Friday 55 April 20 2018

Another Friday whirls us to its tune, as we gather to celebrate the giving spirit of the man who created this meme, Galen Hayes, and test our craft with the 55 form. No rules, as usual, except the word count--55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less, --and the hope that everyone has a kickass weekend. Link your creation in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning, and I will be by to read, but bear with me as I am behind the curve this week.

 ~*~

Just some nonsense; I'm afraid I have a case of ghost fatigue...

Ghost Fatigue

I'm sick of these ghosts

wasting my time,

dust of dead roses

in each ululant whine,

their covert self absorption

their bleached back-turned eyes,

that creaking persistence

presenting the past

so sauced with regret

it's better to fast;

faces set tight in

flash-frozen reproach;

love can't save a drowning man

who won't grab the rope.

~April 2018

Image: Lace and Ghosts, 1856, Victor Hugo      Public domain.
Factoid: "Victor Hugo produced more than 4000 drawings. Originally pursued as a casual hobby, drawing became more important to Hugo shortly before his exile, when he made the decision to stop writing in order to devote himself to politics. Drawing became his exclusive creative outlet during the period 1848–1851. Hugo worked only on paper, and on a small scale; usually in dark brown or black pen-and-ink wash, sometimes with touches of white, and rarely with color."  ~wikiart.org

Sprite

Sprite

Once 

you were

close to me as flesh to bones

light to day

moon to dream

flies to honey.

Not really you, was it

that amber heart

glittered across my dark,

that voice, that breath

offering perplexing comfort

but just a sprite of you

ungrasped like a child's balloon

sent out to sail to

disappointing freedom--a popped prop,

bright red scraps, then dead-forgot

forever

yet here I stay

bud-eyes to the sky

immutable twisted root

hosting the symbiotic 

froth of fungi, the frozen nymphs,

underground and secretly

altering, 

or

flailing out a tendril, celebrating a twig,

rediscovering my wedding

of  worms, finalized at last

after a long engagement.

Old balloons still may sail 

on paper;

I stay here 

everspent but evergreen.

~April 2018

for Magaly's  Thirteen

the 13 words: 

flesh bones alter amber paper flies frozen breath voice comfort perplex memory rediscover

Image: The eye like a balloon sails to infinity, 1898, Odilon Redon      

Public Domain

Friday 55 April 13 2018

Welcome, writers. It looks like we have another Friday the Thirteenth to accommodate in our 55 word journey; feel free to play with that concept if you'd like. For those writing 30 poems in 30 days for April, extra welcomes, with all respect.

To recap our mission here for any new aspirants, we come together every Friday to celebrate the legacy of one of the great original bloggers, Galen Hayes, who gave so many support and a laugh hosting this meme of 55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less. Link yours in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning, and I will be by to read.

A glance to the poles for my 55 this week:

 Wendigo

Time shrinks

to shadow-smoke.

Forever-winter drowses

a snowdust
dim darkness of white.

Don't wake her.

Her wendigo's eye shut

still hates

 the old rose by the fence,

bleeding life

 at each finger's end.

Her ice-blanket's twist

shudders out 

floods,

dreams of dead fishes

ash from a thousand wildfires.

April

darkens with

the desperation of hummingbirds.

~April 2018

wendigo, also, windigo: (in the folklore of some northern Algonquian peoples) a cannibalistic giant; a person who has been transformed into a monster by the consumption of human flesh.

Some facts from the Norwegian Polar Institute  on how Arctic warming will affect the rest of the globe, including reduced thermohaline circulation and the albedo effect.

Images: The Enigma, 1871, by Gustave Dore 
Dark Roses On Light Background, 1891,Henri Fantin-Latour    
Public domain.  Manipulated.