Friday, October 20, 2017

Friday 55 October 20 2017

Welcome, all, to the Friday journey, where we tip a hat to that great host of infinite possibilities now passed on, Galen Hayes, and build our own word-ships for sailing the seas of confusion, with 55 verbal planks of poetry or prose, no more no less, linked in the comments below. The rules remain the same, in that there are no rules, no strings and no obligations. Maybe you feel like playing this week, maybe you are otherwise occupied. Maybe you feel like commenting and visiting and maybe you hate it. None of that is important, except that you write when you are ready, because this is simply a writing exercise---for craft, fellowship and fun. As always, comment moderation is on to keep things real, and the prompt remains live from Friday through Sunday.


And so let's begin...





Leadlight


These words,
these broken bits of
stained glass, stained
as summer's love;
cinnabar, gold, sky cerulean;
fractured light that slants
notice of the
dead end of the year.

Faces are flown 
from the high window
 (unconsecrated now)
 their smiles
a scattered puzzle;
these October words
fall like
frostburned angels,

only good
for whispering to ghosts.


~October 2017





Note: Leadlight or leaded lights, are windows made from small sections of glass supported in lead frames, a generic term now often extended to all stained glass work, though earlier used only for simpler window or domestic casement art.  ~wikipedia



Image via internet search. Manipulated. Fair use.



28 comments:

  1. I tend to get annoyed about quoting, especially when the piece is short. But I must mention "stained/as summer's love". The images that bit brings to my mind are... glorious, the implications the things summer evenings (and nights, if those involved were really lucky) conjure are even more magnificent... And ending the whole thing with October and things that no longer are is just brilliant. I like everything about this--colors, sharp edges... all of it.

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    1. Thank you Magaly--your words mean a lot, as you know ink. ;) The stains are indeed beautiful ones, ones that revel in light. It's good to draw on those memories when the days darken.

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    2. I'm right with you. Good memories are treasures. And when the present is rotten, memories are the only things that keep us.

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  2. And here is a bit of "Trepidation" from me:

    http://magalyguerrero.com/trepidation/

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    1. I love this so much! Merry-go-sorry is a word that definitely should exist if it doesn't--it has so much more heft than 'mood swings.' ;) A masterly 55 in a fine fine series of them. I look forward to seeing how you resolve the tension between the two speakers.

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    2. How anyone every imagined hat "mood swings" could be better than "merry-go-sorry" is beyond me. I mean, that's a deliciously telling word.

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  3. These October words fall like frost burned angels...yes i am looking for the angels of 2017 to fall to earth, not that I have much of an idea of the new, consecrated angels of next year will be any better for man. You always seem to be able to peg your meaning Joy with images I truly love as pure poetry.

    political again this week

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    1. I'm really comforted, Mark, by the core truth that nothing stays the same or lasts forever--the further down we go, the stronger the force to escape and climb out of the back of the ever-plummeting stupid wagon. Or so I hope. You know I live in a blood-red state--here our local channel does a call-in weekly where people can air their 'rants and raves'--I always listen, and every week there's another disgruntled redneck saying he made a BIG mistake when he voted for Babyman. It's not much, but it helps offset those who still think people should be punished for daring to criticize him.

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    2. Oh, and thank you so much for your generous comment on my 55. It's a prolonged and difficult labor any more for me to turn out even 55 words, so I appreciate it even more when people dig them.

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  4. The old pagan rootstock of year's-end annihilation walks down this dead-end road (yes), sampling the ways a life, the heart, its words must end. No rosy promises of reawakening, not at this dark hour. I loved the shattered rose window and the frostbit angels, the sort of light that dully glows in cold lead. All of it deathly deeelightful and banished off the edges of the suburban trickertreat. No discounting the horror of it. Have a kick ass strollingbone weekend, Hedge.

    My Hedgewitchean 55 -- https://blueoran.wordpress.com/2017/10/20/jack/

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    1. Thanks, B--I feel the bite of autumn chewing ever closer to the bone, and as you say, why should the old gods, angels or spirits, escape the destruction and the indignity of everything else that is being blow up up and away, personal and universal. Your 55 was music, screams and whispers to my ears--the last gasp of all hallows is on our neck, and we'll hope, the best perhaps yet to come.

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  5. these October words
    fall like
    frostburned angels

    I love this simile, and all the lovely pieces of the puzzle (even those that are missing).

    Here is mine: http://calibanandmiranda.blogspot.co.za/2017/10/an-unfinished-canvas.html

    It was suggested by a word list, and comes a little after the wave of talk about the exploitation of female actors in an industry which falls under the Arts.

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    1. Thanks so much for joining us, Kerry. A sad topic, very feelingly done.

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  6. Here's to my astute, pit-faced, corduroy jacket wearing sixth grade teacher...
    https://angieinspired.wordpress.com/2017/10/20/i-have-mr-kolasny-to-thank-for-this-confirmed-love-of-self-and-dictionaries/
    Happy Friday

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  7. I'm in too. Have a kick ass weekend.

    https://paulscribbles.wordpress.com/2017/10/20/jack-o-lantern/

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  8. "these October words fall like frostburned angels, only good for whispering to ghosts" Oh your poem and this quote from it speak to me right where I am. I have been thinking of my father, wishing he were alive so I could talk politics with him. I just speak to the air and hope he hears me.

    Here is my contribution

    http://blackinkhowl.blogspot.com/2017/10/sharp-enough-to-bleed.html

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  9. Am laid up and sorry to miss 55 today, but i wanted to wish everyone the traditional kick-ass weekend, and to read your poem. Must go collapse now in a heap of uselessness!

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    1. Thanks for stopping by, Shay, and hope you feel better soon.

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    2. Hope whatever ails you runs away soon.

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  10. https://cricketvigil.wordpress.com/2017/10/20/3-d/

    https://cricketvigil.wordpress.com/2017/10/20/windowless/

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    1. I was an altar boy in a basilica, and stained glass stains memories. what else would a bored kid look at but at /out the windows, high and streaming (not me, for another few years), at the cut glass. ~

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  11. I love how the broken and stained glass opens a space for the light to slant it's way in to the breaking of the year.I wonder these days if any of us is worth anything but a whisper to a ghost.

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  12. The image of those broken windows and the light in contrast to the death of season works for me as the soothing words to a dying person. We might need it, but maybe it's a tragedy that we cannot live with reality...

    Here is my poem

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  13. This is beautiful. I've missed visiting and reading poetry. Thank you so much for this tribute. Friday's Flash 55 was always a favorite. I've actually written a poem to contribute. Mine is HERE.

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  14. I just love the image of stained glass windows, broken and fallen, unconsecreated, of course. I love this October time too... and of course we must whisper to the ghosts. Here is my 55: https://othermary.wordpress.com/2017/10/22/stepping-into-darkness/
    I hope your kickass weekend continues through the week. Thank you so much for doing this. xx

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    1. Thank you so much, Mary, and thanks for joining us--sorry I did not get this up earlier, but you definitely made the end of the weekend kick ass.

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  15. Joy, Your piece is so apt, both for the season and for the metaphor of shattered expectation and attenuated beauty.

    Here's my contribution for the weekly fest. --Steve

    http://excursionsanddiversions-sking.blogspot.com/2017/10/to-see.html

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'Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance' ~Carl Sandburg