Friday, April 27, 2018

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
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, April 20, 2018

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."

Saturday, April 14, 2018



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

yet here I stay
bud-eyes to the sky
immutable twisted root
hosting the symbiotic 
froth of fungi, the frozen nymphs,
underground and secretly


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