dVerse — Poetics — Mr. Whiskers

“Untitled” by Louis Wain Born in a barn, to a rangy queen on her tenth litter and a tom with fuzzy dice balls and only one ear, he clawed and scrambled for the teat as if his life depended on it – and it did – six litter-mates didn’t. Farmer Jones’ son, a kindly sort,…

dVerse MTB Pantoum (2nd) Ode to Earth Day 2024

Ode to Earth Day 2024 When winter’s terminal quiescence resurrects into spring, an insistence in tiptoes of leaf, blade, and sprout, colors creep in from waking corners. Resurrected into spring, an insistence calls beaks, close-branched to distant ocean lands; colors wing from waking corners to join, rustle, sing, court, nest, in celebration. Chick beaks from…

dVerse — MTB (pantoum) — Choosing Green

Choosing Green two roads diverge, each green;just one that you can choosefrom two to choose from streams.short win twists; turns to lose. just one that you can choose;with devil that is greed,short win twists; turns to lose.the cost? to watch love bleed. with devil that is greed,Gaia cries in despair.the cost, to watch love bleed,in…

dVerse — Q199 — Every Day is Friday

Every Day is Friday For awhile Fridaysmeant something to me:–school week’s end–date night–party night–work week end;Then things changed to:–graduated–married–divorced–four-day work weeks;Now:–retired–every day is Friday. De Jackson aka WhimsyGizmo is today’s host of dVerse’ Quadrille Monday. De would like us to write a quadrille (44 words total, not counting title) using the word Friday.

dVerse — Tuesday Poetics — Li’s Box (i.e. my box)

“Abstract House 2” by Marleen Robbins Li’s Box i little plot of land comprise my boxsectioned space, county measuredmagnet dragged me from city clocksblock that has become my treasuredimensions shift per mood and g.p.s.inexact but close is good enoughhouse plopped, space stress-less,filled with too much hoarded stuff ii within, please imagine 3 dimensionscollage of sky,…

dVerse — Prosery Monday — Time Trapped

follow image link to fascinating, true story of man trapped by time What does it matter That the stars we see are already dead. By Amy Woolard, from her poem, “Laura Palmer Graduates” Time Trapped I admit Subject 2789 from Planet 23764’s soft form and sincere questions touch and amuse me. The warm, dark pools…