Friday, February 16, 2018

Friday 55 February 16 2018

Greetings all. Here we meet again at another Friday dedicated to the pastime, craft and/or art of verbal expression, all in 55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less. If you've been here before, you know the drill, you know all about the G-man, and why I do this, and why it matters, and if it's your first time, you are welcome to the table to see how it all plays out. As always, if inspired to write--in exactly 55 words, of course--please link your result in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning, and I will be by to check it out.




My 55 for this week:






Ginger Jar








Love,

the black tsunami--

I think of Van Ness,
a ginger jar green-gold,

plum-smooth
the heart I keep inside it

not a thing of valves and blood
but daylight rain and
cricket-song

all wind-shattered soon
 
when raindrops
 sharper

than chirps will pound
at my feet
 paisley the sand

and the
void's mouth take
 this flower-blown beach.




 ~February 2018






















The Ginger Jar, 1926, ©Samuel John Peploe
A Rocky Shore, Iona (detail) ©Samuel John Peploe   
Public Domain
Both images have been manipulated.

Friday, February 9, 2018

Friday 55 February 8 2018

In all the usual goings on I somehow lost track of the days of the week, and so this presentation of the 55 is a bit mangled. But the rhyme and reason remain the same--55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less, and no rules except to follow the gone but never forgotten G-man's precept to have a kickass weekend whenever possible. If you have risen to the challenge this week, leave a link in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning, and I will be by to see the result.

I myself have had no time, muse, or space to write, so I cobbled something up from old notebooks, old times, and a challenge at  Real Toads   from 55er and poet extraordinaire, Susie Clevinger, on the celebrated stairway to heaven.





Goodnight On The Stairs




White moonflower,
grapefruit and dust

scent the cast-off shirt-tails 
of my sleepless love.

Mauve wallflower
jasper and rust

open up the dusk,
confound the cognoscenti,

quiet the bridling bears.
We've come

to unwrap antique bedsprings
climb poppy-petaled stairs

( tho the Dispossessor
waits to take his cut )

for the kissing sanctuary
of  goodnight, eyes shut.
  

 ~February 2018











Images: Flowers on the Stairs, by Stefan Kuchian    Public Domain
Kiss of the Sea, ©Octavio Ocampo   Fair Use



Friday, February 2, 2018

Friday 55 February 2 2018

Another Friday, another opportunity to practice the minimalist's craft of creating a coherent piece of prose or poetry in 55 words, no more, no less. Thanks to the G-man, for teaching me/us how, and to all who come by to play here with their minds and pens.

As usual, the 55 will be open from Friday through Sunday morning. To share your bit of word art, please leave a link in the comments below.





My 55:


The Talkers





One could slice
the moon in two
with the knife of a tongue,
the other rubble-up the Grand Canyon
with landslides of voice.

The word-scalpel
probes scarlet-tender wounds,
incises proud initials.

So wonder here in silence:
is it rain plashing past the glass
that kills the paper
or a sudden
rush of pure heart's blood?




~February 2018








Image: Alchemy, or the Useless Science, 1958, ©Remedios Varo    Fair Use.

Friday, January 26, 2018

Friday 55 January 26, 2018

Despite a frazzled brain and an uncooperative Blogger dashboard, I have (hopefully) managed to get this Friday 55 up and running, so welcome! This little hidden backstreet of the internet is a place for practicing the writer's craft--in 55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less--and sharing it in memory of a unique soul named Galen Hayes, who has since passed on to a larger horizon. So if you're in the mood to turn your thoughts on a lathe of 55 words, please link the result in the comments below and I will be by to contemplate it.

Please note that blogger is being difficult lately, and comments may take longer than usual to publish--if you can't get yours to come through the interweb hoses, email me at the link on my profile, which you can access from the sidebar, and I will see that it gets included.



My own 55 follows here...




 

Some Random Fancies


Memory's mirror steals tomorrow.
Thought gates in

 comfort or torture, hauled
in the wheeled heart's freight.

Hope's a midnight dancer with
masks removed at dawn. Fate

flies like a drunken raven;
jealousy poisons the lawn.
.
Lust has scars and flowers
for those who call it love;

death's an infinite kidnap
where no ransom is enough.


~January 2018








Image: Girl with Death Mask (She Plays Alone) 1938, © Frida Kahlo   Fair Use