will this be what remains of me: the hours worked, certificates gained, events attended? will this be the face, reflected in the gallery of eyes, that never saw me as i was? will this be the voice still reverberating, writhing on airwaves, spouting scripted speech spuriously? will this be the book, writing on the pages…
The Soul of the Moment – A Quintilla
the soul of the moment, buried ‘neath the rust of moments that passed like smoke, wistfully waning. cast to grey tides, swallowed ‘neath, carried listlessly out to oceans vast.
Words Said Under a Fearful Breath – A Virelai
this conversation warrants libation. you see, your consternation is indication frailty guides your mentation. such trepidation, dear me.
Peepshow From a Peephole – A Huitan
one can never be too sure of these things, meaning matters of men and their secrets. who knows what dread a friendly word may bring? the snare is in plain view, though few seek it. sleeping dogs may lie, but a man, he sits, waiting to descend when your back is turned, and test if…
As Sweet as it Gets – A Mistress Bradstreet Stanza
extinguishing with the slow-rising sun: one by one, street lamps fading, turning cold. snow, great hoary spirals, swept cross tattered roofs. frozen folds layering the lofty, languid treeline: rows of imposing black oak and red pine. crueler than can be told. pastry landscape, a powder sugar dusted bun.
Sincerely, From Des Moines – A Madrigal
what thoughts cross her mind in her copper flat? staring out a second-story window: barren fields, lonely roads, a river’s flow. baring a patina, a well-worn hat: intent to not allow her sheen to show what thoughts cross her mind in her copper flat, staring out a second-story window. ever-evasive, an elusive cat, and all…
An Open Field – A Haiku
i often picture myself, alone in a field swaying in the wind.
The Heather and the Slings – A Sicilian Octave
i watched the birds dance among the heather, hopping and chirping in the breath of spring. no thoughts had they just then as to whether the frost, nor the chill that winter would bring. no future pain: neither now, or ever, might hope to still the songs that they might sing. their voices: full, warm…
Dance of the Water Striders – A Monotetra
we roamed aside the tow’ring hill nearby a lake, whereby we’d fill our canteens up and to their fill. drink in the chill; drink in the chill. we’d sit along the riverside and watch the water striders glide, entranced, intrigued and mystified. minds wand’ring wide; minds wand’ring wide.
Me and the Scone – A Tawddgyrch Cadwynog
just me, myself and i alone, nose to the stone til nothing’s left. i have my health, this orange cream scone, these aging bones, yet still bereft.
Piecework Prose 