Tag: quadrille
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dVerse’s Quadrille #17
Moonlight I am under the shadow of white. There where night falls in response to the turn of the moon. There where time is an old squabble, a stopped stone, that moon-hard slope. I am an apparition. Faceless. Cold blue and dim as dusk. dVerse Quadrille #17 including the word shadow
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Poetic Bloomings Dances a Quadrille
7:15 Coffee is made. Plates on the table. Radio’s on, but silence takes over. The dog sniffs the air; falls back to sleep. A morning cough from upstairs, emptying lungs of sleep. Rain drips from the gutter as I sip coffee. Silence never tasted so good. © Misky 2016, 3 August: Quadrille, 44 words.
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dVerse Quadrille #13
A Fluttering Folly Time’s not making this any easier; I wear your memory like a ring. Twist it when it’s too tight, curse it like a floundering rite when it aches. Memories of all my failures, fluttering follies like sails on little boats fleeing this journey. © Misky 2016. For dVerse Quadrille #13…
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dVerse Quadrille #11
Bound to Mine Steal a moment from this mad procession, lie with sunbeams; long, slender as fingers. Come and steal away on mossy green and wreaths of ivy. Bind your desires to mine like perfume, like your morning-scented robe, and we’ll spill this world on weedy rocks. Poetic Form: Quadrille (44 words including the…
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dVerse Quadrille #10
A Bit of Lunch with My Cousin A piece of me came to visit, a genetic piece — my cousin. We shot the breeze over lunch. Fish and chips by the seaside, Bank Holiday Monday. Weather poured down on us, and the wind howled fury — my hair tangling in ketchup and chips. My…
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dVerse Quadrille 9
It’s Deeper Than Skin We are each other’s skin, an inherited thorn touched by lineage, memory’s echo. Soft as silk, as green is to spring. I sleep in quilted flesh. I dream to breathe, my heart; its voice. Skin … my moral default when I wander far and flooded. for dVerse. Quadrille…
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dVerse: Quadrille #8
Virgin Green These days are virgin green. A sultan’s feast upon our eyes. Satin pillows, violet’s spring, bluebells skipping a breezy song. A child sits, picks bouquets. Daisies. Clover. For her mother. These are her brightest days. Her curly head unaware of lonely nights. Broken hearts. for dVerse: Quadrille #8. 44 words…
It's Still Life 