Micropoetry: Language

It’s a mystery, how the mind leaps
from primitive sound
to intricate, webbed sentence,

A bright maple leaf makes a startling autumn sight.

Flash Fiction: Maple Leaf

The maple leaf stops them. Its veiny palm invites examination, as peach and pale green cross shades. Autumn does this to maple leaves; scorns their attempts to cling onto their tree of birth, strikes them down, flattens their flame. And then, somebody finds the leaf, finds charm in its crown-like edges, its slight resemblance to thorns.

Heron.

Poetry – Heron

A solitary heron,
silver-grey, his stature great,
resides within the river village,
old man hunched and scouring.

Pebbles.

Poetry – Pebbles

Tricoloured pebbles,
the sand stepping-stones
of a shuffling huddle,
or shifting land –
a clinking crowd at ground.

Mermaid

Flash Fiction: Soap-White

She assumes her position at the sink, everything greasy from the day’s befores. She scrubs at silver insides; the eternal circle from clean to unclean. The water pounds in and she thinks of the river; a rat’s tail – just the tail, moving through rushes.

Ahenny Slate Quarries

Poetry – To Ahenny

To Ahenny
where slate spills from the land
like prehistoric teeth.

I bite back, snap
with my new camera,
angled for scenic views,
fail to capture
that dead outreach,

Flash Fiction: The Crowd

The crowd surge forward. They all wear blue. Despite the uniformity, I pick out faces. Each expression is unique. I focus on a young man – his brown eyes are round and expectant. His childish complexion gives him a glow. I don’t want to see him dashed.

The Poetry of Wildflowers

Dead Nettle,
the words have
a rattle. Death
should not belong
to soft lilac, or even
the green, wing-like
leaves that dress you,
coquettish weed.

Flash Fiction: Cigarette

The smoke is oppressive, dangerous. Cassandra watches it curl around the armchair and already she can imagine its source – a long cigarette, dangling from the pursed lips of a grey-faced man. Every wrinkle is part of a complex pattern. She has traced paths through that face, has seen it close to her own, close enough to the feel the cool flame of his breath.

Organising Clutter.

New Year, New Poems

I’ve been working on some poetry, lately. I know this isn’t a startling revelation, but I’m quite pleased with how these particular poems are shaping up. One was inspired by the memory of my first scan in pregnancy. I was struck by the sonographer’s words ‘everything you see on the screen is bone . . .’ and this led me to my opening line: ‘When they tell you, your baby is bone.’

Poetry – I Take down the Tree

Tree

I take down the tree,
unwreathe its arms
of tinsel and bauble.
Now it is pure
and green and dark,
a figure without cover.

starfish

Starfish: Flash Fiction by K. S. Moore

As a starfish, I am pointy, shiny and spirited, with a zest for water. The tank allows me to see out into the world without taking part. I can float and watch and wait. The only problem occurs when a handler introduces me to a child.

River Scene

River Walking in Kilmacthomas

I find the river. I feel the walk beneath my soles. The sky holds a spreading heat and I follow the light into the water, where it dapples, moves through green weed and over stones. A fish startles to life and I see him flick through the depths.

Red squirrel.

Outside the Window

Waterford Writers’ Weekend is fast approaching and I will be leading a workshop called ‘Get Flashy with Fiction’ on Saturday, May 9th. The workshop will run from 10.30 am until 12.30 pm at Central Library, Waterford.

daffodil and catkins.

Bouquet: Flash Fiction by K. S. Moore

The pale yellow, shell-like construction of a daffodil . . . My niece presents me with the flower, along with a handful of catkins. The catkins draw my senses with their animal texture and my heart twists. This pure gesture stands out as my world continues to revolve with change. I take a sheet of blank paper, arrange the flowers, like a sketch. Every element has a shadow. I note the light and the darkness, capture them with my camera.