Moonfrost

Moonfrost

There's a place

in butterfly dusk

where moonfrost drifts in sepia crystals, 

where nightbirds' wings fold

so that even flight

cannot beat its way out

of the stillness of giants.

It's the place

where you stand

in the twilight of trees, where the heart 

still stalks the thing

that thinks shadows hide it

but shows in the dark,

bright as a moon that

glows like a cygnet

asleep on a midnight lake.

~March 2018

posted for Kerry's FLASH 

 at real toads

Some mood music...

Image:Crepuscule, 1897, by Heinrich Kuhn

Friday 55 March 2 2018

Another Friday brings us to the table of word-ly repasts, dressed in white screen linen, with 55 plates thoughtfully placed for each serving. Meanwhile, the world continues on its path around the sun seemingly oblivious as human society as we know it continues to devolve into chaos on its path to self-immolation; still, perhaps we've had some glimpses of hope this week in the brave determination of a new generation suddenly and brutally coming of age in the flux. Let's hope so, and regardless, let us offer our own hope,or lack of it, or just our dreams, in 55 words of poetry or prose, no more, no less, as we remember the absent but constant Galen Hayes, who managed to face each Friday with a light hand and a kind word.

As always, please link your effort in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning, and I will be by to read.

As for me, I have a little nonsense to offer, that's all...

Minotaur

Under the sword

you don't even blink

as if such things

can hold no power.

My hair is crimped lead

but you hold me up

eyes softer with

sheen than your ebony sides.

It's not modern to faint

but of course I do

when taken by myth

blood-alive in a man

souled by a minotaur.

~March 2018

Image via internet, attribution to Gabrielle Bakker, but no such work was found on her website. All rights reserved to the author.

Friday 55 February 23 2018

Welcome to this week's meeting of minds and pens, where we remember a man named Galen Hayes for always being human, supportive and most of all, able to make laughter easy. The meme he originated, 55 words of prose or poetry, no more no less, on any subject, in any way, continues here, where we stress the exercise for its own intrinsic value, and not for the visits or comments it may draw, and certainly not as any obligation. So feel free to write without rules or expectations, and as often or as occasionally as you please, and link the result in the comments below. I will be delighted to come read it. The 55, as always, stays live from Friday till Sunday morning.

What I managed to throw together this week...

Mare

Time has made things small

whitened eyes shrink the sky
to fretful glances,

mouthfuls snatched 

in cloudy dips,

the great round room of mind

become a hoarder's 

feckless tip.

Yet night still grows

her waving shadows.

The blue-
winged mare who flew
head-first

across stars' streams

comes down at last

on emerald grass

stilled

with dreams.

~February 2018

tip (2) noun...11. British.  a) dump for refuse, as that from a mine. b) Informal. an untidy place, especially a room ~dictionary.com

 

Images: Study of the Head of a Horse, 1439, by Pisanello      Public Domain

A Red Horse, 1938, ©Marc Chagall      Public Domain

Friday 55 February 16 2018

Greetings all. Here we meet again at another Friday dedicated to the pastime, craft and/or art of verbal expression, all in 55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less. If you've been here before, you know the drill, you know all about the G-man, and why I do this, and why it matters, and if it's your first time, you are welcome to the table to see how it all plays out. As always, if inspired to write--in exactly 55 words, of course--please link your result in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning, and I will be by to check it out.

My 55 for this week:

Ginger Jar

Love,

the black tsunami--

I think of Van Ness,

a ginger jar green-gold,

plum-smooth

the heart I keep inside it

not a thing of valves and blood

but daylight rain and

cricket-song

all wind-shattered soon

 

when raindrops

 sharper

than chirps will pound

at my feet

 paisley the sand

and the

void's mouth take

 this flower-blown beach.

 ~February 2018

The Ginger Jar, 1926, ©Samuel John Peploe

A Rocky Shore, Iona (detail) ©Samuel John Peploe   
Public Domain

Both images have been manipulated.