Between Realities
Leaf, having fallen,
finds place frozen, shaped, holds still –
how like memory,
now melting into remnants
in the light of present day.
Old tarnished baking pan, how many gatherings around the table have you built, before the surface was finally scraped away ?
19qb – Weather Alert: You know it is chilly when Environment Canada starts issuing warnings. ( It was so cold the Brass Monkey drove the Zamboni machine to Belize. )
28Wqb – This is what the cold looks like.
29Wqbb – free your gilded toes,
grow turnips and squash, while sings
silk strings like depth clouds –
it must be jazz ! now stolen –
moments, frozen framed shots.
18qb – forget the wall, go !
hear the laughter in corners ?
look in the mirror,
see the reflection of self,
movement! – saw zilch, smudged glass cracks.
The victim sat rigid in the chair, as the Immaculate Detective approached the crime scene. The heady smell rose from the still warm glue gun at the the victim’s feet; with one look, the Immaculate Detective knew that Sir Sheddly Limpetskew the third had been asphyxiated in his Great Grandfather’s antique chair by The Mad Hobbyist of Blythe.
Stepping on cold clues –
the case cracked wide open now –
winter ice broke pane,
clearly, in snow the truth fled:
shampoo dreams went to his head.
Note: Inspired by Claudia McGill’s two-sentence stories & poetry . I included lots of word-play & a rather intense pun. Music for those who need music – don’t we all ?
Wearing out shoes in my sleep,
I walk along the right angled
curvature of implied spaces.
Stopping to smell the roses,
their bushes have dog biscuits for leaves –
the thorns, are the mourning dove’s call.
Knotty cabbages –
such fine billows bugle outward,
petrified olives.
Feathers fall slowly,
turn to grains of sand, bleeding –
trombones’ sleeping eyes .
Saltation ‘s shoreline –
glass harpsichord’s kiss slips by,
jellyfish rumba .
Whispering willows –
tooth paste tap dancer steps out,
coral cormorant .
Lounging out the door –
now creep pages without words,
peckish cranky oust.
Wings of cow dung hit –
a lento, cavalier stars,
a corpuscle of soil –
sandwiched between fast seconds,
soles slide past boughs of strange sheep .
Be prepared for sharp turn ahead –
watch for falling molluscs & steam tractors,
summon superlative hexagons,
small blacksmith artifacts.
Old Woman Moon laughs
as the bridge spins platitudes of pudding.
The hive is now full of tranquil ditties
sharpened on spider silk.
Finally, defoliate whine glasses
as the silence seeps into the toes.
NOTE: All images are from my archive on Dark Pines Photo. Clicking images will take you to original posts (opens in new tab). Stanzas are a mix of free verse, haiku, and tanka. Many thanks.
Green sears into red,
slough summer bleeds into Fall –
framed season’s etched ridge.
Slowly smoking red
stains the corners of picture –
time’s brushed memory,
a moment smeared perfectly,
touch the rough edges, cut, bleed.
