Gertrude Abercrombie’s, “Where or When (Things Past)” (1948), oil on canvas, 21 1/2 x 35 1/2 inches. Image courtesy of the Carnegie Museum of Art and Colby Museum of Art, shared with permission Note to Myself A small, tall door left,in space wherehorizon cuts offat legless knees.Reflexes subdued,tethered to lobotomizing deaf.Paralyzed marionette,holding strings,manifest myself rearing…
Category: dverse
dVerse Poetics — Skinnamarink Surreality
Nose hairs crackle in minus.One degree less and the whole thing blows.‘Cause cold means COLD.Even equators know that. In 1972, I still rememberyou were the town crone —and our summer thrill. Your name is given,but it is up to youwhether or not to use it.If you do, what it meansis for you to choose,not the…
dVerse — Q216 — Can you guess who I am?
Can you guess who I am? Hints: Matte, sparkled with prism upon flat or contoured terrain; edged by windsways, pert chirps, your grateful eyes under unshrouded bright.Wavy, opaque cylinders drip away gentle rhythm to my welcome cameo that dispels shivery moodsgloom fleesmakes wayto feel, re-embracehope. Michelle Beauchamp, aka Mish, is today’s host of…
dVerse — Prosery (2nd one) — Brimmed
where can we find light in this never-ending shade? –From Amanda Gorman, “The Hill We Climb” Brimmed The kris glitters under fluorescence in the green room. “I’ll cut you if you take one step closer,” she hisses. Heaving a resigned sigh jiggles his ponderous belly. “You promised. Just for today.” he says. “And you promised…
dVerse — Prosery — Answered
where can we find light in this never-ending shade?–From Amanda Gorman, “The Hill We Climb” Answered Curled up in blankets, layered against cold and wet, I read Clarke, Heinlein, or Atwood by candlelight; books whose pages haven’t disintegrated yet in the cave’s humidity. “X’s” on its wall say it’s mid-January. Deep underground it’s a constant…
dVerse — Q215 — Return
Return How you lift in arctic winds, feathers reached, flit from limb, then furl in compact chassis. A-rested cling, bob and peck silky blacks; bill-mashed oil fires your engines. Bright chirps sound against bleached, drab winter canvas, promises from forebears, carrying on, returning through seasons. My mom always believed that cardinals sighted were those who…
FFF 56 (was dVerse — Q189 — Rouse Simmons) repost, update, synchronicity
November 23 in 1912, she, a schoonerbearing 5500 Christmas trees, was boundwest, across Lake Michigan for Chicago.Blizzard said no but lumber skipper said go.She foundered at Two Rivers; all sailors lost. November nights, when moon is bright, her ghost yet sails. [44 words] top image link Learn more about Rouse Simmons here. De Jackson (aka…
