Tag: Poetry
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13 December: Sunday’s Six Sentence Story
My gran had a small farm with a garden, small enough to keep a winter pantry supplied, large enough to keep her friends alive, and she had 2 goats, unnamed because as she put it, Would you name a rug or a chair – Well, no, so why would I name a goat – to…
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11 December: Waiting for a Storm
Waiting for a Storm The morning beckons,it’s a crow’s call, or a hypnotic knock of wavesagainst a boat’s hull …and on the next webbed secondI am sleeping again. Seagulls are chasedfrom the coast by this storm, tossed on whitecaps.They perch in winged treesexcept for a heron watching crayfish scuttlein disguise under the colour of mud.…
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9 December:
The Fontana di Piazza San Babila July heat had usall dipping into fountains,our bare feet soothed in water, feathers, stones, and coins. And there was a young womanwith bright white skin, a slickof perspiration on her arms,and I wondered what she imaginedas her hand swept through cool water. She smiled, and I thoughtshe might be…
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8 December: Observations
Random Observations at the Brea Café There’s an air of atheism about a plastic flower,no matter where it is. It just seems wrong. I’m in a café that smells of stale chicken soup, and the waitress, whose name is Beryl accordingto her name tag, is astonishingly slow, butI’m not the sort to complain, except within…
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7 December: Fiction, Maybe, Maybe Not
A Walk With Wolves Yesterday was a walk with my father’s memory. His wisdom still resonates in my bones. As always he keeps to my left side, to speak to my heart, he says. We walk with two wolves, a White and a Grey who step from the depths of salt marsh reeds – they…
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4 December: Sunday’s Six Sentence
The Witches of Arundel Side by side bones of two women,blurred and buffed by earth’s shiftand rewritten by centuries of ink –their plainness hardly drew an eye. Memory of that day at Tumulus Copseis lost, a faint scrap hint of a footpathpasses a flat grey stone, the treesalways bone-riddled with bird song. Pentagrams regularly knottedto…
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2 December: The Old Samurai
The Old Samurai On his white sheets and pillowstir the faces and those deadblank eyes and liquid last words. On his robe, silk stitched birdsand a flood of cherry blossoms. On the table, a tea ceremony waits. On his face, uplifted, winter falls,watery eyes as he remembersyouthful evenings in the village. On his head a…
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28 November: Sunday’s Six Sentence Story
Mum’s decided it’s time to take me to the doctor because my 1st grade teacher, whose name is Mrs DePugh, which I think is the funniest thing ever, told Mum that I don’t seem to be listening to anything being taught. Mum’s already looked inside my head with her flashlight and magnifying glass that she…
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25 November: When You Listen to Music
When You Listen to Music While You Sleep When you listen to musicwhile you sleep, you’ll hear Hammering on ironAnd a scent familiarAs a husband’s smile. Weather’s calmed.Air’s greyed.The ground remains softAnd wet clinging to clay. She follows the sound.Brings him a wedge of dark bread,And an apple. He nods.Their words are few and far…
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24 November: For Red Wolf
24 November: 6ºC, feels like it should be frosty, but it’s not. First coffee of the day, and I’m looking out the kitchen window at a woman in a blue plaid lumberjack shirt. Her white dog is wearing a matching gilet. I never clothed my dog. My dog was a dog. A neighbour dresses her…
It's Still Life 