Friday the 13th 55

Welcome to the Friday the 13th edition of the Friday 55, where 55 words of prose or poetry, no more--no less, will takes us on our individual journeys, each one as unique as the writer, and some no doubt, imbued with the spirit of the day and season, to some quite unhallowed spots. Or so I hope. All the rules remain the same: we do this in memory of the G-man, as a writing exercise for our own enjoyment, and for fun and friendship. There are no strings or commitments, and comment moderation is on to keep things real. As always, the prompt remains alive from Friday to Sunday.

So, in the Halloween spirit, let's begin...

The Mistake

We cursed the dark

but woke the cold plague wind,

cracked summer's crypted spell,

talked the pretty into hell.

 And the show begins.

Black cat's-paw on bleeding-stone;

two speakers in a field of bone

bite down a forgotten kiss.

Whispers from the too-full skull

tongue the pumpkin's cut-out hull,

but never the voice I miss.

~October 2017 

Image: Lies and Persuasion, and detail thereof,  ©Kris Kuksi, 2007 All rights reserved.

You can find more of Kris Kuksi's amazing work and his bio here at his website.

Wisteria sinestra

Wisteria sinestra

Under the lavender organza, the

ruffled panache of Borgia sleeves,
the sophisticated gamboge
of pistil whips,

under all the droop and pose

in bitter-beautiful clusters

of never-ripe rose-

grapes

 seeded for greensnake wine
 she slides, the glossy grey 

constrictor vine;

her hard wired climb,

her graceful smother
a two-week glory
hiding the persistent throttling line
kept close kept secret

in her pocket of leaves.

Through the ribs,
over the bones,

always the lady, she clothes

 the fists that tighten. the fingers that bind

in baby blue gloves; murder refined.

~April 2014

posted for   real toads
Transforming Friday with Hannah
Hannah Gosselin ( Metaphors and Smiles) gave us a perfectly innocent and lovely series of images of the spring flowering vine Wisteria  for our subject material--sadly, my muse is not into the innocent and lovely stuff much, so it all ended up here, definitely having experienced some transforming.
Thank you Hannah, for a much more pleasant prompt than this poem might suggest.

Process notes; Apologies to the noble Wisteria sinensis-- she decided to show me her sinister side, and she does have one, especially here in the south--invasive, clambering into and choking out trees and shrubs, damaging houses, and carrying poisonous seeds in her laburnum-like pods. (In fact, all parts of the plant are poisonous if ingested.)

Image: Wisteria frutescens, by BeareroftheCup, 
and Wisteria sinensis stolons, Kew Gardens by Dénes Emőke 

public domain via wikimedia commons

The Harpies

The Harpies

No beaks

only claws

the flap of wings like old clothes

stinking in the murdered hope sheen

of black slum soot rain.

In front of me 

the table is spread with chalices

bread of life support smelling

round as a kept promise,

fat cheeses laughing on the board.

My stomach's gone bitter as april snow

inured to inanition, yet mouth
like dead eye still floods with useless water

staring across to where they snatch and fly;

tireless banality of the cruel.

Born full, their striptease satisfaction

slobbers the unendurable table,  plugging ears

with the noisome smack of smirked lips
pressed facedown to the plate,

gobbling, gabbling, dripping.

This is the punishment of the gods

for having foreseen

all the wrong things.

O how apt and kind of them

to keep our choices blind.

~October 2012

If you would like to hear this poem read by the author, please click below:

the harpies by Hedgewitch O'theWilds

Posted for   OpenLinkNight   at dVerse Poets Pub

Process notes: Writing of monsters seems suitable to the season. In Greek mythology, the harpies were messengers of the gods, used to punish crimes. They took the form of winged women above the waist and birds below. They are most well known for punishing Phineas, who was blinded and exiled by Zeus for the crime of prophecy, by perpetually stealing the food from his table before he could eat. My personal belief is that they also come in human form.

Header image: Photo by tom clearwood on flick'r

of a bust of the Harpy Celaeno,  1902 -by  Mary Pownall
Marble - Bequeathed by Alfred Bromed, 1944

Kelvingrove Art Gallery - Glasgow - Scotland

Footer photo: The same bust, photo by seq, on flick'r

Photos  shared under a Creative Commons License