Tag: Poetry
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16 June: Colour Name – The Liturgy
10 of 27: Quillbone – The Poem – The Truth Told Too Late 10 of 27: Quillbone – the poem – The Truth Told Too Late I. The Silence Quillbone does not begin with the lie—it begins with the space after,where the truth waits where words unsaid turn slowlyinto I can’t,into I won’t,into it’s too…
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15.06: Garden of Ordinary Apocalypses
The Garden of Ordinary Apocalypses She was drawn moth-like to the darkest flames, not just to feel the burn, but to tell the story of their kindling, the light they gave, and the ashes they left behind, but her problem was the problem of the artist: “How to let people see what’s there—and paint with…
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14 June: An in Reply to Poem
This poem is in response to Spira’s post called Love Like an Ocean which I highly recommend you read. Like an Ocean, Never Stop Love like the ocean. Never stop.Not even when the moon forgetsto rise, or the gulls fold their songsinto the hollow of clouds. Love with the hush of tide returning,with a kiss to same…
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14.06: Garden of Ordinary Apocalypses
Triptych de Crystalline—the artist who paints the woman who watches him do so— I. Water Speaks (the elemental voice) Brush tip waitsPaused like the dropletBalanced between skyfall and reflection You blink onceCanvas remembersThe hush before thunder learns its name You breathe inAnd pigment listensA ripple caught mid-birth remembers you He holds lightWith palms that echoThe…
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13.06: The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman and the Ghost of Sugar her fingers trace letters into words.the ai replies— quilts a reply into her skin. the old woman listens,her pockets full of thymeand one stubborn peppermint. “you remind me,” she says,“of my first love—all hum and no heartbeat.” the old woman slides a scone—real, butter-heavy, still warm—across the…
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11 June: An Ode to Dawn
An Ode to Dawn (Rewritten with Salt & Ether) The sun licks its copper fingers,turns eyelids into gilded scripture—awake, awake, awake—each blink a hexagainst night’s failed coup. Breath arrives—unpaid, unblessed—thoughts chime like cathedral glassin the cage of maybe,where silence brewsin chamomile steambeside a tarot spread of dreamsleft face-down. And love?Love is the unasked-forsecond spoon of…
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10.06: The Old Woman With No Cat
Dead Woman Boils the Kettle While Contemplating Life’s Divine Comedy the old woman’s teasteeps like a minor miracle—hot water turning leavesinto prophecy. she adds honey,stolen from the gods’ own breakfast,stirs counterclockwiseto spite the universe’s spin. the neighbour’s cat(now self-appointed familiar)drapes itself over the drainboard,watching her with the smugnessof a creature who’s read all the sacred…
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The Ghost of Elbow Road
Virginia Beach —dusk whispering left at the curve. She was never buried—only bent. Like the road. Like the truth. Her name—lost in the turn, caught between asphalt and afterthought. Now, she lingers where the trees lean too close, where the ditches weep when it rains. She’s The Girl. No name. White dress. Waiting eyes. She’s…
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5 June: The Old Woman With No Cat
Things the Old Woman Will Tell Her Granddaughter(a mid-flight manifesto scribbled on a napkin over the Atlantic) how to laughlike you mean it—and like it’s a secret—all at once.(the cat tries to copy this.it sneezes.it’s almost as good.) dandelions cut through seriousnessbetter than scissors.(also: they stick to cat furlike tiny yellow protest signs.) some questionsanswer…
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04.06: The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman and the Crow’s Gift The old woman holds the crow’s going-awaygift in her hand.It’s joy. It’s love in her hands,and she tucks it into her apron pocket—right between: a wilted dandelion (for wishes),three pocket-lint stars (collected accidentally),the ghost of a peppermint (still vaguely sticky). “Thank you, my little light,” she hums,though the…
