Friday Flash 55 — bad day at the spa

At public baths for some relaxation,
many others there on vacation.
Sitting on a curved edge so slick,
she had to push with her feet to stick.
Her back began to itch and tingle —
Crap! No day to stay and mingle.
She sat a minute more and glowered,
went to the dressing room and showered.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

Image: Etchings and Engravings from Fontainebleau
after primaticcio probably for lower gallery at fontainebleau
urania

via ArtServe at Australian National University

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Friday Flash 55 — made it to Friday

Fever by Tara Lemana


The week was long we worked hard soft
kisses might have helped time go faster but
many made it to Friday with
brief hugs
fist bumps
caffeine
will power down all that now
the weekend is here hear a calling
from deep inside your needy soul saying
get every last drop from the golden weekend.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

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Friday Flash 55 — I ♥ SF

Golden Gate Bridge Tower in Fog by Jim Brandano via Pixdaus

Here is the church here is the steeple...
No. That's not right.

Here is the bridge here are the people...
No. No. Not quite.

Here is my heart like a blurry tepal -
But I am not there what a pity.
Here is my love like a protective sepal -
Resting lightly over you and The City.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

To clarify that tepal and sepal stuff  —

Above photo is a Lilium flower showing the tepals: 

the inner three are petals and the outer three are sepals.

Tepals are elements of the perianth, or outer part of a flower, which includes the petals or sepals. The term "tepal" is applied when all the segments of the perianth are of similar shape and color, or undifferentiated. When different types of organs can be distinguished, they are referred to as sepals and petals. 

For info about the secret history of 38 old nursery rhymes (The Church/Steeple rhyme is not yet included) visit Nursery Rhymes History and Songs at You Tube.
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Meeting the Bar: The Unfathomable

Beyond shattered glass,
blood-spattered ash,
and fallen limbs -
Through hateful haze
after fearsome fires -
Still in a daze, a
space of numbness -

between damning curses
and blessing hymns -

is where we must race,
wheel, or crawl -
is where we must travel
alone and together
beyond shattered glass.

I'll look for your face.



Written for Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft—The Unfathomable— at dVerse Poets. The host this week is Anna Elizabeth Graham, whose prompt post is a thoughtful essay on the poetry of disaster.

Want to give a shout out to the G-Man, with apologies for this 57-word poem not fitting the criteria for Friday Flash 55 this week....

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Mag 163 — shadow

There is that moment between
languishing in a hot bath
and toweling off with dense
soft terrycloth, when, between
standing in scented moist nakedness
and slipping into a nightgown,
a shadow silhouette of
the body long lived in
appears in the lowlight,
unrecognizable.




Written for The Mag: Mag 163 that inspired with the above photo prompt
(Woman With a Towel, 1898, Edgar Degas). 

Friday Flash 55 & Meeting the Bar: Irony

Drawing by Mark Powell via Tumblr, with this caption:  

‘we are all clowns with too much face paint’ Bic biro drawing on 1880s US citizenship form.

Let's write a mission statement
about the Declaration of Intention
we wish we could plan to complete.
It should be transparent and
indubitably sincere,
certainly not gawdy,
and without deceit —
A manifest to describe
our strategy for invention . . .
if it were prudent, if we
were brave and true,
instead of a bawdy
and bogus tribe.

:::

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

 -ALSO-

Written for Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft—Just Do What You Don't Mean: Irony— at dVerse Poets. The host this week is Victoria C. Slotto, who invites us "to say what you do not mean. Write something ironic, whether it be tinged with humor or a searing commentary on the state of things."
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Friday Flash 55 — A sheepherder at morn

Image via Facebook: My Romania-Vlad Dumitrescu


Slipping from my dreams to

Hail a moment of consciousness —

Even singing out from the image,

Even clip-clopping and bleeting to

Prove to me that such a scene, such

Heady heavenly simplicity still

Exists this very day under

Romanian morning light —

Does little to stop me from

Envisioning this becoming

Raptus memorious all too soon.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

Friday Flash 55 — Wabi-sabi shampoo

Let's shampoo in this sink, I said.

After napping on a gracious bed

(used the comforter as a spread —

left the room wearing not a thread).

We entered a bath where stress was shed.

The space was hewn gray stone, wood red:

Wabi-sabi imperfection purebred.

When shadows nudged light fled —

Then shadows on stillness fed.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

More on Wabi-sabi here.

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Mag 155 — galaxies

At the Galaxy Cafe' she sat
alone,
her thoughts orbiting
the sun of her burning being,
moonshine skin luminous
and admired by a star
of his own show in the
corner, over by the
quiche and tabouli cooler.

Without warning, probably
something like how Earth
will be surprised one day,
he became a hot meteor
seeking its cosmic source,
and was suddenly upon her.
One deep look, then with a 
kiss
they started a revolution.

Written for The Mag: Mag 155 that inspired with the above photo prompt (artwork by Joseph Lorusso).

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Poetics: bright shadows

Homage, Tom Mix, "Cupid in the Cow Camp," 1913 by David Lee Guss

Were children called "bright" when he was a boy
or when she was a girl? Was this child bright,
or dull as those eyes staring out from the
shadows of Time? What brightened the child's
days — a trip to the dark hardware store
where hard candies were a prize for being
still over by the stove as the adults spoke?
What lurked in the shadows behind
the folds of that developing brain? Sinister
plans or nonsense nuances? Does it even matter
now? Who loved the child enough to keep the
portrait, to stand it against the dusty, cold
stove? Someone who recognized that art thrives
in bright shadows.



Written for Poetics — The Poetics of Groundhog Day — Bright Shadow at dVerse Poets, hosted this week by Karin Gustafson, whose prompt post gave samples of wonderful shadow poems, and asked that we consider "jumping off (or into) bright shadows" in our own poems this week. 

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Mag 153 — pheromones, honey

When a long-ago night holds on to life
and won't let go, treat it tenderly.

It still inhales the blue smoke in the room
and exhales invisible sparkling pheromones.

It still feels like squeezed-hot bodies.
Many were in the place that night —
drinking celebrations, sharing highs.

It still sounds like muffled-liquid voices.
Many groups connected in pods —
sounding see-me in a sea of faces.

But for one face it was any night,
but there was that face.

But for one smile the room was dark,
but there was that smile.

It still intoxicates to remember
that her stereo later played Tupelo Honey

as one of them whispered to the other,
"Teach me."

Written for The Mag: Mag 153 that inspired with the above photo prompt (AnOther by Charlotte Gainsbourg).

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Mag 152 — two

It is simple,
really. Who
they were then
they will ever be:
two grasping
friendship's
gifts;
two giving
without
expectations;
two living
connected
together
and apart;
two loving
in love
with grasping
and giving
and living
and loving.

Written for The Mag: Mag 152 that inspired with the above photo prompt (image: stock photo).

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Friday Flash 55 — Be

Not there, here.
Center
yourself like a stone.
Smooth and pure with a feather on top, please.
No please, just be. Be solid. Be soft.
Be reflection.

Be here, not there.
Balance 

yourself like a stone 

on a stone on a stone. Please 

yes with the touch of a feather, here and there.
Reflection be.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man

Image: via Naivul

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Poetics: Change is turning?

chapter of my life. by Menachem Krinsky



When there is a restless stirring inside me
that callsandcalls, leaving no message —
but turns over upon itself, overandover,
waiting for me to decode the signals,
urging me to remember how novel
boldness can be, while not
misreading it as in the
past, a new chapter
may be ready to be
read, or written -
passive or
active -
change
is
?


Written for Poetics — ChaNGe & TuRns — at dVerse Poets hosted this week by Claudia Schoenfeld, who shared with us her freeway photography, and asking us to consider changes or turns in whatever form we chose.

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Friday Flash 55 — Julia Bulette

Friday Afternoon is burning. by sandra89


Prostitution is legal in
Nevada where I grew up.
In visits to Virginia City
as a kid I learned about
the woman Julia Bulette,
a famous whore whose life
and death are now lore.

I read the tributes,
studied her face,
came to know her
not as one of them —
but as one of us.

 Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

To learn about Julia C. Bulette, visit this page.

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trust at twilight

Going Home by Igor Zenin

If I were you I'd
remember this day and
the way your dad's tobacco
mingles with the smell
of the horse, and with the
seductive fullness of the air
at gloaming, in a blend
of musky smoke, sweet
grass, and magic
so familiar
there is color-character-form
to the concoction and you
might create it again
someday for Guerlain and
name the fragrance trust.

Your hair will have been
cut years before your
career begins. Still, if
I were you, I would
remember the taste of the
tips of those braids
when you sucked them
and the strange sensuality
in that act,
and the soft sentimentality
you will feel when pressing
those bright leaves
in between the covers
of twilight.

Written for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets hosted this week by Joe Hesch. 

(Am linking in spite of being too late to actually sign in.)
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Friday Flash 55 — last stand huddles

they huddle by Fighter Ross


You know how sometimes when you are trying to pee —
but can't —
you think of running water?

Here we are, the last stand of old growth
in this forest.
When you see us standing in the ice storm
think of us as saplings among
thousands of elders —
protected
from winter,
oblivious
to the
summer axe.

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

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Poetics: I remember Nogales

I remember Nogales,
just over the border a world
away we romped in our shorts
and college awe on the gritty
streets and in tiny shops where
smoke mingled with smoke,
where old cars and metal shacks
were a rusty orange-brown
and our painted toenails
were dusty from the road.

I remember Nogales,
with shelves of worms
in tequila bottles drowned
and sunk to the bottom –
and that woman passed out cold
in the heat of the dying day,
sitting drunk against a rusty
car with her dusty child
fidgeting by her side.



  

Written for Poetics — photography by Terry S. Amstutz — at dVerse Poets hosted this week by Claudia Schoenfeld, who shared with us the photography of Terry S. Amstutz, a.k.a. mobius faith. I selected his image above as the prompt for my poem.

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Poetics: The lights are back on.....

The lights
are back on
but is
anybody
home? Who
will scrape
the mold
and rust from
this building
built for
those who
marched
to a different
drummer
in a different
time:


When
summers sang
from ship to
shore,
when tales
were told
of a great
Nor'easter
back in the fall
of '25 —
the biggest
storm ever — 
thus,
nevermore.

Memories,
memories: 
Black mold,
red rust
March out of
this time
Drum ship to
shore
Tell tales
nevermore
of a biggest
storm.

The lights
are back on
but is
anybody
home?


Written for Poetics — Through the Artist's Lens  — at dVerse Poets hosted this week by Brian Miller, who shared with us the art and photography of a blogger/artist named SueAnn. I selected her piece above as the prompt for my poem.

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Mag 141 — Before the New Normal

Let's remember this:

that, before the New Normal,

there were autumns with mist

that filled the air, dampening

our clothes and our hair --

glossing colored leaves

 before they fell from trees

 that stood through winter, waiting

for tender green replacements.

There were light romantic rains

that made our lips plump

for kissing, as the hissing

of tires on the street

made music for the walk home.

Written for The Mag: Mag 141 that inspired with the above photo prompt. 

My heart and thoughts go out to all those affected by the enormous destruction caused by Sandy.

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