Morning Glories

Morning glory hues

saturated purple, pink

my eyes overflow

 ***

Chromagraphic feed

grows to epiphany from

psychedelic seed

***

Brave morning glory

in the language of flowers

you speak of yearning

***

Early morning cool

leaves its  dew drop calling card

on blossom, stem, leaf

***

Climb inside my mind

you crazy, twisted creeper-

bloom bright, leave your seed

Images: Mary Bach

A friend asked me about the flowers in the above pictures, which led me to look up Morning Glories since all I knew was the name.  According to Wikipedia I learned, among other things, the seeds have psychotropic properties when taken in large quantities and represented love in vain to the Victorians.  I have incorporated these tidbits into 55 words of Haiku for G-man's FF-55.  Click on the link to check out all the offerings or add your own.

Fast Track

“… the strokes expanding as entities in themselves, unrelated to any entity but that of their own existence." 

-Franz Kline

We rush through an

infinite loop of days

in vigorous pursuit

of status quo,

ignoring the peace

of blank spaces.

Image: Figure Eight by Franz Kline

The image that inspired this can be found at The Mag along with the responses of other writers.  Have a look; maybe give it a try yourself.

What's Wrong with US?

12 - Aurora, Colorado – 7/20/12

13 - Fort Hood, Texas – 11/5/09

15 - Binghamton, New York – 4/03/09

5 - DeKalb, Illinois – 2/14/08

8 - Omaha, Nebraska – 12/05/07

32 - Blacksburg, Virginia – 4/16/07

5 - Salt Lake City, Utah – 2/12/07

5 - West Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania – 10/02/06

9 - Red Lake, Minnesota – 3/21/05

What the fuck?

Please excuse my language.  I don’t normally use obscenities, but this 55 topic is obscene, and getting to be far too “normal” here in the United States.  These are the numbers shot and killed, the locations and dates of the “Worst U.S. Mass Shootings in Recent Years” as reported by WTMJ Newsradio.  I don't even know how to process this...
Check out Friday Flash 55 to see what's on the mind of other bloggers in 55 words.


Image by Karl Gehring/ The Denver Post

Small Talk

We sit, one couch cushion apart;

details of our lives

lay in heaps at our feet.

Two days’ time is not enough

to rub through  the polite veneer

on our conversation.

We are witty,

but our laughter sounds thin:

ice cubes clinking in a cocktail glass.

We stay on the periphery

civilized, trivial.

This is for the sorely missed G-man and his FF55 where folks offer 55 words of their choice.  Check it out!

For the Magpies

    First-born, daughter,

    I will name you Ophelia

    and I will teach you to swim

    Image:Ophelia by Redon

This is written in response to the image provided at The Mag.  

Nightmare for Toads

Night time:

urgent squeaking,

naked tail flicks, thrashes,

whisker-twitch, nail-click down the clock -

huge, grey-haired body bullets toward me,

its echo follows close behind.

I tense, then roll over

toward birdsong

morning.

This is a post about a nightmare and its resolution for IGRT.  I don't often have nightmares, but being the good little toad that I am, I had a delightfully creepy one last night about rats.  I think woke to find that the squeaking was actually the very insistent early birds outside my bedroom window.  Oh, and this poem is called a rictameter, marked by the syllable count per line of 2/4/6/8/10/8/6/4/2.  Images by: Rat - retrojunk.com, birds - metrolic.com 

House of Words

I am trapped in a house of words:

words of my own making

and yours.

Each note adds another layer

to thick walls encasing me.

I scribble as fast as I can

trying to write my way out,

but my pages fill the doors and windows,

piling higher and higher.

From the ceiling

incomplete sentences,

dependent clauses,

salutations and post scripts

rain down.

Words of love, carefully phrased,

and smooth, treacherous lies

fall at my feet.

I am surrounded by

words of iron indifference

and crumpled disinterest.

Words I can no longer read,

letters I cannot bare to open

pool around my ankles.

Eventually I will drown in them,

here in my house of words.

This image, Still Life, 1670, detail by Jean François de Le Motte, is provided by Tess at The Mag to inspire writers.  If you like to write, read or think I suggest you check it out.