Friday, March 23, 2018

Friday 55 March 23 2018

Greetings and welcome to another Friday 55, the forum where we remember the legacy of a man named Galen Hayes who, with humor and kindness, touched the lives of everyone who came to play his meme. We also come to write, in a place without rules or demands, except that our efforts be composed in 55 words of prose or poetry--no more, no less. Leave your contribution linked in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning, and I will be by to see what you have built.

My 55 this week...


It was the flame
that winter couldn't bear,
so it brought
its chrome-cold howl
its tiny whitebread fingers
that break
birds' hearts

Green ran before
the snow-sealed eyes,
cracked trees cried;
earth was
for the ashes of
winter-killed fire
even as sparks

that death-breath powered
flew wild-scarlet 
for a summer burning
with flowers.

~March 2018

Optional Musical Accompaniment

Images: Magdalene with The Smoking  Flame, (detail) 1640, Georges De La Tour 
Field with Poppies, 1890, Vincent Van Gogh     
Public domain                 (manipulated)

Friday, March 16, 2018

Friday 55 March 16 2018

Another Friday finds us gathered to offer thanks to the memory of the G-man and his meme, and to try our hands at assembling our own models of relative verbal brevity in 55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less. No rules except the word count, and a link to your effort in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning. I look forward as always to seeing what creations your craft and imagination can supply.

My 55 for this week:


Midnight's blue altar splayed
with a sacrifice of stars,
wind that tells secrets

to a storm darkened moon,
silence knocking with whispers,
blackbirds' questions at dawn

sharp marked on the sky;
all the weight, all the light draped
on the scream of a back

and in the shadow that passes,
the first of the cracks...

~March 2018

Note: I am having intermittent connection problems, so bear with me if I am mysteriously absent.

Images: Blackbirds,  ©joyannjones 2013
Erecthion with caryatids, Athens, Greece, via internet author unknown  Fair use   Manipulated

Friday, March 9, 2018

Friday 55 March 9 2018

Welcome to this week's 55, an exercise, a journey, a discipline, a memory of a meme originated by a genial and giving man named Galen Hayes, and carried on by my inadequate self, and all of you who come to read or to play. As always, no rules except that your contribution be 55 words of prose or poetry, no more, no less, linked in the comments below between Friday and Sunday morning. I look forward to reading what you have to offer.

My 55 this week is just a singsong mess that I couldn't dislodge...

Heaven's Door

Heaven's door stands open.
Peter knows I won't stay--all my angels have wings
just to fly away.

My darling dreams he's a fever
too hot for decay. My flowers open in darkness
and uncolor the day.

I'm a stone rolled downhill
for the unquieted grave--only angels have wings
so they can fly away.

~March 2018

Optional Musical Accompaniment

Images: Open Door On A Garden, 1934, by Konstantin Somov   
Public Domain (Manipulated)
Open Darkness, ©joyannjones 2018

Sunday, March 4, 2018



There's a place
in butterfly dusk
where moonfrost drifts in sepia crystals, 
where nightbirds' wings fold
so that even flight
cannot beat its way out
of the stillness of giants.

It's the place
where you stand
in the twilight of trees, where the heart 
still stalks the thing
that thinks shadows hide it
but shows in the dark,

bright as a moon that
glows like a cygnet
asleep on a midnight lake.

~March 2018

posted for Kerry's FLASH 
 at real toads

Some mood music...

Image:Crepuscule, 1897, by Heinrich Kuhn

Friday, March 2, 2018

Friday 55 March 2 2018

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...


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.