Friday 55 February 16 2018

Greetings all. Here we meet again at another Friday dedicated to the pastime, craft and/or art of verbal expression, all in 55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less. If you've been here before, you know the drill, you know all about the G-man, and why I do this, and why it matters, and if it's your first time, you are welcome to the table to see how it all plays out. As always, if inspired to write--in exactly 55 words, of course--please link your result in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning, and I will be by to check it out.

My 55 for this week:

Ginger Jar

Love,

the black tsunami--

I think of Van Ness,

a ginger jar green-gold,

plum-smooth

the heart I keep inside it

not a thing of valves and blood

but daylight rain and

cricket-song

all wind-shattered soon

 

when raindrops

 sharper

than chirps will pound

at my feet

 paisley the sand

and the

void's mouth take

 this flower-blown beach.

 ~February 2018

The Ginger Jar, 1926, ©Samuel John Peploe

A Rocky Shore, Iona (detail) ©Samuel John Peploe   
Public Domain

Both images have been manipulated.

For The Road

For The Road

He bought me a car

so I could drive it for him,

the Drunken Master, the Blind Buddha

high school wrestler with a karma

stronger than the Eight Immortals.

So I worked for my license,

drove my teacher (Eddie Sneath) to drink

with the stickshift stall and rollback of 

 San Francisco hills,

learned the caress and nudge of a tight clutch

the tap of foot/ hand glide/ accelerator slide,

but still, I always knew

it was easier

than learning to fly.

~January 2015

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Challenge: Road Trip!

Corey Rowley (Mexican Radio) asks us to travel back in time to our first ride.


Process Notes: 'Eddie Sneath" was an alias and alter ego of a friend. The car was a '64 VW microbus named Ruby, purchased by my first husband. (She had the white and turquoise paint job pictured above, so Ruby described her personality, not her color.)When I was put behind the wheel one foggy morning on Van Ness, I had never driven a car in my life, but I learned. 
The flying, that was harder.

Optional Pop-Psychedelic Musical Accompaniment

Images: Authors unknown. I have slightly manipulated both. 

Source.

Northern Lights, Southern Cross

Northern Lights, Southern Cross

I was there when you asked

What kind of love have you got

and thought O you don't
want to go there, down under the trestles,
darkness on the edge.

Just a poor girl

in a rich man's house

the day the night man kicked us out

of  California, I dreamed

you were the fortunate one.
I screamed

it ain't me 

with the star spangled eyes,

but it was, opal silver

not red white and blue---that

was our curtain over the cannon,

the wave that hid the room 

where tears of rage

tears of a thief
soaked postcards of the hanging

with rain no one could stop,

panned a heart of gold no one

could bend, chromed it

to a wheel

on a broken glass frame

rolling toward the trades

outside on
the long
downhill run.

~February 2014

Process Note: The title of this poem is the title of an old mixed tape of mine. If the words are familiar, it's because I have sampled freely here from lyrics of the following recordings :

Victim of Love /Hotel California, the Eagles

Darkness on the Edge of Town, Bruce Springsteen

Emotional Rescue, The Rolling Stones

Fortunate Son,/Who'll Stop The Rain, Credence Clearwater Revivial

Tears of Rage, The Band

Desolation Row, Bob Dylan

Heart of Gold/Long May You Run, Neil Young

Heart Like A Wheel, Linda Ronstadt

Southern Cross, Crosby Stills and Nash

All copyright (and gratitude)belongs to the original authors of the words I have borrowed

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Challenge: All Mixed Up

The tropically inclined mind of Corey Rowley (Herotomost) lures us into the tempting world of mixed tapes. He asked that we write about love in a cheesy, real, non-ethereal way--I did my best,but the only cheesy stuff I really feel is authentic here is my miniskirt, above, almost covered by the outsize security guard coat I loved back then for some reason. 
Thanks, Corey--I had fun with this one.

A couple of the tunes, for optional rocking :

Photo:  American Flag, Me, Eddie Sneath & A Sixpack of Bud, San Francisco, circa 1971, 
copyright joyannjones, 2014
All Rights Reserved.

Bonfire

Bonfire

Before

the firewood was gathered,

before the driftwood hit the sand

even then we knew

we would burn down the world.

On the beach

older than children

younger than men

we ran from it to tidepools

of blue derangement, 

glassy blind to what lived there;

ran to the rush of the unending wave

thinking we could be it,

wear its bitter strength,

forget to strike the match.

That day she was the seal

who swam too far

round the cove bend,

became the dead thing

that should have been a delight

thrown up bloated

twitched and dull in the backwash

of a ministry of crabs, 

a convocation of flies.
Shadows lit the bonfire and danced

without their clothes. The music

walked like moving dunes.
The seal stared in the flames'

flicker, knowing there was

not enough sand on the beach

to bury her, only the darkness

of the mouths of flies.

~April 2013

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Challenge: Fireblossom Friday

The ever intricate workings of the mind of Fireblossom have conjured up a challenge to assume that one is transformed into a particular animal, and speak with that voice. After grappling with this concept all night, I suddenly realized I'd actually had that experience once, as detailed here. I hope it falls within the meaning of the directive.

Image: The Golden Gate, 1900, by Albert Bierstadt

Public Domain, via wikipaintings.org