Friday 55 Halloween Edition

Welcome, dear friends and readers to our last 55 for the month of lonesome October. Soon the veil will be as thin as it gets; perhaps something will whisper to you across it. Or perhaps another voice is calling you to write. As always, we gather here to remember the G-man, stretch our writing muscles and enjoy ourselves. There are no rules, except that your contribution must consist of 55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less. Comment moderation is on, but I check often, so leave your link in the comments below from Friday through Sunday, and I will be around to see what you have built.

Now, let the shadows dance..

 Penumbra

Fallen angels must dance just so, quick feet

on the chest of October night,

three umbrae darkening, together alone;

maiden, mother and golem crone.

Maiden's house is burnt to the ground.

Mother's been drained like a drunkard's flask.

And mad as the moon is the golem's widow,

stark in the hedgerows of the Veil-keeper's riddle.

 ~October 2017

Header image via internet. Author unknown. Fair use.

Footer image: Jack,  ©joyannjones 2017  Pumpkin carved by my son.

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.

Friday the 13th 55

Welcome to the Friday the 13th edition of the Friday 55, where 55 words of prose or poetry, no more--no less, will takes us on our individual journeys, each one as unique as the writer, and some no doubt, imbued with the spirit of the day and season, to some quite unhallowed spots. Or so I hope. All the rules remain the same: we do this in memory of the G-man, as a writing exercise for our own enjoyment, and for fun and friendship. There are no strings or commitments, and comment moderation is on to keep things real. As always, the prompt remains alive from Friday to Sunday.

So, in the Halloween spirit, let's begin...

The Mistake

We cursed the dark

but woke the cold plague wind,

cracked summer's crypted spell,

talked the pretty into hell.

 And the show begins.

Black cat's-paw on bleeding-stone;

two speakers in a field of bone

bite down a forgotten kiss.

Whispers from the too-full skull

tongue the pumpkin's cut-out hull,

but never the voice I miss.

~October 2017 

Image: Lies and Persuasion, and detail thereof,  ©Kris Kuksi, 2007 All rights reserved.

You can find more of Kris Kuksi's amazing work and his bio here at his website.

Friday 55 October 6 2017

Greetings, fellow travelers. It's once again Friday, the threshold of a weekend and of our jaunt down Route 55. This is a writing challenge, asking you to put your thoughts into 55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less, but it is also a gathering of spirits. Spirits battered or unbowed, spirits flying rudderless--some of us in a sad case when it comes to our muse. Therefor I want to emphasize that this is a place where there are no rules except that you use the form, no endless Mr Linky or obligatory chit-chat, no mandatory one-phrase comments dragged from reluctant keyboards, and most of all, no faking it. We are here to enjoy each other and feel comfortable with working with words together, whether it's every week or once a year.

This link I found through Rommy Driks talks about the difficulty of being creative in the crazyhouse of Trump's America--some of you may relate. That said, with the hat tipped to a better human than I will ever be (you can read about Galen here,) I hope for us all to have a kickass weekend, despite the times and the dismal real-world provocations otherwise.

So, let's begin. 

(Oh, and it *is* the month of All Hallows, by the way...)

The Arrival

The eyes of the hag

stare from the night,

broken windows

in a house with no kitchen.

October has come

to harvest the bright

to coo to the dead

to slip the razor

inside the fruit.

The red way shines

in the bitter light.

There's nowhere to hide,

no road that runs out

of Murdertown.

~October 2017

Image via internet; author unknown. Fair use.

Personal Note--My blog-hopping days of "love yours--here's mine" are over and items posted in this spirit may not be answered. There are literally dozens of sites for that--you don't need this one.  Also, each prompt begins on Friday and expires Sunday evening. Older prompts are not monitored.

The Last Peony

The Last Peony

The cold crawled in and flowers fell.

No charm of mine could bring them back, no

hex on the wind would keep it warm.

The withering came, creeping up my neck and so

I stirred the dark and began to make;

the face of a moon child, round, unmarked,

to wear, first try and somewhat

skewed, one eye too old, but

no one sees a child, you know,

except to swallow its light.

Then feathers and furs, white and blue,

a yellow brooch of badger skull,

a peony from a peacock's eye, twined real

with dry heart's blood; but still

alone, I stirred and made again.

From cat's fingerbones and casts of worms

three pearl alpacas, from the spilled wheat
my snake-spine pig, from snailshell opalescent
my solemn pachyderm--six weeks I spent

knotting howdah-fringe with quicksilver.

I the maypole round which they danced,

they my partners on their living strings,

each strand my soul, each hoof my hand;

held like eggs, I smoothed their ears, intent

upon their amaranthine tale, until the sound

of their gentle deaths

broke my looking glass heart.

The peony cracked and reddened the skull.

I wait now, alone in the dark and child

no more, still til the flowers come again.

~October 2017

for Fireblossom's Spellcasting

Process notes: The image which inspired this poem is called Witch in Winter, by Sachiyo Aoyama. Here is the site from which it comes, and the only bio I could find of this young Japanese artist.

In the language of flowers, the peony signifies good fortune, prosperity, and a happy marriage, and in Victorian times, bashfulness. With a long history as symbols in both Western and Eastern mythology, their bark and roots were also believed to have medicinal properties, including the ability to 'cool the blood,' and ease the pain of childbirth.

 Image: Witch in Winter, 2010, © Sachiyo Aoyama  All rights reserved. Fair use.