Friday 55 April 27 2018

Another week, another month flies by us here at the 55 forum. Being April, many of you playing here have been honing your skills by writing a poem a day all month, and I remember clearly that at about this point one's brain feels like a sore muscle. You are doubly welcome, for taking yourselves and your writing seriously, and writing to the point of exhaustion in a climate where there is hardly time to think about poetry or art, let alone create it. But rejoice, even April eventually passes, and hopefully this form will work its magic for tired minds today.

As always the rules remain the same, 55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less, as decreed by the much missed originator, Galen Hayes. Link your response in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning and I will be by to read the result.

Just a mood piece this week...

Holding Hands At The Last Chance Truckstop

Our breath

marbling air like

smoke in a jar

when the candle's snuffed,

joined hands

brittle as sin's old skin

shed from the body of love,

as fossil petals

laid away in a book unread

because spring was kisses away
 from where

we tried to drive over fire,

years ago

before

the road burned down.

~April 2018

Images: Gas, 1940, ©Edward Hopper  All Rights Reserved.  Fair Use

Untitled  ©Zdzislaw Beksinski   All Rights Reserved.  Fair Use