Friday 55 January 26, 2018

Despite a frazzled brain and an uncooperative Blogger dashboard, I have (hopefully) managed to get this Friday 55 up and running, so welcome! This little hidden backstreet of the internet is a place for practicing the writer's craft--in 55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less--and sharing it in memory of a unique soul named Galen Hayes, who has since passed on to a larger horizon. So if you're in the mood to turn your thoughts on a lathe of 55 words, please link the result in the comments below and I will be by to contemplate it.

Please note that blogger is being difficult lately, and comments may take longer than usual to publish--if you can't get yours to come through the interweb hoses, email me at the link on my profile, which you can access from the sidebar, and I will see that it gets included.

My own 55 follows here...

 

Some Random Fancies

Memory's mirror steals tomorrow.

Thought gates in

 comfort or torture, hauled

in the wheeled heart's freight.

Hope's a midnight dancer with

masks removed at dawn. Fate

flies like a drunken raven;

jealousy poisons the lawn.

.

Lust has scars and flowers

for those who call it love;

death's an infinite kidnap

where no ransom is enough.

~January 2018

Image: Girl with Death Mask (She Plays Alone) 1938, © Frida Kahlo   Fair Use

Friday 55 January 19 2018

Another Friday, another chance to remember and to work with the Friday 55, a meme for writers long maintained by a good man now departed, but for many of us still present in memory, Galen Hayes. Here we write for the pleasure of writing, with no rules other than that each example of prose or poetry contain 55 words, no more, no less. If you are in the mood for the exercise, link your example in the comments below, and I will be by to read and appreciate. The 55 will be alive from early Friday morning through Sunday morning. As always, comment moderation is off, but I reserve the right to apply the delete key to any passing trollish ones.

 My offering for this winter wild week in January ...

Winter Gods

Winter
tests the craven

and the brave

 limping calf, ravens' black eye-sparkle,

 days short of breath

lopped 

at the knee
by snow-padded knife.

Still
the gods hunt wild

calling where green light raids

the skyliving now.

Wolves

follow the herds 

 howling the words to
godsongs of blood,

old hungers' lore,

scenting ahead
the last home.

 ~January 2018

Optional Musical Accompaniment

"...Who shall sing me

into deathsleep sling me

when I on the path to Hel go

I sought the songs

I sent the songs

then the deepest well

gave me tears so harsh

of Death-father's  wager..."

(from Helvegen, translated)

I've written of the Wild Hunt before; if you're unfamiliar with it, there is a quick reprise of most of the myths associated with it here. 

Images :Northern Lights in Iceland, The Wild Hunt, via internet, no authors known.
Fair Use.

Truth Of The Mouse

Truth of the Mouse

What they do to you

I dream they do to me.

The knives come out

the tubes go in

to the piece of meat

nameless, once sweet,

test tube tissue

over-scanned and analyzed

and the bugs are in

the bandages again.

The nurse can't come; 

 she's

double parked at the casino

where the chips come down

like needle rain

where the dealer's a junkie

because the rules broke again

and the mouse

that chews the truth

knows 

it's not safe to come out.

~January 2018

 

Images: Illustration from The Tale of Two Bad Mice, andThe Mice at Work Threading The Needle, by Beatrix Potter   Public Domain

Friday 55 January 12 2018

As the door to another year opens, we stroll into the shelter of this room of words with whatever we can find to delight the mind, comfort it, or perhaps, clean it out...in 55 words of prose or poetry--no more, no less. As always, we do this to remember a man who gave of himself to support and encourage others every week with this meme, Galen Hayes, and to write in this form with no rules other than to enjoy each other and to practice the craft.
Also as always, the prompt is open from Friday through Sunday, so leave a link to your offering in the comments below and I will be by to see the results. Comment moderation is off for the duration of the post, but I reserve the right to cleanse this mental room of all dubious influences with the powerful smudge of the delete key.

So, I'll start things off then...

Spellsong

A statue's
closed stare,

mind castled in sand,

stone-sweeping sleet

to compass my hands,

midnight dissolving

in fog and quicklime;

all faces in masks

all masks without eyes.

Acid and black-ice

bitter the glass.

Flames' frozen flutter

fits candles of brass;

sighing of wind, dancing of rain,

kiss from a ghost to

burn me again.

~January 2018 

Images: Eyelid to Eye, 2014  ©joyannjones 
photo (manipulated) of 
Moth and Flame Candlestick, 1965  by Salvador Dali  Fair Use