The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T.S. Eliot Palled Continuing with dawn, an unsettled pall, first cast upon my mood in restless slumber. Exhausted from a night of being chased, barefoot, through rotting vegetation by old beaus, I startled awake, breathing heavily….
Category: prosery
dVerse — Prosery Monday — Future’s Garden
“William Morris 6” The future gathers in vine, bush, and tree:Persimmon, walnut, loquat, fig, and grape”by Yvor Winters from Time and the Garden Future’s Garden She wakes to coughs, groans, and clanks. Rubbing her eyes, crusted with dust, she winces and wonders how much time she has before her clouded corneas become blindness. Or will…
dVerse — Prosery Monday — At Will
I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones.— from Derek Walcott’s, “Dark August” At Will God plants seed at will, giving each an ought to live, thrive under whatever circumstances each finds itself in; be it dandelion seed in sidewalk crack or newborn in winter’s drafty crib with sour milk-smelling blanket. Social…
dVerse — Prosery — Morning Coffee Reflections
To hurt is to steal — Bono and U2, from “Mysterious Ways” on Achtung Baby Morning Coffee Reflections She drinks her morning coffee with them. He, an introverted creeper who preyed on babysitters and kept Polaroids of children in his sock drawer; who wigged out when one of his OCD rules were violated. She, who…
dVerse — Prosery Monday — Faith
As a seed, I was shot out the back end of a blue jay when, heedless, she flew over the meadow.–Lisa Bellamy, from the poem, “Wild Pansy.” Faith As a seed, I was shot out the back end of a blue jay when, heedless, she flew over the meadow. Shivering in a watery mess that dried…
dVerse Prosery Monday — Awake
There’s a lullaby for suffering — Leonard Cohen, from “You want it darker.” She’s running, her lungs sucking air. She’s lost on a mountainous path. She’s being pursued; by whom or what she is unsure. Focused on behind, she trips on a tree root and hurls forward, airborne, and lands on sharp granite. She feels…
dVerse — Prosery Monday — Old Red
Make of it a parkaFor your soul.— Alice Walker, fromBefore you knew you owned it Old Red Old Red lives for death. He hovers around villages at dark, urging sober to take just one sip, urging lonely to take in snakes, urging fists instead of hugs. His first memory is of crawling in a cold…
Tao-Talk 