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.

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 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.