Posted tagged ‘Friday Flash 55’

For Mr. Know-it-all, The Host With the Most

December 11, 2014


For Mr. Know-It-All

You beamed a hospitality
that didn’t require proffered tea-
it said, you’re you and I am me
and here’s a place where “we” can be.

Your spot might not suit to a T,
but we fit just fine if some of me–
(with you)–was whittled carefully–
(fifty words worth–no, wait, let’s see

Cause humans tend to err, alive,
why not add another five--)

Oh, gee, man, how I’ll miss your jive.


Here’s a poem for Galen Haynes, the wonderful G-Man, the host with the most, who came up with the form of Flash 55, posted here for Mama Zen’s prompt on With Real Toads to write something less than 75 words with a homophone.

The Friday Flash 55 prompt was so much fun–Galen’s own post witty and wonderfully irreverent, and his persona a joy.  His comments were invariably kind, thoughtful and affirming.  Godspeed, Galen, as Mama Zen wrote in her own beautiful post, and send his family sincere condolences.

PS — Galen was so kind and funny.  He could always tell if a poster was a bit depressed or under the weather.  The above pic is from a post I did when I just couldn’t squeeze out a 55.  The rest of the pictures can be found here.)

Moon-tied (Last Friday Flash 55 for the G-Man)

March 28, 2014




Ice floes,
ice flows.
That is how
ice goes.

sun rays,
that is how
sun makes days.

in its pallor
lovers sighed.

Hearts please
heart’s pleas–
never wise
for hearts to tease.

lover lying
on dank ground.

Too young this love
to ever know
quite how long
ice will flow.


My last 55 for the gallant Galen–Yes, some of those are two words jammed  together! But the ever tolerant Mr. G will still, I hope, allow my weekend to kick-a…

On a more serious note, many thanks to Galen, the G-man, Mr. Know-it-all for his wonderfully clever and sweet hosting of Friday Flash 55. His 55 prompt is a real exercise in discipline and, when discipline fails, slyness. He will still be blogging to–the delight of one Manicddaily.  Also, thanks to his new hosts, Shay and Mama Zen.

P.S. – the above if anyone is interested is a picture taken a night a couple of years ago of ice floes in the Hudson at the bottom of Manhattan. 

To the G-Man – Friday Flash 55

March 21, 2014


Re Tempus Fu(Mr.G)it- (It’s Latin, so it’s okay!)

Why does time have to march
even in March?

Why can’t we keep the spring

Our hips stay
hip?  Our black clothing only
mean coolness?
Our wrinkles lipsynch
how oooh we are laid-back,
our lovehandles
that we
are love-

And why, oh why,
are our poems not everlastingly


55 for the G-Man!  This is his second-to-last week of hosting Friday Flash 55.  He’s had a long and honorable run and needs to concentrate on his Harley–best to him always.

PS – the photo is outside a plane window.  Yes, I know planes don’t march!  But they do something else that time does — fly!

Cut – Friday Flash 55

January 31, 2014



You justified coldness
as kind, and so, looked through me,
your body all back.

I remembered that, tonight,
identifying crow tracks
in the snow, not
the forked tread of crows’ feet–
the spread pleats
of wings,
slits in the white crust,
the featherweight push
of take-off.

How can we be
so cruel
in love?


Here’s a draft poem–I don’t really have it right–but it IS 55 words, so please go tell the G-Man

The picture–if you can make it out–are the indentation of crows’ wings in the snow–you can see marks of feet to the side (not the true tracks of the feet though–but where it pushed off).  If the pic doesn’t come out in your browser, please click on it, as it is kind of cool. 

Flu (In the Coop)

January 23, 2014

Flu (In the Coop)

Who jammed that Bic
in my right ear?
What magpie mistakes my eye
for its best marble?

Rib cage so brittle that
Mortality barely rattles, then
marauds, gnawing joints
with equal-opportunity slaver–

I tell myself, batting him back,
how different I’ll be
when he’s pacified;
my mind, even as chest cough-quakes, says
“yeah, sure.”


Sorry for yet another flu poem.  And my husband says it’s too gloomy, that I really will be different when I recover.  Whatever.  Here’s 55 of the most plaintive for the G-man

Strange Victory

December 27, 2013


Strange Victory  (For Veterans, Of Whom I Do Not Think Enough)

If even a spill
from a thermos
leaves a scar,
a half-”v” upon my knee–
then how can we, no matter how
insulated, not see
the lines on those
whose lives
have been hit hard
in the head, burned at more
than edges, who, giving all and
asking precious
little, we thank
with precious less.


Another grim poem of sorts in 55 words for the G-Man.  (Sorry, Galen.)  This one inspired by listening to my husband talk about a very interesting, if very sad, book called Thanks For Your Service by David Finkel.  Finkel writes of the difficulties faced by veterans returning from Iraq and Afghanistan.  In this holiday time, please keep in mind that the U.S. still has troops in Afghanistan–it is not the troops’ fault if no one is sure what they are doing there.


December 20, 2013



Senseless is–
always; young black man killed
in Mississippi.
Never hurt nobody
with that smile.
It stretches, in the pic,
to his eyes, even his hair grins.
One round to the head
all it took,
three guys who also took
his car.
A week before Christmas,
twenty-five feels just
an infant, lost star, hope, son.


Sorry to be so grim so close to Christmas.  An acquaintance of one of my daughters murdered in Mississippi.  Graduate student at Ole Miss.  Here’s the story.  Too too sad. 

Odd to write a poem about something so serious and stick to 55 words as I’ve done here–but the exercise, in this case for the G-man, enforces a kind of discipline, which I hope is good to express these sad feelings without excess sentimentality. 

Hope to post happier things in the coming days.  

Blue (in 55)

December 7, 2013



Blue, I think in cobalt.

Cerulean smiles. Prussian, well, takes charge.

But cobalt colors waves’ sink, glass pretending darkness
will save it from break, the near-night sky,

I do not know
how the footfalls of approaching night
are found in rock salt, sindered.
Only that, when sky fixes
in the buried, oceans are



Cobalt is a wonderful deep blue made of salts of alumina, sindered, meaning heated very hot. It is used in making pigments, but also for a deep blue glass, and the blues in Chinese porcelain. Cerulean and Prussian are other blues–55 packed into one for the G-man--also for Sam Peralta of dVerse Poets Pub.

Early Morning Poem for Pearl

November 29, 2013

iPhone drawing based on old Pearl–meaning young Pearl–new pictures of her (18) don’t really do her justice

Early Morning Poem For Pearl

Sun winks gold pink
at the freeze’s peaked rim, every edge below
a ledge for white, all
I hold the old dog, whitish,
also hinting pink.  She trembles
even back in the house; heart sinks
in the holding.
In this stilled valley,
all that moves–the trembling dog,
the pinking light, my heart.


55 words for Pearl (and also for the G-Man).  She is nearly 18 1/2 and really getting decrepit.  It is sad in ways that a person who’s not owned a dog may find difficult to fathom.  

I post a picture of Pearl below though she looks terribly bedraggled.  It is torturous to her to mess around too much with her grooming at this stage in her life. 


November 22, 1963 (if Alive then and Over Five, You Remember)

November 22, 2013

November 22, 1963 (if Alive then and Over Five, You Remember)

Ushered from pine
desks to blacktop,
the big girls–third-graders–
roamed red-eyed arm-in-arm,
while we, who always spent recess as horses,
studied holding our bowed heads stiff
so that even our hair (the reins)
would not seem to play at anything
but the insurmountable grief
we were only just
learning about.

Fifty years. Fifty-five words without the title. I know it’s late in the day but tell it to the G-Man.

I am also linking this to Victoria C. Slotto’s Poetics prompt on calendars over at dVerse Poets Pub.  (Not sure this quite fits the prompt, but it is a day on the calendar that pops up for me.)

(All rights reserved to poem and photograph.).