Tag: Poetry
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19 November: She Without Name
She Without Name You know that time between dreaming and waking, when you roll over and your dyne starts for floor, but there’s still enough covering your legs to keep yourself on the side of being covered … Well, that’s when she arrived. She’s white as northern new snow that sparkles like laughing stars, and…
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18 November: A Dance Beyond
A Dance Beyond We’ll dance over the sun,amongst the weeds and red dust, dance with the backdoor hangingon one hinge. We’ll dance light as a moth’s wing.Dance our way into sunset’s throat as it beats upon our senses, an old drum-plucked strut. Skirts in a twirl, hand-fanning music,and feet feathered beat. We’ll dance to the…
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15 November: Lampposts
Lampposts Mum said babies should arriveat night, they should cosy upto the moon and stars, goodbabies that is, but I was bornin the glaring sun, and becamea lamppost’s shadow. I grew up asking too manyaching questions, headachethumping what-if what-ifs,and Mum insisted she hadn’tlicked me clean at birth, likea newborn calf, or Bambi, ’cause back then,…
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14 November: for Sunday Whirl
Tunnel Vision Stood there, pitied not,before a mirror,a body that’s escaped memory. Blind lips.A kiss pressed with fire. Never trapped,but let lose to burnamongst glass stars. It’s been far too long since I played with Brenda’s Sunday Whirl. Happy to be back for this one. Sunday Wordle #628 a dozen words: stars, glass, fire, trapped, lose, tunnel,…
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13 November: The Rehearsal (Oldest Version)
The Rehearsal: Broken Epitaph there’s the conversationperhaps there’s rain and cold a broken story unfolds no I don’t know what they say,and does it matter anyway all those cracks in cords, those oaths,play 4 and then 4 again, play oneof those endless pieces with cracks in mirrors and soulsthat fall apart and then the music…
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10 November: 04 Völuspá
Mótsognir I, drawn of dread juices of flesh,born from Ymir’s breast and bone,and dreaded buzz of wings, I, dreaded spawn of blue bottles.Drawn from a maggot’s coddle.I, born under a constellationof blustery red … by the gods, I am Mótsognir who drank from the spumeand foam of courage and might.Who was the first born, lord…
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9 November: Alone
No one should be alone,to move on a different plane,to live out these miles in rainwhere there is no end. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Imagery and poems ©Misky 2023.
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8 November: Love’s Palace
A frame of mind without a head.Or pillar.This is to burn love’s palaceAnd question ourselves. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Imagery and poems ©Misky 2023.
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7 November: Just the Slightest
Just the slightestImperceptibleMovement of leaves. A shiver of windThrough the dried thistles. Clouds overhead Brushing the sky,As fast as a lifetime. RDP Movement . Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Imagery and poems ©Misky 2023.
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6 November: The Widow’s Stick
All year that limb hung there as if baffled by gravity’s indecision, and sometime between dark and daylight, it lost its balance, fell from the sky, and plunged to the earth. White beechwood bark peeling and curling back onto itself, lichen-poxed, and laying in the mud-soaked grass like a withered long bone. It’s what my…
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