Friday Flash 55 for June 2020

Welcome all. 

I know this is a difficult, even overwhelming time for many of us, 

especially when it comes to writing. I offer the 55 as an aid to composition, as a celebration of times gone by, and for my own spur to write, and I have no expectations of anyone but myself, so if you wish to participate, that is great, but if words do not come, not even 55, I understand that as well.

The rules are as always: 

write a poem, prose poem or piece of flash fiction on any subject in exactly 55 words, no more, no less. Post the link to your entry in the comments, and I will be by to read and comment on what you have written.

Having a kickass weekend is not obligatory, but always advised.

The prompt will be live from midnight Thursday til Sunday at 4:00 PM.

~*~

My 55:

War Of A Thousand Battles

Here's the war

of a thousand battles,

a hundred years,

war of roses

and dust.

Fight to standstill

ten dozen champions;

sometimes a win

if winning is

fighting again, 

sometimes a loss;

but always on guard in

the bloody brawl

til old soldiers

throw down the gun

and wait for

the last wave to come.

June 2020

Images: Head of an Old Peasant, 1874, by Ivan Kramskoy      Fair Use

The Night Guard, by Odd Nerdrum             Fair Use

Witch of Tides

Witch Of Tides

I. The Wet

I cannot be

the Witch of Tides

with her greenalive

and mutable eyes

with her wavefoam curls

her saline sighs,

but only the constant

Crone of death's dust

where all things fall

because they must

when they've bled out to nothing

their sweet salt blood.

We meet in that place

neither sea nor shore;

the liminal wing, the liquidless pour

not wave nor field nor barren waste,

only a dead god's breathing face

on which we stand, the Witch and I

where three winds vie

to make the storm of rattle and fly

where the veil is rent,

where One and the Other

can mingle unkempt.

I cannot be

the Witch of Tides

whose toy is life

whose palette is clouds

whose hand is so wet,

but only the Crone of a

soft and dry

and whimsical

death.

II. The Dry

Yet her blackened

inversion am I,
with my sandy surf
of dead glass and dry

pushed and rolled
like a moving eye,

tho the sweat that's brought

is the only salt

except alkali.

We both have our wrecks

of sphinxes and ships,
of stones and decks,

of cities buried

with a murderer's care,

a privacy to the ones we hide,

shrouded in the swirl of our hair

as their world dies;

and who is to say

of the wet or the dry,

which was the Maiden

which was the Bride,
the constant Crone

or the wild Witch of Tides?

~October 2015
Reposted January 2020 

for earthweal

Though it may seem strange to post an old poem to such a brand new site, this one simply selected itself from my memory banks, so I hope I will be excused for letting it have its way. In its own equivocal voice, perhaps it addresses some aspects of the weal of the earth.

Top Image via internet; author unknown. Manipulated. No copyright infringement intended.
Great Sphinx and Pyramids, circa 1890 via wikimedia commons
Manipulated. Shared under a Creative Commons License

Conclave of Imps

Conclave Of Imps

The palms lose their balance

boiled in a cast-iron sky that

rattles its lid in a steam-engine wind.

I walk  here alone, far from the wet-country

bitter with night coffee and gypsy bad dreams.

Dreams start so well--full-skirted, dancing

with warm wine, soft whispers and wanting--

to end as a moonscape of concrete and slag,

a juice of war enriched with uranium,

goose-stepping soldiers and killing machines.

Why does reality invade me like a border state

occupy my  ears with its sugar-rush newscasts

besiege me with idiots and their paper tiger words?

Instead of a candle we get thermonuclear glow,

smothering wildfires, powerless streets.

Instead of sweet reason, a conclave of imps.

~September 2017

posted for Brendan's   Juice

Images: Melancholy Atomic, 1945, © Salvador Dali   Fair Use
Palm Tree in Hurricane Irma, via internet.  Public domain

Mayhem Road

Mayhem Road

On the mayhem road

it's a long patrol

down and down,

where the bad seed drops

and lives to grow

where the black oil flows

where the rocket burns 

where the blood gold glows

where the dark star shines

in the falling fog,  cold

where the child is lost,  long

where the old can't find,  spent

where the young must hold
the killer's mad hands,   sprouting

strong

on the mayhem road;

broke down alone

in the monochrome,

their lips are black.

No color leaks

from the grayscale night.

The dun dust glides

a cloudy sheet

across the girl with no breath,

face we can't bear to see

of all we once were,

of the damned we'll be,
companions on the long patrol
to the dead that grow
the mayhem road.

 ~January 2016

posted for       real toads

Out of Standard

Official music video for Tis a Pity She Was a Whore, by David Bowie, from the album Blackstar. Lyrics here

Witch Of Tides

Witch Of Tides

I.

I cannot be

the Witch of Tides

with her greenalive

and mutable eyes

with her wavefoam curls

her saline sighs,

but only the constant

Crone of death's dust

where all things fall

because they must

when they've bled out to nothing

their sweet salt blood.

We meet in that place

neither sea nor shore;

the liminal wing, the liquidless pour

not wave nor field nor barren waste,

only a dead god's breathing face

on which we stand, the Witch and I

where three winds vie

to make the storm of rattle and fly

where the veil is rent,

where One and the Other

can mingle unkempt.

I cannot be

the Witch of Tides

whose toy is life

whose palette is clouds

whose hand is so wet,

but only the Crone of a

soft and dry

and whimsical

death.

II

Yet her blackened

inversion am I,
with my sandy surf
of dead glass and dry,

pushed and flung
like a moving eye,

tho the sweat it brings

is its only salt

except alkali.

We both have our wrecks

of sphinxes and ships,
of stones and decks,

of cities buried

with a murderer's care

for privacy to the ones we hide

shrouded in the swirl of our hair

as their world dies;

and who is to say

of the wet or the dry,

which was the Maiden

which was the Bride,
the constant Crone

or the wild Witch of Tides?

~October 2015

Top Image via internet; author unknown. Manipulated. No copyright infringement intended.
Great Sphinx and Pyramids, circa 1890 via wikimedia commons
Manipulated. Shared under a Creative Commons License