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.

18

These are times of unmaking
systems fall into disrepair
entropy has her way

birds fall from the skies
buds freeze, curled tight
their potential never sprung

socks and gloves
fall out with their mates
leave without saying goodbye

things fall apart
clocks stop
dishes break

the mirror shows
only empty spaces
and faces without hope

 

These 55 words are for Joy at Verse Escape, where she carries on the grand tradition of the G-man.

Cat Tale

DSCN0111 (2)                                                                                      -Photo by Mary Bach

It is amazing how a little pile
of fur and bones
of whiskers and purrs
can claim a human heart
can fill a human heart
and

how its suffering
can break
a human heart
and call from the human
both her best and her worst
and how completely
helpless
that human can
feel

 

This is in memory of Frank, my daughter’s cat who left us November 24 of this year.  It is linked to Joy’s FF55 at Verse Escape, with a nod to the late, great G-Man.

Present

We rush through
a tinderbox world 
with an armload of matches
as the wind picks up

Skies darken
lightning flashes
but no rain falls

Ignorance and Want
follow us
track us
trace our steps
drawing ever closer

Then high above
the vultures begin to circle
and all our bad victories
catch in our throats

 

These 55 words are woefully late for Joy’s FF55 at Verse Escape.

Mid-Night

There is a time
closer to night than morning
when parties fall
into ruin
and the moon wearies

There is a time
when dreams are forgotten
and shades
lose their way 

There is a time
when the clock
gives up its hands
and the hours pool
on the ground
running to regret

This is my time

This is for my friend Joy’s FF55 revival at Verse Escape, even though it’s not Friday, and if you’re counting, there aren’t 55 words.