Tag: Poetry
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4 March: Red Wolf Journal Winter/Spring Edition
Delighted to be included with some brilliant poets in Red Wolf Journal’s Winter/Spring 2023 collection of poetry. Congratulations to all. The anthology is available to download and read at Red Wolf’s site.
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27 February: RDP – Radiate
In Us Bones of trees, we are bulbs of earth’s womb. Iced moon. Sun drifts. The child in us radiates poetic. Written for RDP Ragtag Daily Prompt: Radiate. AI Digital Artwork is created using Midjourney. Imagery and poems ©Misky 2023 Shared on Twitter #RDP #amwriting @midjourney
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17 February: RDP “Quest”
A Quest to M&S That sharp fuzzled jab in the cup,which was no chalice by any stretch,’twas likened unto a stag’s horn,or to be sprung upon by a spreading oak.I am wounded by an underwire.I am the Fisher King with a dagger in my breast. Tell me, Sir Perceval, seekerof the holey wonders, and wonderwear,let…
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2 July: The July Diaries
1 July: Family is visiting. First time we’ve seen the grandchildren (except for video calls) in 3-years. Forgive me if I don’t read and reply to friends’ posts. Things are rather busy around here. He wants broccoli and cauliflower.And anythingred, he says.Not tomatoes.We shall buy strawberries.And maybe a little red car. She who arrives fullof…
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1 May: A Return to Gold Grease
Already the haired seeds of dandelions fly. Gathered and scattered and filling the air with their blurry truss. Wind-swimming a return to their greasy gold. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter. Image from Unsplash
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A Triolet: On Danes Hill
On Danes Hill The thought of being on that hill,in that wind as hard as marble . . . it’s such a thick and smitten chill,the thought of being on that hill. Fingers cold, nose so froze untilmy every word is icy garble. The thought of being on that hill,in that wind as hard as…
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25.02.22: A Poem After “Two Old Ones Eating Soup” by Goya
A Poem After “Two Old Ones Eating Soup” by Goya Held like a leash in his hand,grasped fingers at the expenseof pain and joints. Then a turn of a spoon,and golden broth from bone and stonestouches his lips like a warm kiss. The wonders of triumphfrom a thin clear broth. A bowl of soupon this…
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15.02.22 That Old Chestnut
That Old Chestnut It’s still gnarly-bare,no leaves yeton that old chestnut tree. It’s old.It’s arbitrary.Bang-bang out of order, like a belligerent judge,a rigid thought growing wherenothing near it is its equal. There’s nothing symmetrical about it.Hit by lightning years ago.Blew sprinters and branches aboutas if hit by God’s own fist. But that tree’s dying.Slowly.Bleedingfrom its…
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12.02.22: Maxim’s Pantoum
It’s the Soul of Maxim’s Palace It’s like a happy Chinese meal.A duck hullabaloothat’s noisy as jackdaws.Snappy as vinegar.A duck hullabalooon red tablecloths.Snappy as vinegar.Oranges. Gold. As twilighton red. Tableclothsthe colour of joy,oranges gold as twilight,or rain on a tile roof.The colour of joythat’s noisy as jackdaws,or rain on a tin roof.It’s like a happy…
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GoDogGo Café: Names of Light
I Still Know That House When I was a kid … and oh how I do shirk from that phrase. My mother used it whenever she set herself on a pedestal, but anyway when I was a kid I lived in a house at the end of a close, which is like a cul-de-sac, or…
It's Still Life 