Friday, November 12, 2010

Friday Flash Fiction 55, for poets

We can’t all be poets, but

with only one,

we can live…..

For the poet takes us

to the deepest, dankest

worm’s stank bed,

drags our fingers

leafing through

the crumbling acrid yeasty loam.

He overturns bones

to dig us out and

quenches with liqueur

distilled in dew

from the bud

of the deepest red.

This is a flash fiction poem, in exactly 55 words, hosted by Mr Knowitall, HERE  .  Write your own story or poem, let us know, and post on Friday!  Should I change "red" to "read"?
Photo by J.Giese.
I am grateful to the talented and truthful poets I heard tonight, who lifted me and shredded me and wrung me out.  I am ready to get up and face another day...


  1. Yikes. This is what poets do? I might be just a little intimidated to write poetry the more. Or perhaps it will kick me in my pants.

    I'm thinking red is best.


  2. nice...are those ants all over your hand & arm? being a poet is freeing and painful...

  3. It's amazing how words - in their limited supply - can be arranged in different orders and literally blow your mind.

    Loved this 55, Dianne.

  4. It's your poem, you can spell it any way you want!
    I kinda like wading through the yeasty loam.
    Dianne...You are such a wonderful supporter and friend of my little nonsense...Thank You.
    Loved your 55...
    Thanks for your contribution, and have a Kick Ass Week-End...G

  5. Poetry does make the poet look at things around themselves in a different way: closely, considering, interpreting.

    I hope that is the crumbling loam on the hand and not ants, as Brian suggested.

  6. loved the...
    quenches with liqueur and
    distilled in dew..

  7. hey dianne~ is that your hand?!!! I worked in the yard 2 days ago and got two really bad spider/bug bites!!
    poets can make words flow so picturesque! nice to meet you!

  8. Edgar Allen Poe"ish"

    nice 55 Di - the reality of the poet

    Moonie smiles