Good Health, Good Wishes, and Farewell

Thank you for reading this blog. It has been a wonderful journey.

-- Chrissa, April 2021

Bees

 

It's not the honey; it's the dimness

Or maybe my taste in home accoutrement,

My desire to put a bandage

over a scar that is being carved

by my other hand.

Either way, the bees come home

to the weave, sometimes brushing a wrist

or using all six legs 

to rub my shoulders;

They could teach me a dance--

the entrance to fairyland

is a hot shimmer

in a field of  blank green.

They want me to dance

into their feast like a queen

whose wings have long 

been abandoned.

This last fillip of winter has put the bees mostly on hold for now -- it hasn't stopped the wasps poking around the bird-dispensing patio cover and seeing how low they can drift before we start to move. Wasp chicken is a Texas summer activity. This week is theoretically Shot Week...which I'm not going to think about right now or in the context of wasps and bees. bzzzzzzzz....

-- Chrissa

My Obsession, Like a Laser

 For the Sunday Muse #156:

Bring me...what did I need?

Bring me the brief flash from the side

of the obelisk.

Catch it like a butterfly

Between your palms, gently, when

all wisdom fades...

I see the scales, there,

Staining your grip, like ink, like

desire--mine, for this.

It stains my head, breaks

My connection to the divine glass

and all the gods.

I will raze this city

With their corneas.

He tells me these are contact lenses carved from divine eyeballs--and I've known he wanted to destroy this entire shelf. Every model and figure, every book and frame. He keeps telling me that we can't see these ideas, so baldly reified, as if our dreams were toys and our hearts acrylic boxes. He urges me to destroy them, to abjure them to ash and black plastic coffins. Your mind is the trash bin, he warns. Full of old futures long grown impossible. Let me...just let me in your room and I'll help you remember more cleanly. 

It's been one of those weeks--just grey and chilly and not all that conducive to...stuff. It's a week in which having something to say seems impossible and pointless and only for the well-coifed and chatty-- probably the standard ennui for this stage in drafting. It's also perfectly normal to want to stomp like Godzilla around Texas, wearing a mask that's only partially flame-retardant. It's been a weird week. 

-- Chrissa

And The Third Thing...

 

See through the scales

scrape them across my eyes

where the fairies dance

after midnight

Leave the wood and glass

Empty as the reflections seem

Watch me like them

evaporate

Breeze take the dreams

Like the moth takes the cloth

Fly them straight home

with the rain

Posting in response to our Wednesday WordCrafters meeting. I'm still wobbly in the writing--it feels like there's a channel for the daily/weekly poems and a separate one for the zines & stories that I start and tuning into one cuts out the other.

Part of this is unrealistic schedules. If I have a zine ready by the end of April, then I'm probably well on track. But the eight million other goals...I'm ready to finish them, as well. What I need is...organization. 

*hisses* *hides under the desk* *more hissing*  

Yep, if I was vampire, you could probably stake me with a planner. 

-- chrissa

Unicorn

 

When I agreed to become a unicorn,

there were the following rules:

1. I will run toward all the sweet

blooms, close in, even

through thorns.

2. Flight is not the same

thing as hope 

or joy nesting,

briefly,

in my thoughts.

3. A needle is not a spear,

and I am not 

a warhorse.

A unicorn is a shadow of friendship

Mythic and missed.

-- chrissa 

As Blood

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse for Muse #155. 

I thought about writing, I thought about 

calling

I thought about folding screams into

silence:

There's no color that bleeds into this

paper

So it'll have to fly me and all the words

I have

as blood into the wordstream.

Let's say that the only thing important about today is the sunlight picking out the new blooms: the roses are budding out orange, the clovers are yellow, and there are some weeds tucked up against the foundation hanging purple bells in the rose's shadows. It's spring. And we're still at home. 

-- Chrissa

The Origin of Mercy

 

Slink down to the edge of the world, 
too heavy;
The sky may want to vaunt you
But the earth? She has granite
melting in her heart.
She will show you softness--
it will be your own.

Happy Easter to those who are celebrating! We are still awaiting vaccination and therefore spending the day putting together a porch picnic of ham sandwiches, deviled eggs, and potato salad for ourselves and the pups. It would be awesome to see a rabbit, but...no thickets. Maybe a stray squirrel on the fence? It's the fourth of the month and, so far, I've been sticking to my daily American Sentence for NaPoWriMo. I'm slowly edging back into the weekly poetry writing (the NaPoWriMo stuff is more a way to use a new journal than the poems; I've been stress buying journals the more the writing hasn't been happening) and so...yea! New beginnings. 

-- Chrissa