Friday, March 30, 2018

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

~March 2018

Optional Instrumental Accompaniment

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

Thursday, March 29, 2018




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.

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.


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, March 23, 2018

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...


It was the flame
that winter couldn't bear,
so it brought
its chrome-cold howl
its tiny whitebread fingers
that break
birds' hearts

Green ran before
the snow-sealed eyes,
cracked trees cried;
earth was
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, March 16, 2018

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:


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, March 9, 2018

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