Friday, November 10, 2017

Friday 55 November 10 2017

Welcome once again to the Friday journey, a space where we can assemble our word pictures for ourselves and each other, while we remember a fine man who gave of himself to support the best things in others, Galen Hayes. Here we have no social pressures, no strings, no obligation to participate, and no rules other than to allow our words to come together in any way they choose, prose or poetry, as long as there are 55 of them, no more, no less. Leave your link in the comments, and I will be by to see what the muse has dictated to you this week. As always, the prompt is live from Friday through Sunday, but I have turned comment moderation off for this session, as I may be out of pocket at times.

So, let's begin the trip...

Hospital View

Hawks and crows
make a mobile as they fly;
life outside the glass  
holds together trees and sky.
Inside a yellow quiet
blankets thinning legs,
hands withered on the covers
like leaves that Fall has wrecked.
From a night that has no rest
to a day screaming your name;

hawks, crows, and
 cold November rain.

~November 2017

Image via internet, author unknown, manipulated.   Fair use.


  1. The last two lines from the first stanza made me chuckle (almost bitterly) and sigh, too, in commiseration and lived understanding. It's as if life spends the entire night showing that sleeping is something that happens to someone else, and in the morning... it expects everyone to be perky and ready to live some more (as if last night didn't suck everything out of a body).

    It's 2 am for me. I have 90 minutes to go. And there is nothing but blank sky outside my window... I will think of wings.

    1. Yes, I know you've been through the mill with the hospital routine, Magaly...I am just an observer in this case, but that was one of the impressions I took away--the endless, long, constantly interrupted night and then the demands of the new day as if nothing had happened. Hope your own times get easier.

  2. Here is my bit:

  3. well, you know how I feel about Nov. (10th) and its cold rain. But since that was last week's pen, this week is rather more cheery than is my wont.


    I hope your husband's health improves, particularly with your ministrations.

  4. I get this in a visceral way. Having been through 17 surgeries of differing life "hanging in the balance" magnitude, I was always glad to be near the window. I never had many visitors during those times so no one noticed me as I watched the person they put next to me--I ever prayed for the older ones that their bodies decide whether enough was enough or if there was stamina yet to go on for a while more.

    If this is personal for you Joy may life decide to live on yet a bit more.

    I went for some fan fiction this week TWM

  5. The vigil is familiar; though I'm a couple thousand miles away from my father's disintegration in a Pennsylvania rehab, and it is far from winter here, my daily dolor is etched this way: winter outside and in wheeling about an emptying sky. A perturbation which will not rest but cannot die. Yet. Cheers.

    My contribution is lame--as perhaps is fitting for November's failing choir --

    1. Yes, it's a time that is out of joint for a lot of us, but also personal aging is a true transition from one state to another rather alien one, like an out of body experience. Your poem was almost Shakespearean in feel for me--far from lame, and much appreciated. Best of luck to your father.

  6. I'm so sorry you have this to write about. And I'm sorry I had to write abou this:

    Take these twenty-six souls, Jesus
    for the people they resided in
    are now only meat

    take them to Heaven
    to rest
    with the pure of heart
    with those who hunger and thirst for righteousness
    with the poor in spirit and the peacemakers
    with the merciful and the meek

    But those who mourn

    are still

    1. Definitely my thoughts and prayers are with those in Texas, especially in the shadow of the hurricane earlier this year.

    2. This is such bittersweet comfort for lives so senselessly stolen, yet there is comfort in it, that the gifts they gave us are not completely vanished, because we are here to mourn, and to remember them as they were. Thanks Mary, so much for your words, and your sympathy.

    3. I feel such agony every time I think of the horror those poor souls suffered. We must find a way to bring light into a winter that has come way too early.

    4. So many souls to mourn... and so many who takes the right to kill, I fear it will get worse before it gets better.

  7. Hopefully this is not the case now for you.
    If it is i hope it passes soon.

    Hospitals not big on my list. Nor feeling trapped. Nice use pf the mobile spinning monotonously. Oy. Last time i was stuck there was on death watch for my father. It feels an in between place of waiting like purgatory.

  8. Your poem is excellent as poetry--beyond that, I will say to you privately. My 55 is up, dear.

  9. Yellow quiet, I love that description. Even though I live where it is too sunny most of the time there are days when I feel exactly like this. Fighting it off only seems to worsen the situation, but slowly rolling with it, especially in light of the shitstorm that swirls around us it seems unnatural at first, it should be me holding the sky and trees together. Beautifully written.

  10. I have seen that view too often. Such a beautiful poem for such a difficult November.

    Here is my contribution for the 55.

    1. I know you have Susie. I have been thinking of all the days you've spent sitting and waiting in rooms like this all week. I felt for you then, but now, I begin to get a glimmer of how it really is. Thanks for playing, as always.

  11. So happy to see so many of you here today, and with such excellent stuff! My husband is home from the hospital, and we are in a lull before the next phase begins, so for a few days hopefully, things will seem almost normal, which is wonderful. Thanks to everyone for their concern--and apologies for being so late to respond.

    1. Thank goodness! I hope you both can get some rest, and that the next step is a gentle as possible. *healing thoughts flying your way*

    2. Thanks, dear Magaly. When we know more about what lies down the road, I will be able to say more, but for now, just very grateful to have him home.

    3. Good to know. No apologies though.

  12. I am so glad he's home and things can settle while you both catch your breath!

  13. So glad that you are back home. A hospital can be one of the most depressing places to be in... especially waiting. Love the piece with that contrast between the dreary November and the interior of the hospital.
    is my entry.

  14. Thanks so much everyone, for your 55's, your exuberantly good poetry, and your concern. I will check back sometime tomorrow for any late comers, but it may be late.

  15. I know. I know. I'm late. I really need to get back in the habit of writing poetry. Mine is HERE. Thanks so much for hosting. You've truly captured the cold nature of November. Will keep you in my thoughts.


"We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, out of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry." ~William Butler Yeats

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