Another Friday brings us to the table of word-ly repasts, dressed in white screen linen, with 55 plates thoughtfully placed for each serving. Meanwhile, the world continues on its path around the sun seemingly oblivious as human society as we know it continues to devolve into chaos on its path to self-immolation; still, perhaps we've had some glimpses of hope this week in the brave determination of a new generation suddenly and brutally coming of age in the flux. Let's hope so, and regardless, let us offer our own hope,or lack of it, or just our dreams, in 55 words of poetry or prose, no more, no less, as we remember the absent but constant Galen Hayes, who managed to face each Friday with a light hand and a kind word.
As always, please link your effort in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning, and I will be by to read.
As for me, I have a little nonsense to offer, that's all...
Minotaur
Under the sword
you don't even blink
as if such things
can hold no power.
My hair is crimped lead
but you hold me up
eyes softer with
sheen than your ebony sides.
It's not modern to faint
but of course I do
when taken by myth
blood-alive in a man
souled by a minotaur.
~March 2018
Image via internet, attribution to Gabrielle Bakker, but no such work was found on her website. All rights reserved to the author.
