Starlorn

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Starlorn

(a 55)

 

 

 

The black dog runs

on the wind that

reaps the world.

 

He bites starlorn

at the moon who knows

his teeth will find marrow.

 

Behind him comes

the scythe that cuts tomorrow

down to bone.

 

Moon must learn to bleed,

monkeys to eat snow,

man to live on tears

where the black dog runs.

 

December 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

posted for Dverse Poets

The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Images: Moonrise, 1884, © Stanislaw Maslowski   Public Domain

Wolf-Dog, manipulated, 1976 © Jamie Wyeth  Public Domain

Friday Flash 55 For July 2020

Welcome once again to the 55, all. It has been an eventful month, and also a month mired in chaos and distemper. This weekend we get together to add our words to the ongoing pile of all our laments and celebrations, in the form of 55 words, no more, no less. We also do it to remember Galen Hayes, the originator of this meme, as we continue to miss his ever-humorous and supportive presence, as we do all the kickass weekends that seem so long ago. 

The rules are unchanged--set down your thoughts in a poem, piece of flash fiction or prose poetry on any subject, in exactly 55 words. 

Post the url of the result in the comments below and I will be by to read the result.For those to whom words are coming with difficulty, your absence is forgiven from the heart.

The 55 begins at  Thursday midnight and will last til Sunday at 4:00 PM CST.

~*~

Here is my own effort

July in America

The tune that plays tonight

I cannot carry.

 Voice

cracks while sirens

 robot-howl it

clearer, louder:

the ape-rebooted's song

of darkness

coming.

July's made 

of screams 

and broken light, of

cloudy poison rising, eyes

shucked oysters

poached in acid tides.

Stars fall dim,

 rimmed

with bleeding innocence;

 this copper-salt rain 

will never wash 

us clean.

July 2020

Images: Tear Gas in Portland, Oregon  Getty Images  Fair Use

Untitled , © Zdzisław Beksiński   Fair Use

 

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.

 

 

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

Moon Prophet

Moon Prophet

The  moon is a white hand on fire,

a skull's sign in the water, candled

on the drowning of night.

At the crossroads, the black dog howls;

six pups suckle and snarl on her scarlet milk.

The wind tastes of dangerous words:

war and righteousness, delicious with chocolate

patriotism.

The moon is burning, and still she knows

the time's come again for poor men to die.

~February 2017 

for real toads

Kerry's Moon  

Image: Shadow With Pelvis And Moon, 1943, © Georgia O'Keefe

Fair use via wikiart.org