Tag: Poetry
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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…
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GoDogGo Cafe Haibun Wednesday
Her Eggs Mum had a Victorian demeanour, posture as if stitched into a corset. Very few emotions she’d let slip, except boredom tightening her face. I remember her studying the back porch steps. She’d painted them shiny parrot green, the July sun scorched her neck, and bubbled the paint like the crispy edges of a…
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30.1.22 for GoDogGoCafe
PATHS Taking new stepson these same old stairs,time-heavied footfall wearsthem to a buffed-up bare. Take hold the balustrade,it’s made from an oak branch,lightning hit it quite by chance.So steady on. Steady on, because we’re all just dust.Just a January wheeze,taking steps that were,shall be, and must. Written for Go Dog Go Cafe’s Tuesday Challenge . Start with…
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