Friday 55 April 27 2018

Another week, another month flies by us here at the 55 forum. Being April, many of you playing here have been honing your skills by writing a poem a day all month, and I remember clearly that at about this point one's brain feels like a sore muscle. You are doubly welcome, for taking yourselves and your writing seriously, and writing to the point of exhaustion in a climate where there is hardly time to think about poetry or art, let alone create it. But rejoice, even April eventually passes, and hopefully this form will work its magic for tired minds today.

As always the rules remain the same, 55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less, as decreed by the much missed originator, Galen Hayes. Link your response in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning and I will be by to read the result.

Just a mood piece this week...

Holding Hands At The Last Chance Truckstop

Our breath

marbling air like

smoke in a jar

when the candle's snuffed,

joined hands

brittle as sin's old skin

shed from the body of love,

as fossil petals

laid away in a book unread

because spring was kisses away
 from where

we tried to drive over fire,

years ago

before

the road burned down.

~April 2018

Images: Gas, 1940, ©Edward Hopper  All Rights Reserved.  Fair Use

Untitled  ©Zdzislaw Beksinski   All Rights Reserved.  Fair Use  

Friday 55 April 20 2018

Another Friday whirls us to its tune, as we gather to celebrate the giving spirit of the man who created this meme, Galen Hayes, and test our craft with the 55 form. No rules, as usual, except the word count--55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less, --and the hope that everyone has a kickass weekend. Link your creation in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning, and I will be by to read, but bear with me as I am behind the curve this week.

 ~*~

Just some nonsense; I'm afraid I have a case of ghost fatigue...

Ghost Fatigue

I'm sick of these ghosts

wasting my time,

dust of dead roses

in each ululant whine,

their covert self absorption

their bleached back-turned eyes,

that creaking persistence

presenting the past

so sauced with regret

it's better to fast;

faces set tight in

flash-frozen reproach;

love can't save a drowning man

who won't grab the rope.

~April 2018

Image: Lace and Ghosts, 1856, Victor Hugo      Public domain.
Factoid: "Victor Hugo produced more than 4000 drawings. Originally pursued as a casual hobby, drawing became more important to Hugo shortly before his exile, when he made the decision to stop writing in order to devote himself to politics. Drawing became his exclusive creative outlet during the period 1848–1851. Hugo worked only on paper, and on a small scale; usually in dark brown or black pen-and-ink wash, sometimes with touches of white, and rarely with color."  ~wikiart.org

Sprite

Sprite

Once 

you were

close to me as flesh to bones

light to day

moon to dream

flies to honey.

Not really you, was it

that amber heart

glittered across my dark,

that voice, that breath

offering perplexing comfort

but just a sprite of you

ungrasped like a child's balloon

sent out to sail to

disappointing freedom--a popped prop,

bright red scraps, then dead-forgot

forever

yet here I stay

bud-eyes to the sky

immutable twisted root

hosting the symbiotic 

froth of fungi, the frozen nymphs,

underground and secretly

altering, 

or

flailing out a tendril, celebrating a twig,

rediscovering my wedding

of  worms, finalized at last

after a long engagement.

Old balloons still may sail 

on paper;

I stay here 

everspent but evergreen.

~April 2018

for Magaly's  Thirteen

the 13 words: 

flesh bones alter amber paper flies frozen breath voice comfort perplex memory rediscover

Image: The eye like a balloon sails to infinity, 1898, Odilon Redon      

Public Domain