Friday 55 May 25 2018

Welcome to another careen of words, carousel of craft, caravan of form and fuss--the G-man's meme, originated by a host remembered for bringing laughter and support, the flash fiction 55. As usual, there are no rules except the word count, 55 of them, no more, no less, poetry or prose, satire, lyric, or narrative, whatever brings a gloss to your ink. Link your effort in the comments below between Friday and Saturday at midnight, and I will be by to see what you have come up with. Please bear with me as I will be off in chaos country much of the time.

My 55 this week....

Absence and Dismay

By nightlight

your face withdrawn

paler than pillows

than appleblossom

warmed open

blurring for the bee

stilled in the comb.

Here, darkening

red spit of annihilation,

black ash of the curse,

 joker's smile

on mimewhite skin,

thin snow of an off-year

over the stubborn skull

and a nightbird to

sing to us

whatever is left.

~May 2018

Images: Detail, Apple Tree In Blossom, Gustave Caillebotte, 1885, Public Domain
Night, c. 1953 ©Marc Chagall, Fair Use

Down Below

Down Below

A long run last night

under the Silver Eye

Blood on my hide

but not my own.

Here I lie

where the Red Eye

cannot come, where nothing comes

but Death and the turquoise tide.

Here no sound

of song or voice, no hand, alone;

coppery tongue, asleep on bones

and no one comes.

The longhouse winks

its Yellow Eyes, cruel firelight

alive inside, so many smells

a sound like bells

I cannot make

but feel its form

like dust in my throat,

conceived but unborn.

They screamed to see me,

long tongues to greet me slipped

their sharpened iron; I broke them

then, the rafters dripped---

why shouldn't they die?

Soon someone will come.

~April 2015

a monster-waiting-for-his-hero poem, reposted for
Brendan's Hero on the Road

(originally written for National Poetry Month 2015 with Magaly Guerrero

I Hear Fictional Poets:

Create a poem written from the point of view of a fictional character.)

This poem is written in the voice of Grendel,  the 'shadow-walker,'  monster from Beowulf, 

".. an Old English epic poem..[and].. possibly the oldest surviving long poem in Old English..It was written in England some time between the 8th and the early 11th century^..."  "... Beowulf leaves [his kingdom in Sweden or Norway] to destroy Grendel, who has several times killed those asleep in the mead-hall of [the king of the Danes] after having been disturbed by the noise of the drunken revelers. After a long battle, Beowulf mortally wounds Grendel, and Grendel dies in his marsh-den..."~wikipedia

 

A favorite tale of mine, retold and filmed many many times.This is my favorite indie movie version.  

Beowulf and Grendel

Images:Untitled, by Zdislav Beksinski     Fair use

Primitive Man Seated In Shadow, by Odilon Redon    Public domain               

Friday 55 May 18 2018

Another Friday rolls up to offer our brains a wrestle with that fetching little fussy form, the flash fiction 55, brought to the world by a man not fussy and who probably would not relate to fetching, Galen Hayes. Thank you, G-man, (hopefully being entertained by our attempts wherever the good go) for this ever-reliable basket of tricks. The rules are simple, no rules except the word count, 55 of them, no more no less, in any style, shape or slant that offers itself up to your pen. Visiting, commenting, etc is entirely optional because, this is purely about you, writing. Link your result in the comments below between Friday and Saturday at midnight, and I will be by to read what you have rustled up.

Now for a little spelunking...

The Cave

I won't go into the cave, I said

but I'll come as far as the edge. I

heard you laugh and promise

you had all the night inside; moon

stars, pearled city lights,

fireflies,wine-

silvered dreams.

Come you hissed,

louder, redder;

Oh no my dear oh no

I learned long ago

what lives in caves.

~May 2018

Images: Cave Finn, opera Ruslan and Lyudmila, 1900 ©Ivan Bilbin   Public domain.

Detail, Minotaur with dead horse in front of a cave facing a girl in a veil, 1936, ©Pablo Picasso

Fair Use.

Ice Fishing

Ice Fishing

Once the sea lived

wild or smooth, clashed or glass, 

with the sun to wrap or unwrap

in fog fichus, gulls for windchimes, lightning

twisting like time in the mercury sky

until you came

with the endless freeze.

For years now

I've been sitting

on the ice

above the tiny hole

in your roof

line baited, watching your pale

streamed shape below

swallow lesser shadows,

just a hint of mottle, grey and white,

is all you show of your famished dive;

a tug to tease me,

then

an empty hook, blinking above

your bouquets of bones.

I built a shelter once

but it's long since fallen down.

Still I sit, winter's constant fingers

peeling my face, a rictus on my lips

snowclouds blowing my eyes

to stone, bruise-blue cracked ice

under ravelled wool. Will you come

ghost fish, sweet engine of the kill,

to look at me when I am

dead of cold, pause unbeing's

restless body, wink at this stiff

shell with your black spirit eye

before you push away

to the next fool's line and pole?

~May 2018

for Shay's    Edward Emerson Simmons

This poem needs editing and work, but the time is sadly not there today, so I ask everyone's indulgence with its rough state.




fichu: noun, plural fichus [fish-ooz; French] 1.a woman's kerchief or shawl, generally triangular in shape, worn draped over the shoulders or around the neck with the ends drawn together on the breast. ~dictionary.com

 

Images : Night, 1889, and High Sea, 1895, by Edward Emerson Simmons   Public Domain

Friday 55 May 11 2018

Welcome once again to the Friday forum, where we fight to fashion 55 words of prose or poetry, no more no less, in memory of the G-man, whose meme this is, and whose humanity and hosting skills I will never equal. Link your effort in the comments below between Friday and Saturday midnight, and I will be by to see what this week has brought forth in your fertile little mental workshops.

So, without further ado, let's begin...

 Caravan

You always come

with summer

heat's blue anvil, the drought,

still

night's insect pulse,

its glittering

banquet of stars; they seem

to pull your wagonload of wax dolls

and cheap mirrors like

gypsies' mismatched ponies,

with all your disarray of wares

spread like a fortune-teller's promise

on the frayed brown velvet   

wilderness

of your eyes.

~May 2018

Images: Encampment of Gypsies with Caravans, 1888, Vincent Van Gogh      Public domain.
The Fortune Teller, 1933, (Georges) Brassai     Fair use.