Tag: poetry

The dandelion — a yellow clock wound down,a pale globe drifting on the wind.Its seeds, small hushes with parachutes,spin off on invisible ropes. The bloom has emptied; gold loosened into air,a lace of stems in autumn’s thin light.Yet in that unbuttoning it plants insistence —a promise of soft landings, of green. We watch the white … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Blowing Away, v.2

Dried milkweed hangheavy on brittle branches,pods held like closed handsagainst a hush of sky. Then a seam gives — papery crack,a scatter: white skeins lift,not birds yet, but small weather,each seed a flake of wing. The twigs empty their maps;air fills with soft insistence.What looked like husk becomes migration,a sudden translation of the ordinary. Leave … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Avian Essence, v.2

The frame holds a tipped crate,its lip offering up colour —ochre, rust, lichen-green —a spill arranged by gravity, not grace. Each gourd is rendered patiently:thick ribs catching light,warted skins stippled like dry brushpressed into stubborn canvas. Shadow pools beneath them,cool blues cupping warm bellies,edges softened where the eye rests too long,sharpened where a knife of … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Autumn’s Fruit, v.4 (ekphrastic reworking for painters)

Crate overturned. Gourds tumble—humped, hollow, stubborn as small planets.Colors bruise—pumpkin, pewter, lime—skins pocked like weathered faces. Sun and rain carved them. Hands did not.They rattle when nudged, sound like loose teeth.Cold breath comes through the field; leaves scatter. I cup one: its skin is dry, warm where the day held it.No sermons. Just the taste … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Autumn’s Fruit, v.3

In late harvest light, a wooden crate tips—a river of nobbled gourds pooling on straw:squat globes, long-necked lanterns, sun-browned mapsmottled with ochre, chartreuse, and bruise. Each one a small, knotted country — scoredby sun and rain, ribbed with winter’s memory,its pockmarks and scars the kind of languagethat names droughts and late frosts without a shout. … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Autumn’s Fruit, v.2

In the cluttered hush of the studiothe inventory of things begins to list itself:a cracked crate, a sagging shelf, a rolled canvasbreathing like folded skin in the corner. A canvas draped over a chair, a clay hand in a jar,colours spattered down the floorboards like small suns.Each piece carries the humidity of a night—the tremor … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Art is Everywhere, v.3

In the cluttered hush of my studioa sheet of canvas breathes like folded skin.Turpentine fogs the window; a plaster handleans against a crate stamped LAST SUMMER. One painting is a bruise of ultramarine—another, a grin of ochre stuck on burlap.I price them in small currencies: time, regret, glue.Sell one and the throat hollows; keep all … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry. – Art is Everywhere, v.2

We are the things the sea forgot —salt-sanded, hollow where a heart once ran.They come with voices like fast knives,bragging the bright heat of being heard. We remember other storms: slow presses,the river’s grammar of rubbing and giving.Barnacles hang like old punctuation;sun has written its absent names along our ribs. You pound the air with … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Two of Us (a.k.a. Angered Conversants, v.3)

Wind knifes the shore and keeps its rude counsel;two salt-bleached lengths lie like old bones—one half-buried, the other split and cuppedas if to hold what the tide forgot. They bear the maps of storms: dark rings, sun-bleached grain,a barnacled thumb where some net once caught.Around them voices spool — hot, bright, and short —the human … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Angered Conversants, v.2