Saturday, March 28, 2020

Golden Currant

Golden Currant ( Ribes aureum )

Locked down to an acre
alive with spring's current,
silver-gold greyed green in
the storm's blue sky farewell,
each arch of yellow stars
on the hill petals honey,
drenches the stench
of rats in the brushpile, of death
with vanilla.

Old dog in her grave
sleeps under shadow
as I pass and remember
her breath with my breath.
Circular rites of the riding mower
trance me an order  
on a grass chaos'd dancefloor, dream me
away from the too solid walls 
stale with canned howls, wilted laments

demon-pitchforked in piles
from screens to my skull.
Shadows posture and strut,
sicken and die, cry in
the night under my pillow.
On the hill, golden currant
knows this spring's secrets,
this spring of its hundreds;
just a silver-lined scent

from some hungry sodbuster
now dished in the dustbowl,  
whose catalogue currant
is never in fruit. Dead brothers
all, under the flowers
wind-snapped in March color
that will flood this dark rampage
with a grave-sealing  spice.

March 2020

posted for earthweal's

(themed for last week's 'Silver Linings')


Note:"Ribes aureum, known by the common names golden currant,  clove currant {etc} a small to medium-sized deciduous shrub...The plant blooms in spring with racemes of conspicuous goldenyellow flowers, often with a pronounced, spicy fragrance similar to that of cloves or vanilla... The berries were used for food, and other plant parts for medicine, by various Native American groups across its range in North America" ~wikipedia

Photos  Ribes aureum, March 2020 © joyannjones

Friday, March 27, 2020

Flash Friday Fiction 55 March 2020

Welcome, friends and writers. The world around us is in turmoil, and has never needed more the medicine of the artist's eye. As long as it is possible, I will host this meme on the last Friday of every month, an opportunity to both attempt the feat of a kick-ass weekend and to share a poem, piece of prose-poetry or flash fiction on any subject; in fact, whatever. Vent, wail, prognosticate or simply let your muse run loose, so long as it's in the form of 55 words, no more, no less. 

If you are among those attempting a poem a day in April, let me know in the comments if you would like to see the 55 up every Friday in April, and I will oblige.

The prompt will be live from Friday at 12:00 AM til Sunday at 4:00 PM. 
This is an informal sort of place, so there's no Mr Linky. Just copy and paste a link to your 55 in the comments.


My 55:

Missed Universe

Hell runs a mean pageant,
contestants centerfolded.

Breaths bubbled forward
in hope without reason
multiply oblivion.

Gathering masses
parade the ramp

sucking in air from each other's
 taint; rapture revolves
 in the devil-red tent.

May their last 
wheeze please Him

in His burning sty
where the rich always live
and the poor always die.

March 2020

Images: The Lantern Bearers, Maxfield Parrish Public Domain
Manipulated photo of Miss Universe winners via internet. Fair Use.

Tuesday, March 24, 2020

Flash Friday 55 Reminder

Just a few words to remind everyone that the last Friday of this pre-apocalyptic month is almost upon us, and that while many things may be closed, unavailable or dangerous to do right now, poetry remains safely accessible, and the 55 will stay open as long as I can maintain it.

Sadly, some kink in the works of word press blogs is sending my comments to the spam folder. This Friday if that is still the case, I will leave a comment both on said blogs and here as well when you link your 55. 


Here's the first 55 I ever wrote, a decade ago, to get everyone in the mood. 

Dental Work

Closing my eyes
In the summer night
Clouds of gnats swirl up
Against the black.

I have no tattoos
Just some gold
To mark a place
And put a smile
Where something crumbled.

I live in hope
That when we tire
Of feeling sorry for ourselves
We’ll finally begin
To pity each other.

November 2010

Friday, March 20, 2020



Cold fire in spring,
ash before summer,
spirit-gold whims that open unaware,
myth's gaudy self-worship
turned outwards to share.

Drought thins them sparse,
rain's intimacy rots them,
blight comes to devour
banquets of flowers.
Still-swaying, they gentle
the plague-darkened hours,

fragile as never, temporary as breath,
 soft seeds falling to earth
to slap away death.

March 2020

posted for
 earthweal's open link

A 55, to remind everyone that next week's Friday 55 here will not be shut down.

Horticultural note; Plants in the narcissus family can reproduce  clonally, through the production of daughter bulbs and by division of clumps, and variably, by seed.

Photo ©joyannjones, 2013, Narcissus triandrus 'Lemon Drops'

Friday, March 13, 2020

Black Apples

Black Apples

I was a daylight shadow,
a bride of drought
cast over the mounded world like
a prophecy of night,
living on dandelions and dead leaves

until you gave me,
sour and hard on the flat 
of your incubus palms,
a dozen black apples. Keep them,
you said, for a year. I only ask

that you throw the bones
far away from this dry country
from the death dance of wheat
the victory of locusts
the smoke of the Beast.

Disappear us too close
to the rifting abyss
where the wind's sullen heat
turns the Catherine wheel of change,
show me the hiss of

the scythe in the clouds,
the minarets folded in sand
whose pierced towers pour out
the last blood of solitude sung by
the owl. All our ghosts will join hands.

There's the crack of your laugh;
a ragged breath of earth
to bend and break the dead trees;
the witch-year's burnt up. You and the
drought have gone and I

sit tasting unmourned
the twelvefold sweetness of 
black apples of the storm.

March 2020 
This poem has been slightly revised since first posting.

posted for earthweal Open Link

and Shay's prompt at the Sunday Muse

Catherine wheel:a firework that revolves on a pin, making a wheel of fire or sparks; pinwheel.

Images: Untitled photo, by Horst P Horst for Vogue Magazine, 1930   Public Domain
Arkansas Black Apples, ©sweetsandlife via Atlas Obscura   (see link)   Fair Use

Monday, March 2, 2020

Ghost In Mirrorlight

Ghost In Mirrorlight

The moon poured only ghosts of mirrorlight
but thick and rich as the cream of your summer skin
that blinked pale against the cooling coffee-black night

when the wind was just a comfortable autumn beast,
shaggy with the flurry of falling leaves
and not the winter-bitter glistening back of sleet.

You had no cold love, served without a sauce
nor lukewarm, listening merciless as drought, only
a love that never thinks of loss

to  give to me, and all of it was mine,
the kisses on each inch, the ones that traced
each rise of breath, each shadow in my eye,

from the first that falls upon the cornerstone
to the last
that travels inward to the bone.

My inheritance of teeth, my broken stars
you covered in the heart's deep underground
where I discovered that escape erases scars,

that a lifelong thirst required only tea
made too hot and fragrant for regret,
which you and luck had kindly brought for me

in a tortoiseshell cup
some child had left behind
when love was a shrine.

 March 2020

posted for Kerry's 

Images: Teatro de Sombras,As Cinco Estações, (Shadow Theater, Five Stages) 1976 ©Lourdes Castro    Fair Use
The Terre-Cuite Tea Set, 1910 ©Childe Hassam   Public Domain