Tag: dVerse
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A Desolate Heart
“Welcome to the desert of the real.” –Morpheaus, from the movie, The Matrix An ever-drying aridity. Step after step across a desert stretching to the horizon. Only the memory of water. Such an exhaustion that the expression “dead on my feet” is a declaration of enthusiasm. Here, in the heart of the desert, words come…
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Pestilent Encounters: A Traditional-Mongol-Meter #haibun
A sudden turn in the weather, and noses begin to run… rushing toward the nearest tissue roaming the halls full of snot remember a sneeze is no issue recall a time without rot While not an apocalyptic sign, new Covid cases arise… Still we press on Stunted in our recovery Stalling for time, again and…
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Manifesting Presence
Could it be any different? emerging night stretching through the last light of day twisted intestines unknotting after this day recuperating these temperature shifts taking their toll gentle trembling as this body gets on track this silence It could be only what it is. for dVerse Poets’ Quadrille #161 (pubtended by Merril)
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Under Pressure
The omega. Always the last to feed, despite my part in the hunt. Always the butt of snickers, warning growls, scuffles—and the bites and flesh tearings that drive me apart. Always the omega. All because I run to my own heartbeat. Because my howl is my own. Because the pack would rule me when I…
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Solstice Sorrow
First light arrives before five in the morning. The birdsongs arrive with it. A cacophony of twittering, and avian arias, shatter my sleep, and any hopes of returning to it. By afternoon, however, a scattering of songs—at well-spaced intervals—may arise. This abundance of radiance—so close to the end of the academic year. This longest day—followed…
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Bird song sonata
Before sunrise. Before even the break of day. The first robin begins the overture. Others soon carry the melody. Soon, the sound of their choral arrangement shakes away the last hope of sleeping in. Before sunset. Before even the hint of twilight. The last robin refrains the coda. The harmonies have ended. Only the last…
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Mythic Menagerie
The last traces of blue sky shrink away. A mass of moist gray swells in its place. Still, the budding maple leaves on the trees across the street reflect the golden hue of setting sun. For a moment. across this mad inscape purple tigers for dVerse Poets’ Poetics: Naming the Rose (pubtended by Merril Smith).…
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We chalk affecionados… a #Quadrille
Even at the worst… scratching of fingernails grating my spine the inspiration again and again Can there ever be enough… Effervescence just one wet wipe away that talcum feel on the fingers In the final analysis, it boils down… too many memories not to
