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.

Goodbye Without An End

Goodbye Without An End

Let me leave where it all begins.

Let me meet you where fires fail.

Let me know you at last as my kin,

where breath is as close as skin,

where we don't know the end of the tale;

where it's better to go than stay

where it's better to dream than wake

tossed on the sparkle and spray

until we dive or break.

~May 2016

My muse seems to be taking a bit of a hiatus, dear readers and friends. As usual, if something comes, I will write it; otherwise I ask you to forgive my absence. Best of summers to you all and as always, thanks for the support over so many years.

Image: Harald Sohlberg, Sea Spray, 1908, pen,ink and watercolor on paper
Fair use.

To Go

To Go

There were no candles

at our table, angel child,

for we were in a place where

no fire would burn, no light shine

except the sickly phosphorescence

of the unquiet mind.

The love I talked

came out in tears.

The anger in your eyes

spit out my pointless words.

After you walked out

and left me burning there

the waiter brought the check

and took my plastic coin

in the profound silence of

the servant's protective tact;

I stumbled in a mist

of dread upheld, too slow

from sour cream and salt

on the still-full glass,

but remembering to

fumble up at the last

the greasy bag of

leftover hate to go.

~March 2015, 

revised November for

Fireblossom Friday: Dread

 

Images: Greasy Takeout Bag, author unknown, via google.Manipulated.

The Pink Candle, 1910, by Henri Rousseau, public domain via wikiart.org

Two Samhain Candles

Samhain Candle

The dead
are
close tonight

I feel 

their lost-boy's breath

thru their party clothes.

They ask
pardon for

drunken nights,
lies'
glancing blows; that 

for the love we had
I somehow find 

 the decorated joy of

being kind;

for death does not erase

the blotted soul,

but lightens

the little sins 

that make us whole.

~October 2015

I have written a second 55 this morning, as I woke up thinking of my grandmother.
(Reading is, of course, optional.)

Lilac And Apples
for Clara

You gave
lilac, green apples,

sugared coffee and cream;

no screams, no disorder

ever-bendable conditions.

We snipped bits of saintpaulia

to lay down on the earth and

they'd bloom in a year

pink-purple, felt-smooth.

Your wealth was in flowers and in loving's full sum,

and mine in your arms where no bad thing might come.

~October 31, 2015 

posted for    real toads

Flash 55 Plus

Images:
Top: Stormlight, copyright joyannjones 2014
Footer: Saintpaulia and the fire of  the candle
creative commons license via wikimedia.com