Friday 55 March 30 2018

Another Friday, another 55 words to chronicle the long march, the wild hunt, the dance of the living and dead. We come to remember a man who had more to give than take from the world of blogging, Galen Hayes, and to explore the meme he brought us as the world turns around us in its ceaseless change. There are no rules, no social obligations, except to write 55 words of prose or poetry--no more, no less, and link them in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning for myself and others to read. Comment moderation is once again on to discourage the trolls, so please be patient.

I dreamed I smelled the sea this week...

Seascape, 3 AM

Landlocked I dream

of the wind that

comes ten-thousand miles

without one human breath,

wind that throws

its sleepless

seasmell in my face,

singing louder than

the giant's roar

of broken time.

 Free as wolves

before the hunter's shot,

alone with the one I've loved

but never had;

my seaweed dreams

blow this life

away.

~March 2018

Optional Instrumental Accompaniment

Image: Seascape, 1879, by Pierre-Auguste Renoir    Public Domain

Sweetener

Sweetener

I.

I put you in my tea

tannic with memories;

stirred, they go down smoother

sipping on your ways.

Put on my plate you make

an evergreen presentation,

dressed in rue and fired clay,

so haute cuisine, salad of baby greens

tossed in hope and fear, before

the soup of dreams.

II.

I put you on the moon

sitting where she bends

your cloven feet a-dangle in 

their blurred and slippery stars.

You ease Orion’s belt, give cloudy listening blinks;

I whisper in your thunder covered ear until

you put me in the storm

flying with wings of rain 

where cold front meets the warm.

III.

I put you in my heart

little shop of horrors

cobweb seeded, only one

flyblown object on display but not

for sale. Pressed against the glass

your firefly face winks in the indigo night

where ribboned time slips tight in a lover's knot

and tea is sweet as your blue sky mouth my love, 

sweeter than floating memories dead in the pot.

March 2012

an old favorite, in Kerry's triptych form, 

 reposted for 

Fireblossom's Poetic Imagery 

Image: Tea Time, © Ellen Wilson of Ella's Edge

Friday 55 March 23 2018

Greetings and welcome to another Friday 55, the forum where we remember the legacy of a man named Galen Hayes who, with humor and kindness, touched the lives of everyone who came to play his meme. We also come to write, in a place without rules or demands, except that our efforts be composed in 55 words of prose or poetry--no more, no less. Leave your contribution linked in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning, and I will be by to see what you have built.

My 55 this week...

Flame

It was the flame

that winter couldn't bear,

so it brought

its chrome-cold howl
its tiny whitebread fingers

that break

birds' hearts

midair.

Green ran before

the snow-sealed eyes,

cracked trees cried;

earth was

urned

for the ashes of

winter-killed fire
even as sparks

that death-breath powered

flew wild-scarlet 

for a summer burning
with flowers.

~March 2018

Optional Musical Accompaniment

Images: Magdalene with The Smoking  Flame, (detail) 1640, Georges De La Tour 

Field with Poppies, 1890, Vincent Van Gogh     

Public domain                 (manipulated)

Friday 55 March 16 2018

Another Friday finds us gathered to offer thanks to the memory of the G-man and his meme, and to try our hands at assembling our own models of relative verbal brevity in 55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less. No rules except the word count, and a link to your effort in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning. I look forward as always to seeing what creations your craft and imagination can supply.

My 55 for this week:

Cracks

Midnight's blue altar splayed

with a sacrifice of stars,

wind that tells secrets

to a storm darkened moon,

silence knocking with whispers,

blackbirds' questions at dawn

sharp marked on the sky;

all the weight, all the light draped

on the scream of a back

and in the shadow that passes,

the first of the cracks...

~March 2018

Note: I am having intermittent connection problems, so bear with me if I am mysteriously absent.

Images: Blackbirds,  ©joyannjones 2013

Erecthion with caryatids, Athens, Greece, via internet author unknown  Fair use   Manipulated

Friday 55 March 9 2018

Welcome to this week's 55, an exercise, a journey, a discipline, a memory of a meme originated by a genial and giving man named Galen Hayes, and carried on by my inadequate self, and all of you who come to read or to play. As always, no rules except that your contribution be 55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less, linked in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning. I look forward to reading what you have to offer.

My 55 this week is just a singsong mess that I couldn't dislodge...

Heaven's Door

Heaven's door stands open.

Peter knows I won't stay--all my angels have wings

just to fly away.

My darling dreams he's a fever

too hot for decay. My flowers open in darkness

and uncolor the day.

I'm a stone rolled downhill

for the unquieted grave--only angels have wings

so they can fly away.

~March 2018

Optional Musical Accompaniment

Images: Open Door On A Garden, 1934, by Konstantin Somov   
Public Domain (Manipulated)

Open Darkness, ©joyannjones 2018