Chaotic squadrons of primary-colored, glass-wings reconnaissance before the mower. Flairful acrobatic killer drones with bulb-eyed precision nab mid-flight mosquitoes. On leave, they dust daisies and drink honeydew from ant farms on hollyhock stalks. They bivouac on cattails under luna’s night watchful eyes. Laura Bloomsbury is today’s host at dVerse. Laura says:…
Category: dverse
dVerse — quadrille 108 — Heatwave
Brush piles rise, sweat’s monuments, home for wrens, now brambled porcupines Fierce greens explode Thirsty lilies droop Lawns languish Cats splay, inert Taunting clouds play with promises Inadequate sprinkles dry by morning Old lungs trapped in cement towers heave in brownouts waiting for evening Linda Lee Lyberg is today’s host for…
dVerse — taijitu turns
maker memory law: hold the circle firmly and tattoo with two fish profiles chasing each other, a revolution of infinity. As the moon chases the sun across the sky, each resting in equal measure, light and shadow a matched pair, dancing from the darkness comes a seed to the light creation bursts forth in…
dVerse — prosery 15 — Red Moon Rise
A red moon rides on the humps of the low river hills. — Carl Sandburg, from Jazz Fantasia A red moon rides on the humps of the low river hills. My head tilts just so and I swear the hills are moving like a great dark beast; a shadowy twin of my guilt, following. Red…
dVerse — MTB — I, Ginger Baker
I, Peter Edward Baker, was born in South London on August 19, 1939, the son of me mum, Ruby, who worked in a tobacco shop and me da, a bricklayer son of a bricklayer – until the Royal Signal Corps put him on the front lines. Blitzkreig bombings started when I was a wee lad…
dVerse — Poetics — imprint
Pulled up to the empty parking lot of the restaurant. Amend that, empty except for one giant Yamaha crotch rocket and a man, standing off to the side, looking at the back patio. His back turned so I could get a long look at his long frame in his tan dress pants and matching…
dVerse — quadrille — Blue and Clouds
Blue seems so far away, yet here I stand, immersed. Seen from a distance; clear, yet felt so murkily within. Clouds, wing-fluffed mystical messengers; cushioned protectors from punishing glare. Blue-clotted canvas smoothed under moving yet constant angel brushes — watery dilutors of woe. Kim from Writing in North Norfolk is today’s host of…
Tao Talk 