Friday, February 23, 2018

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...


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
across stars' streams
comes down at last
on emerald grass

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

Images: Study of the Head of a Horse, 1439, by Pisanello      Public Domain
A Red Horse, 1938, ©Marc Chagall      Public Domain

Friday, February 16, 2018

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


the black tsunami--

I think of Van Ness,
a ginger jar green-gold,

the heart I keep inside it

not a thing of valves and blood
but daylight rain and

all wind-shattered soon
when raindrops

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.

Friday, February 9, 2018

Friday 55 February 8 2018

In all the usual goings on I somehow lost track of the days of the week, and so this presentation of the 55 is a bit mangled. But the rhyme and reason remain the same--55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less, and no rules except to follow the gone but never forgotten G-man's precept to have a kickass weekend whenever possible. If you have risen to the challenge this week, leave a link in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning, and I will be by to see the result.

I myself have had no time, muse, or space to write, so I cobbled something up from old notebooks, old times, and a challenge at  Real Toads   from 55er and poet extraordinaire, Susie Clevinger, on the celebrated stairway to heaven.

Goodnight On The Stairs

White moonflower,
grapefruit and dust

scent the cast-off shirt-tails 
of my sleepless love.

Mauve wallflower
jasper and rust

open up the dusk,
confound the cognoscenti,

quiet the bridling bears.
We've come

to unwrap antique bedsprings
climb poppy-petaled stairs

( tho the Dispossessor
waits to take his cut )

for the kissing sanctuary
of  goodnight, eyes shut.

 ~February 2018

Images: Flowers on the Stairs, by Stefan Kuchian    Public Domain
Kiss of the Sea, ©Octavio Ocampo   Fair Use

Friday, February 2, 2018

Friday 55 February 2 2018

Another Friday, another opportunity to practice the minimalist's craft of creating a coherent piece of prose or poetry in 55 words, no more, no less. Thanks to the G-man, for teaching me/us how, and to all who come by to play here with their minds and pens.

As usual, the 55 will be open from Friday through Sunday morning. To share your bit of word art, please leave a link in the comments below.

My 55:

The Talkers

One could slice
the moon in two
with the knife of a tongue,
the other rubble-up the Grand Canyon
with landslides of voice.

The word-scalpel
probes scarlet-tender wounds,
incises proud initials.

So wonder here in silence:
is it rain plashing past the glass
that kills the paper
or a sudden
rush of pure heart's blood?

~February 2018

Image: Alchemy, or the Useless Science, 1958, ©Remedios Varo    Fair Use.