Tag: Poetry
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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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5 November: Still
Still He’s fallen asleep in his chair.The sun’s served its purpose today,it’s nearly set, and his stillness isin me. It’s not translatable. He breathes, nearly unmoving.He’s water within water.His heartbeat sounds liketiny footsteps. Running. This man of mine is a paradoxof cyclones and soft breath.Movement and salty stillness.And he burns hotter than the sun. He…
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3 November: A Moment
A Moment October.Is gone. It’s another new-born month with a new maskthat’s scented and presseddeep into me like a salty hook pullingme back to the sea, or windforking through dry leaveson bare branches or stuttering soundsof playing cards pegged onbicycle spokes. The sea has turned cold,the waterbites my toes, but only for a moment. Some…
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3 November: 03 Völuspá
Thunderclap Seidhr Odin, took her fra Valhöll’s shelf.He, her protector, and she is Vala who calls on the shapers of stars,for their threads of fate and sight, and she calls to south’s lay of lightand the sun’s earth-tethered moon. Her one hand holds steeds of Hel,in the other a death bell’s knell. Seidhr blood she…
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2 November: She Shapes the Wind
She Shapes the Wind From here,She feels the chalk cliffs breathe.Below her, The Atlantic exhales in waves,And inhales wild vapoursInto its kelp roots. She comes hereWhen her mind is a hive,When her heart despairs. She can leanInto a wall of wind, and holdMirrors to her soul’s window. Vigilance is here,Watching for those who seekPeace of…
It's Still Life 