Friday, January 19, 2018

Friday 55 January 19 2018


Another Friday, another chance to remember and to work with the Friday 55, a meme for writers long maintained by a good man now departed, but for many of us still present in memory, Galen Hayes. Here we write for the pleasure of writing, with no rules other than that each example of prose or poetry contain 55 words, no more, no less. If you are in the mood for the exercise, link your example in the comments below, and I will be by to read and appreciate. The 55 will be alive from early Friday morning through Sunday morning. As always, comment moderation is off, but I reserve the right to apply the delete key to any passing trollish ones.



 My offering for this winter wild week in January ...





Winter Gods




Winter
tests the craven
and the brave
 limping calf, ravens' black eye-sparkle,
 days short of breath
lopped 
at the knee
by snow-padded knife.

Still
the gods hunt wild
calling where green light raids
the skyliving now.
Wolves
follow the herds 
 howling the words to
godsongs of blood,

old hungers' lore,
scenting ahead
the last home.





 ~January 2018









Optional Musical Accompaniment






"...Who shall sing me
into deathsleep sling me
when I on the path to Hel go
I sought the songs
I sent the songs
then the deepest well
gave me tears so harsh
of Death-father's  wager..."

(from Helvegen, translated)








I've written of the Wild Hunt before; if you're unfamiliar with it, there is a quick reprise of most of the myths associated with it here. 




Images :Northern Lights in Iceland, The Wild Hunt, via internet, no authors known.
Fair Use.



Tuesday, January 16, 2018

Truth Of The Mouse




Truth of the Mouse



What they do to you
I dream they do to me.
The knives come out
the tubes go in
to the piece of meat
nameless, once sweet,
test tube tissue
over-scanned and analyzed
and the bugs are in
the bandages again.

The nurse can't come; 
 she's
double parked at the casino
where the chips come down
like needle rain
where the dealer's a junkie
because the rules broke again
and the mouse
that chews the truth
knows 
it's not safe to come out.



~January 2018




 







Images: Illustration from The Tale of Two Bad Mice, andThe Mice at Work Threading The Needle, by Beatrix Potter   Public Domain


Friday, January 12, 2018

Friday 55 January 12 2018



As the door to another year opens, we stroll into the shelter of this room of words with whatever we can find to delight the mind, comfort it, or perhaps, clean it out...in 55 words of prose or poetry--no more, no less. As always, we do this to remember a man who gave of himself to support and encourage others every week with this meme, Galen Hayes, and to write in this form with no rules other than to enjoy each other and to practice the craft.
Also as always, the prompt is open from Friday through Sunday, so leave a link to your offering in the comments below and I will be by to see the results. Comment moderation is off for the duration of the post, but I reserve the right to cleanse this mental room of all dubious influences with the powerful smudge of the delete key.







So, I'll start things off then...








Spellsong




A statue's
closed stare,
mind castled in sand,
stone-sweeping sleet
to compass my hands,
midnight dissolving
in fog and quicklime;

all faces in masks
all masks without eyes.

Acid and black-ice
bitter the glass.
Flames' frozen flutter
fits candles of brass;

sighing of wind, dancing of rain,
kiss from a ghost to
burn me again.



~January 2018 














Images: Eyelid to Eye, 2014  ©joyannjones 
photo (manipulated) of 
Moth and Flame Candlestick, 1965  by Salvador Dali  Fair Use


Saturday, January 6, 2018

Helltrain






Helltrain

"I ride on the mailtrain, baby /can't buy a thrill..." ~Bob Dylan 



You can buy a ticket
but you can't buy a thrill.
It's all 'be in at the kill,'
but the victim don't pick it.
You can tell them to stick it
(and they certainly will.)

On the overground pale-way
the fare's taken in souls.
The dead-wagon rolls
to the market each sale day,
but ratbags on the trail may
soon eat the controls.

Still, the circus tent's pie-warm,
and the clown car's on Uber
(tho the Clown's in a stupor
from some three a.m. tweetstorm.)
Cassandra's on cable in fine form
til the noosers come loop her.

You can buy a ticket, you all,
but you can't stop the train,
and you can't towel off the hard rain
that's been brought here to fall.


 ~January 2018






written for  Shay's Tickets, at real toads
 

 


ratbag: Victorian slang for (*cough*) 'a despicable person'



Optional Musical Accompaniment









Images: American Train, © Hiro Yamagata,  All Rights Reserved. Fair Use
Rabbit on a Train, © Michael Sowa,  All Rights Reserved  Fair Use.