Harvest Festival

Two hundred voices tuned to violins and wooden pipes. Kids wreathed in foliage sing songs of bees and royal peacock blooms crest heads. Crowns of cardboard glint - browns and golds meld among straw-bales and we pause in exquisite thought of tiny creatures noticing the seasons Written for dVerse Quadrille 'Tis the Season

kowtow to the sky

Image by Miranda Grant from mirandasgrant.com it’s familiar but not quite this unhurried swirl, this white sun-sea vaulted & vermilion pageantry - rings & rings of shimmering lifted bones from Earth's beaten chest, tones of the red red road listing candle-bitten & tapering to ever. old gods with their blistering sight tilt blind, reaching trees … Continue reading kowtow to the sky

The Witch Doesn’t Burn in This One

Raven Study Painting by Marion Rose the sheets are griddle hot I’m a woman deciduously speaking winter coming in a hot flash it sounds counter-intuitive like the way that crows make me happy I like crow beards maybe they have deeper chins beards like combs “brush brush bruuush” they state ducks question “eh?” long as … Continue reading The Witch Doesn’t Burn in This One

two eyes

waves fold along dotted lines: perforated foam and the tumbling of happy screams a gruff, granite headland pushes off clouds in uprising and the day winks its bluest eye but at night through forest’s white verticals I glimpse the leaf-lace moon - her yellowed, scrappy shroud I think of her tossed nearly always into blackness … Continue reading two eyes

#dVerse Haibun “Cold Mountain”

Evening Drive Driving on hill tops, the landscape is generous – unfiltered mapwork filling up the thirsty eye. This evening the horizon is thickly sponged – dark cloud bruises, gleaming chrome sky, the felt silhouette of mountains and, in the foreground, rolling khaki with wave-crest fences. At a fork, I’m sent on a detour. Here … Continue reading #dVerse Haibun “Cold Mountain”

Build Your House Around My Body

I stare out the car window at apparently limitless construction. Perhaps we resonate with skeletons, our new suburbs percolating out of them; the pulse and jut of naked road spindles and the bony reckoning of houses. Natural birthing prefers a wholeness – skins folded and pliable like petals, birds' wings, a snail’s antenna or the … Continue reading Build Your House Around My Body