Friday, September 22, 2017

Friday 55 September 22 2017

Welcome again to the Friday journey, where everything we desire to say attempts to erupt in exactly 55 words. This concentrated elixir can pour out in any form--free verse, formed poetry, prose fiction or non-fiction, so long as the vessel is 55 words--no more, no less. Post a link to your own message in a bottle in the comments and I will be by to see what you have concocted. We carry on this meme for our own enrichment,and in memory of a blogger named Galen Hayes, the G-Man, who started this particular ball rolling in a way no one will ever duplicate. (You can read more about that here.)

Comment moderation is on to discourage the trolls and the unserious, and the 55, as always, will be open all weekend to allow full time for the creative juices to flow.

Meanwhile, let's get down to business:


I noticed today
a crack in the world
where chaos bleeds out
a mislaid horror
fresh from remission;

the dreamer's last surprise

for some things must die
when every glass breaks,
every child's mistake
throws the best away:

your rainwater eyes
hair full of darkness
navy-blue night's luminous arc,
book-breathing walls, shelved larks


~September 2017

Process notes: I don't think anyone could have gone through this last month without feeling the breath of chaos released--this poem is an amalgam of  many past and current disasters, personal, political and planetary, and disasters to come.

Image: Larson C Ice Rift crack, prior to calving Iceberg A-68, via internet. Fair use
(If you'd like to know more about the recent activity at the Larson C ice rift in Antarctica and its newly calved mammoth iceberg, you can read about that at these links, as well as  here.)

Thursday, September 21, 2017



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

Sunday, September 17, 2017

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, September 15, 2017

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