Flash 55 — Boon's

 

There is power of place here,
Solid as mortared brick -
Ethereal as finespun memories.

I sip Earl Grey tea
On a waning winter day,
Remembering dark ale drunk
In the sunshine of youth at
That table, and that one by the
Pot-bellied stove.

Decades slipped away …
And his eyes are still the bluest blue.

_________

My post written in exactly 55 words for Flash 55, now hosted by the lovelies over at imaginary garden with read toads.
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Flash Fiction 55 — impressions

The Waning Honeymoon, 1878 (oil on canvas) by George Henry Boughton

        Old Woman by Suzanne Marie LeClair


When she was a child, Jacqueline’s aunt Lily made two pronouncements that left lifelong impressions.
“Paul is crazy."
"Sex is incidental." 

Auntie truisms warped and wrapped together, even decades after Lily and Paul passed. Paul died first, screaming mad he was at the end, leaving Lily to years of no longing with shortbread and tea.

______________________________
My post written in exactly 55 words for Flash Fiction 55, now hosted by the lovelies over at imaginary garden with read toads. In searching for images to accompany this prose I could not decide which of the two above most suited the fiction. The mood seems to change with each, yet each touches the tone.......so I kept them both!
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55 — for Bobbb

Photo of his beloved Bandingo Farm by Robert Butkereit

September 2, 2012

In stillness now,
the beloved farm manifests the
lovely seasons of observation
and reverence that he

       Soft summer is still soft,
       but lonely for the reflections
       written and photographed
       that only he

              The bear snores in the woods,
              blossoms are full and lazy, birds
              ready for migration in autumn,
              and he

will be remembered here.

~~~

My post written in exactly 55 words for Flash Fiction 55, now hosted by the lovelies over at imaginary garden with read toads.

Sorrowfully, this poem is not fiction and is written to honor a friend and fellow blogger who died suddenly this week, alone, on his farm in a remote part of New York.

Known as Citizen of Earth and also as Bobbb, Robert Butkereit authored one of the best blogs out there and I can hardly believe how few followers he had. Robert and I became friends via our blogs, a friendship that extended to Facebook, which is where I learned of his death. Please do yourself a favor and visit his blog, Zenspace to read some, or many, of his deep posts.

I have chosen to reprint his post from February 10, 2014. The photo and writing are pure Citizen of Earth.
RIP, dear friend.

In Passing

This long road I never expected to see
Past the vanishing point milestone markers melt slowly
A billion billion drops of rain never counted and the wind
Working overtime to the same conclusion
The silent stars stand witness
They alone hold the key
For the road begins and ends by their good grace
Time and space
And the secrets they share
Be they particle
Or wave

Flash Fiction 55 — Llama

Aymara the Llama by Migy Blanco

Dark blond and übersoft,
my winter coat
gained a magical air when the
babysitter showed me the label,
pronouncing the word — Llama —
telling me about the animal, its
mountain home, its prized wool.

I spent the remainder of the day
coat across my lap, an
encyclopedia opened atop it,
lost in discovery and wonder.


My post written in exactly 55 words for Flash Fiction 55, now hosted by the lovelies over at imaginary garden with read toads.
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Flash Fiction 55 — There in my dreams

 Image via Pixdaus: 40 Breathtaking Places to See Before You Die by www.boredpanda.com - Venice, Italy

In one ray of light a dust particle sparkles in flight.
I ride on it.
In the gondolier's melody my name is sung.
I cling to a building as a speck of
cardinal red paint,
then am a thread freed from an awning
of bright aquamarine
floating in heady air
into this canal of dreams

~~~

My post written in exactly 55 words for Flash Fiction 55, now hosted by the lovelies over at imaginary garden with read toads. 

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Flash Fiction 55 — obligation

The Room by Anne Selleck (2005)

A ration of time, just
a fraction. But
fractured.
Hard to schedule, hard
to please. Dreaded.
Can be dreadful when
not in a zoned-out,
zen-like space. In
laws and in lives some
things are not meant
to be. Human
frailty.
Dis-ease, these
disjointed
hours. He’s cracking
his knuckles. She’s
cutting off her nose.
In spite.


Written for Flash Fiction 55, now hosted by the lovelies over at imaginary garden with read toads.
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