Black tree silhouettes against an orange canvas set a background for deer grazing the summer meadow. They step closer to the house – and the apple tree, hoping for small early fallen fruit; crunchy dessert after the delicious yet limp blades of grass. This gogyohka form poem was inspired by an incident yesterday….
Category: poetry
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…
#Haikai Challenge 147: smoldering [hot] (moyuru) — The sound of heat
Ditches dry, frogs hide; heat sings as cicadas wake – wind sighs through willows. This is a second offering for the prompt, based on another happening this week. Frank J. Tassone is the host of Haikai Challenge. Frank says: This week, write the haikai poem of your choice (haiku, senryu, haibun,…
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…
