Friday, May 25, 2018

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your face withdrawn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

Saturday, May 19, 2018

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.  

Images:Untitled, by Zdislav Beksinski     Fair use
Primitive Man Seated In Shadow, by Odilon Redon    Public domain               

Friday, May 18, 2018

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,

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.

Thursday, May 17, 2018

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,
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.

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

Friday, May 11, 2018

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...


You always come
with summer
heat's blue anvil, the drought,
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   
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.