Wednesday, June 27, 2018

Disconnect

Dear readers, I am disconnecting from the blog world for a bit. My internet connection has become horribly unpredictable and unreliable, but more than that, I find my brain just unable to cope with the discipline of writing and reading on any kind of regular basis.

For those of you who don't know, my husband is fighting lung cancer, and the sand goes very quickly through the hourglass right now. I feel that I need to be with him, directing my energies his way while I can.

I apologize for abandoning the 55 for awhile, but I will no doubt be back at some point. Till then, thank you all for the support and the input you have so generously given me over the years.






















Friday, June 22, 2018

Friday 55 June 22 2018

The burden of events this week is heavy. The visions before us are almost apocalyptic in their power. Yet what else can we do but write. My previous poem (on Wednesday) was my pitiful attempt not to address, but at least to respond, to the hatred, cynical evil and destruction of our world's moral and political fiber. Today, it's time for the 55. Thanks to Galen Hayes for starting this meme that is all that keeps my pen moving. There are no rules except the word count--55 words of prose or poetry, no more no less. Link your work in the comments below between Friday and Saturday at midnight, and I will be by to read.



My 55:

Dark-Lantern



The heart's a dark-lantern
thorn-cradled in
a cliff-cracking tree,
a nested-bird glimmer

in grey-green leaves 
by  perpetual sea
where language is
sibilant as spray,

arcane as whales' song,
grey-green as their play.
Light itself speaks from
the branch wind-whispered

and never stutters
tho the window shutters; through
the grey-green bars night
echoes with stars.



~June 2018






Olive trees on Thassos









Note: "A dark lantern is a candle lantern with a sliding shutter so that it may conveniently be made dark without extinguishing the candle" ~wikipedia



Top Image: Olive tree~Candle, ©Christos Bokoros 1994.    All Rights Reserved





The 55 is now closed. Thanks to all who stopped by to participate. See you next week.


Wednesday, June 20, 2018

Fox In The Kittens


Fox In The Kittens


You're a kite in the crows
a fox in the kittens
the dagger-light thrown
where the poisoned word's written.

I hear your screech by the dolmen
catch your stench in the doorway;
your copper cup's full when
the blood hits the causeway.

Astraea is chained
with a gold liar's lasers
while money's papier-mâché'd
into goblins with tasers;

my gift to you
is a kiss from the razor
to turn your eyes blind
to return all your favors

so the sun rises mild
so dawn saves the child.


~June 2018






I am bitter, furious and heartbroken over the evil being done on our southern border. May all of us stand up for the light, for basic human rights, and stop this vile immoral 'policy' which is nothing more than a cynical political calculus at the expense of helpless boys, girls, parents and infants.  Babies in arms, some, ripped from their mothers and put into cages-- detention centers, internment camps, bureaucratic hells on earth, for the crime of doing as every single one of our own ancestors did, coming here for a better life. There are no words.








Friday, June 15, 2018

Friday 55 June 15 2018

Another midpoint in another month brings us once again to the 55, that meme originated by the one and only Galen Hayes in what has to be called the dim recesses of blog history, when so much was so different...except the rules, which remain the same: link your 55 words of prose or poetry, no more no less, in the comments below between Friday and Saturday at midnight, and I will be by to read.


My scrabbled together 55 this week:

Smell Of A Storm








You wear again
the smell of a storm,
fumes of a dream.
Your shadow stands in smoke,
gaming the dying sun to
light your cobra eyes.

I reach out
now as I did then
before summer nights
gave their souls to snow;
 this flash and bang
this show 

is all of you I'll ever know




~June 2018








Note, still having internet issues--bear with me if I take forever to get to your link. I am leaving comment moderation off so you can still read each other's if I am MIA.




Friday, June 8, 2018

Friday 55 June 8 2018

Welcome to the Friday word emporium, 55ers. Here we try to put aside the conventions of the blogosphere and look to our own craft, in a place I like to think of as a comfortable room full of non-judgemental kindred spirits, an atmosphere I always felt when this meme was overseen by its generous originator, Galen Hayes. The rules remain the same, no rules except the word count, 55 of them, no more, no less, prose, poetry, satire, lyric, narrative lament...whatever you can wrap your pen around.

Link your effort in the comments below between Friday and Saturday at midnight, and I will be by to read.


Without further ado, let's start the 55 rolling:



Resonance







Sampling
the aquifer of her 
semi-conductive sorrows
my clone begins
to hate me.

Who 
could blame her

blistered
with alien faults,
given not life
but a monotone's bastard
resonance,

no cry, no song's sigh
to cipher our carrion end.
The soul she cannot twin
fears her. Eternity shines 
liquid before me;

forever she's held
homeless.


 ~June 2018



















Images: Polar Light, 1926, ©Rene Magritte   Fair Use
Title unknown, ©Dmitry Brodetsky, via internet. Fair Use.

Sunday, June 3, 2018

Clocking Out




Clocking Out







2:07 pm in the 1932
over the flattest bridge
in the arrondissement, flyblown
with grey men in black hats,
where I hadn't been born
just to die but
many
many who had
were getting ready
after a glass of Pernod, of absinthe,
after another gasper.


I punched in
for the
salvage, for the
love-making bedded
in mustard-gas linen
with souls of dead boys precison-worked
behind lively eyes, 
(mais pas les généraux, 
or insects in black hats.) My
sequins bright as
the flash

of rat's eyes in trenches,
feathers to fly
my velvet cloche helm v.
the midnight sword wind
off the Somme, the sweep,
the stench. It
was only a dance
beneath the clock
of statues, of bones, a few seconds
excused
from hundred-year plagues

sent by that god who gives nothing
a  defense--jamais de la vie!--
not even the bee

except for
the sting that kills it.




~June 2018






for Kerry's camera











Another one without much editing--thanks to Kerry for the photographic nudge.



Image: Clock of the Académie Française, Paris
Andre Kertesz (1932)