Single Mitten

Single Mitten

You're lost.

You

the fact forgotten,

you 

the bramble-stolen path;

you 

the lantern empty,

the coat that feeds the moth;

the one

whose voice was taken,

whose breath

could not get in,

whose absence

 breaks the coupled;

the pocket-eaten mitten

that makes 

its partner useless,

a rag 

to be disposed;

you

the shadow flying,

you

the eye that's closed.

Lost.

~September 2018

Personal update: So many apologies for not reading or visiting these days, dear readers. I miss your poetry, and my own; all the voices which will no longer sing for me just now. My husband continues to fight the long defeat against his illness, but the time is getting short. I am hoping for some clarity on the other side, in which these frayed threads may be taken up again in some way. Til then, many thanks for all the concern, support and love you have shown me in this barren, foggy time.

 Image: top: author unknown, via internet. All rights reserved to author.

Gulls, 1982, ©joyannjones

Still Life

Still Life

I sit

by a dish of light

with darkness at my back.

I throw in words,

flowers of flame; only

the dry, bright ones--

you, remember, once, then--

while I leave the sodden

syllables in a pile--

now, tomorrow, alone, gone--

for nothing

will make them

burn.

We can't speak the tongues

of each other's pain;

still, we huddle in light

and forgive.

~August, 2018

Image: Stilleben mit Blumen, 1908, by Heinrich Kuhn    Public domain

Disconnect

Dear readers, I am disconnecting from the blog world for a bit. My internet connection has become horribly unpredictable and unreliable, but more than that, I find my brain just unable to cope with the discipline of writing and reading on any kind of regular basis.

For those of you who don't know, my husband is fighting lung cancer, and the sand goes very quickly through the hourglass right now. I feel that I need to be with him, directing my energies his way while I can.

I apologize for abandoning the 55 for awhile, but I will no doubt be back at some point. Till then, thank you all for the support and the input you have so generously given me over the years.

Friday 55 June 22 2018

The burden of events this week is heavy. The visions before us are almost apocalyptic in their power. Yet what else can we do but write. My previous poem (on Wednesday) was my pitiful attempt not to address, but at least to respond, to the hatred, cynical evil and destruction of our world's moral and political fiber. Today, it's time for the 55. Thanks to Galen Hayes for starting this meme that is all that keeps my pen moving. There are no rules except the word count--55 words of prose or poetry, no more no less. Link your work in the comments below between Friday and Saturday at midnight, and I will be by to read.

My 55:

Dark-Lantern

The heart's a dark-lantern

thorn-cradled in

a cliff-cracking tree,

a nested-bird glimmer

in grey-green leaves 

by  perpetual sea

where language is

sibilant as spray,

arcane as whales' song,

grey-green as their play.

Light itself speaks from

the branch wind-whispered

and never stutters

tho the window shutters; through

the grey-green bars night

echoes with stars.

~June 2018

Note: "A dark lantern is a candle lantern with a sliding shutter so that it may conveniently be made dark without extinguishing the candle" ~wikipedia

Top Image: Olive tree~Candle, ©Christos Bokoros 1994.    All Rights Reserved

The 55 is now closed. Thanks to all who stopped by to participate. See you next week.

Fox In The Kittens

Fox In The Kittens

You're a kite in the crows

a fox in the kittens

the dagger-light thrown

where the poisoned word's written.

I hear your screech by the dolmen

catch your stench in the doorway;

your copper cup's full when

the blood hits the causeway.

Astraea is chained

with a gold liar's lasers

while money's papier-mâché'd

into goblins with tasers;

my gift to you

is a kiss from the razor

to turn your eyes blind

to return all your favors

so the sun rises mild

so dawn saves the child.

~June 2018

I am bitter, furious and heartbroken over the evil being done on our southern border. May all of us stand up for the light, for basic human rights, and stop this vile immoral 'policy' which is nothing more than a cynical political calculus at the expense of helpless boys, girls, parents and infants.  Babies in arms, some, ripped from their mothers and put into cages-- detention centers, internment camps, bureaucratic hells on earth, for the crime of doing as every single one of our own ancestors did, coming here for a better life. There are no words.

Friday 55 June 15 2018

Another midpoint in another month brings us once again to the 55, that meme originated by the one and only Galen Hayes in what has to be called the dim recesses of blog history, when so much was so different...except the rules, which remain the same: link your 55 words of prose or poetry, no more no less, in the comments below between Friday and Saturday at midnight, and I will be by to read.

My scrabbled together 55 this week:

Smell Of A Storm

You wear again

the smell of a storm,

fumes of a dream.

Your shadow stands in smoke,

gaming the dying sun to

light your cobra eyes.

I reach out

now as I did then

before summer nights

gave their souls to snow;

 this flash and bang

this show 

is all of you I'll ever know

~June 2018

Note, still having internet issues--bear with me if I take forever to get to your link. I am leaving comment moderation off so you can still read each other's if I am MIA.