Wordless – 55

There are
things older than words
dark, feral things
without form
that gather in my mind
and crowd my throat
pushing down
against the back of my tongue

Or, at times, they rest
thick and heavy
in the ends of my fingers
and the tip of my pen
as I try to write

even now.

 

Once upon a time, a wise man named Galen began writing 55 words on Fridays.  And he invited others to joined him.  Then one, sad day he left us.  But a good witch, Hedgewitch, took up the 55 and carried it for as long as she could.
I think of these people every time I manage to coax 55 words from wherever it is they come from.

26

I sit with the moon
when everyone else
is tucked away, dreaming
I recite the stars
like a litany
rolling them
around my mouth
touching each tooth
one by one until I have
emptied the sky

1

I look
to the sky
as I draw the dark
around my shoulders

With a shiver
I contemplate
the cold, impossible light
of stars
so fair
so far
away

Here we go…

Photo from Public Domain Images

Halfway

Searching for pockets of kindness
we huddle in doorways
fingering the scraps of our dreams

we are
halfway out of the dark

but the sun
is pitiless

Autumnal Equinox – FF55

Light and shadows dance
through the ages
flashing, winking, spinning

And now the time begins
when shadows enfold the light
when we turn
to darker thoughts
with shorter days
and colder nights
when blossoms are spent
and fruits have ripened

The growing season is over
prepare your garden
prepare your soul
winter is on the way

This is for Joy, who has resurrected FF55 at Verse Escape.  Go there and see what it’s all about.  (Photo is by me.)

Nightmare Lullaby

I am standing in the dark.
Suddenly there is a keyboard
around me
like a corkscrew
reaching up, farther than I can see

The floor is gone.
I am floating
with the black and white keys
spiraling down,
down
and disappearing
to a
point.

I begin to play.
The tune is discordant
full of dread
but I can’t stop.

I feel the flapping of wings
just beyond my face,
just out of view

When I look down my hands have
turned into knives
stabbing the
keys which
now spurt blood
everywhere.
And still the dreadful
song goes on

 

Over in the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Bjorn has shown us some nightmarish art and asked us to write about our own nightmares.  Click on the link and check it out.

The Art of Winter

-Photo by Mary Bach

There is a beauty in
negative spaces,
in winter,
in life drawing down
to a
point
 
the stark dark and light
of trees and snow,
of moon and night
of hunger and time,
thickening, lengthening, slowing
blown by winds
drifting at our door
beautiful and dangerous
call to us
 
winter draws us down
to the bone

 

This is 55+ for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads where we are asked to write 55 words on the topic of our choosing, and if we would like to deal with some pairing of two things.  Click on the link and check it out.