Malefica

Malefica

Of course, your worships! Of course

I'll tell you everything.

Just take the pins away.

I don't grieve for what he took,

the soul from me like a pinching shoe,

so why should you?

He started small, being just an imp;

to suckle me up like chokevine

on the corn was his main aim

and so he twined, he capered, growing greater--

so droll, good sirs, and stroked--o yes

he stroked, but always without respite

he talked, his wheedling voice alone

in the mother-pit of all silence.

He brought forth secrets from my womb;

the malice in history's whispers

the true seraphim in Eden

and Lucifer's ten thousand sweet names;

how to rot and how to blight

how to pox the peach-pink skin and turn

the plump cheek hollow.

Surely you understand! I've always

been  fond of learning, good sirs. I only wished

to improve myself. Do not! Please, 

don't pull me from the sky;

for Hel is winter deep 

and fire is no girl's friend.

 ~September 2017

for Fireblossom's   Distorted Lens

Note: I have flagrantly conflated pagan Norse Hel, a land of infinite cold and the dead, with both burning at the stake and Christian Hellfire, because witchcraft is often tied to the survival of paganism in medieval Europe, but mostly, because I can.

Images: Hexenschlaff (Witches' Sleep) 1889, by Albert von Keller   Public domain.
Los Caprichos(The Follies:Beautiful Master) by Francisco Goya   Public domain

Conclave of Imps

Conclave Of Imps

The palms lose their balance

boiled in a cast-iron sky that

rattles its lid in a steam-engine wind.

I walk  here alone, far from the wet-country

bitter with night coffee and gypsy bad dreams.

Dreams start so well--full-skirted, dancing

with warm wine, soft whispers and wanting--

to end as a moonscape of concrete and slag,

a juice of war enriched with uranium,

goose-stepping soldiers and killing machines.

Why does reality invade me like a border state

occupy my  ears with its sugar-rush newscasts

besiege me with idiots and their paper tiger words?

Instead of a candle we get thermonuclear glow,

smothering wildfires, powerless streets.

Instead of sweet reason, a conclave of imps.

~September 2017

posted for Brendan's   Juice

Images: Melancholy Atomic, 1945, © Salvador Dali   Fair Use
Palm Tree in Hurricane Irma, via internet.  Public domain

Friday 55 September 15 2017

Greetings, fellow travelers, and welcome to this Friday journey  which follows gleefully in the footsteps of those who blazed the trail in this unique short form for celebrating words--55 of them, to be exact--and the writers who work with them. Should you choose to join me, you pick the mood, you pick the style--light, dark, free verse, formed poetry, prose fiction or non-fiction, or any combination thereof, so long as the end result is 55 words, no more, no less. Post a link to your 55 in the comments, and I will most gladly visit to see what you have wrought and, of course, provide wishes for a kickass weekend.


As always, comment moderation is on to weed out bots, ego-freaks, dilettantes and trolls.

So, without further ado, my 55 for this week:

The Apple of My Eye

The jade moon canted slant,

fruit flew through the air;

I wore only black

with white-painted lips.

 I danced in your shadow

or on your sharp teeth,

tongued into oblivion;

an unseated eye

in a caramel apple,

wobbled in chaos

by a sticky-fingered brat

back when love played
at Surrealism

and twirled its Dali mustache.

~September 2017

 For background on this meme, and the man who created it, Galen Hayes, go here.

 Note: For me this meme will always be about getting together with friends and having fun, but I want to emphasize that there are no strings, nothing obligatory, no rounds to make except those you feel up for--use your 55 to connect if you so desire, or simply as a vehicle to provide that nudge when you're stuck, the challenge to be concise, a fillip of honed idea to take you into the weekend. There's nothing wrong with reaching out to support others (except when it strangles the desire to participate at all) but many many sites exist for that, so here it is purely optional. 

Image: The Eye, 1945, © Salvador Dali

The Nest

The Nest

In the dark of dreams

the heartbird flew

far and wide till she came to my arms.

I built her a nest of silver and blue

wisps and mirrors and scraps of sky,

lined with the down from my own broken wings;

but she cocked her head, blinked her jet-bead eye

and jumped to my breast.

With head tucked to my chin,

her warmth and mine 

cupped 

and entwined,

together we slept

through the tempest outside

heartbeat to heartbeat

against

the cold tide.

~September 2017

Optional Musical Accompaniment

Images: The Phoenix Bird, 1990, ©Viorel Marginean     Fair Use
Oak Fractured By A Lightning, 1842, Maxim Vorobiev   Public Domain