationalready too tight. Hunger empties the…
-
The Old Woman With No Cat
The St Malo Sardine Incident(Or: A Feline Foreign Policy) The Old Woman stands at the counter in St. Malo,a case of sardines in lemony oiltucked under her arm,her wallet slightly lighter,her heart slightly french. The shopkeeper smiles.“A good choice, madame. For a special occasion?” She thinks of the cat,not hers, never hers,waiting on the windowsill,tail…
-
6 May: dVerse Quadrille
Forty-Four Blooming Words a populationof self-seeded daisieson French verges. common,persistent,blooming anyway. no gardener names them,no border holds them;they take what is given. small faces turnto passing cars,white as breath,bright as forgetting, rooted where chancedecidedbeauty isenough. Written for dVerse Poets’ Quadrille: bloom ©Misky 2006-2026.
-
The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat’s Nocturnal Quest (Or: a brief romance in three acts) ACT I: THE EXIT“Don’t wait up, old woman,” he purrs,tail held high like a banner of mischief.“I have… errands.Of a personal nature.Involves a wicked womanand a well-stocked pantry.” ACT II: THE RETURNDawn finds him back on the windowsill,whiskers tipped with cream,a single sardine tin…
-
AprPAD — Day 30
How to Bend a Spoon somehowher younger self still knows —step back into her shadow. “the apples will be abundant this year,” she says,changing the subject.“ripe before autumn.” she watches the sun drink from a puddle,summer not quite here. “you’re not special,” he says.“such foolishness.doula-foola.nonsense —humming to a fallen bird,as if it hears you.” a…
-
AprPAD — Day 29
A Pocketful of Reasons the birds began first,then wind in the high leaves and suddenlythe whole forestwas louder than thinking. some bloodlines,my grandmother said,keep watchwhere the seen worldthins. perhaps that is whybirds sing harderin the trees, and small creaturesfind uswhen they are leaving. they seem to know. in my pocketa silence I can’t namefeathers, still…
-
AprPAD — Day 28
Breakfast, and Other Small Violences the spoon snappinglike a jack russellat the bowl, metaltapping his teeth — a bright, unbearable code. Stop scraping. The chew,the crunch … do I sound like thisto the world? like a broomworrying the floorwith every breath? His phone leansagainst the salt shaker, thumb scrollingthrough other lives. Againthat scrape. I step…
-
2804: Haibun Monday
No Facebook. No X. Less news — especially politics and war. It seems endless, a kind of tinnitus. I move through the day in relative silence, reclaiming space, attentive again to the small things around me, freed from the relentless alarms of a thousand strangers. Today, after lunch, I sat in the sun and drifted…
It's Still Life 