Sunday, December 8, 2019

Angels

I've been chasing angels
Whirling, crashing angels
Flying sharp across the ground

I've been chasing angels
Scraping through the grass
Come out, come out, they call

The angels crinkle
Underneath my claws
Still chasing, still flying

And I leap
And I pounce
And I bite

Such a serious looking kitten. :) Sharing today with The Sunday Muse and Poets United. The latter half of this week has found me more or less flat on my back for long stretches as I try to recover from a little bit of impatience earlier in the week (lesson learned--just wait for help, don't lift in annoyance), so this will be short. 

Me, recovering from my own stupidity
Hope your week will be creative and festive! :)

--Chrissa



Sunday, December 1, 2019

Pipes


Even here, where memory itself is iced with dust,
Frosted with webs; even here, I am thankful for the pipes
Clean water from wherever it may have run
Underground, creeping and pressing through stone
To fall out here, surprised.
It will be exhausted when it's touched dishes,
Counters, cabinets and this floor
We will both tend toward the cooler tile
Stone enough, I guess.
If the last thing I will be grateful for,
Here, is water...
Filling the baths and the spigots,
The hoses and the plastic pools,
The sprinklers and the showers,
Then I will be clean
And I will be
Thankful

Sharing this week with The Sunday Muse...maybe in honor of the holiday or in honor of no longer having water dripping like madness from the ceiling or just because. Hope this week finds everyone recharged and creative as the new year slips up, party frock ready. :) 

-- Chrissa

Sunday, November 24, 2019

Questions

"After the Rain" by Cyril Rolando

What I want to ask is why my jasmine has turned brown
Where the green
Blooming
Reaching became sallow

What I want to ask is why my ideas are infestations
Why what if
Marred,
De-sanctified,
Then stunted these fairy hills and trees

What I want to ask
Is why should I
Take your word
For any of it?

Sharing today with The Sunday Muse and Poets United. So...this week finds me a little burnt out. The NaNo novel was drafted--but I find myself souring on it, feeling guilty about that, and then remembering that this is why I seldom finish NaNo anymore. How many unfinished novels will safely fit under one bed?

-- Chrissa



Sunday, November 17, 2019

It's Just a Short Walk to the Post


She knows things that I should know--she's generous
There's an offer; she can feel my fear beneath her arms
While she calms horse and passenger at once.
Calls the motion, tells me to breathe.

But there are things I don't want to know.

I prefer the image to the motion; prefer to live
In the kind of harness that stables never keep polished
A dream that broke some years ago
That I've taped carefully together.

There are things that I don't want to know.

Greetings and good wishes, fellow poets/poetry readers. So...hoofed animals and my fear thereof. Let's call it the irrationality of the contagiously anxious. I'm generally happy to see cows, horses, donkeys, deer as I'm driving by, preferably well away from the road. Once we're in close proximity, I'm convinced a {{{Stampede of Epic Proportions}}} is about to begin. Probably with me. 

-- Chrissa (currently not stampeding)

P.S. -- NaNo updates next Sunday, after the Festival of  Lights. On a totally unrelated note: Is the rider a wizard? Is she contemplating the creeping developments she can hear beyond the edge of the frame?  Also, sharing with The Sunday Muse and with Poets United, both of which are excellent places to find more poetry and stories and to see what other writers have discovered in the past week. Come, share. Poetry stampede!!!!!!

Sunday, November 10, 2019

Conjure Path

Photography by Sarolta Ban
View website HERE

A master's garbled voice uprooting the thinner stumps
Music swells like acorns in the crackle of the leaves
Let the deer be silent as the old rebirth squeals.

Beneath the waxy spirals we have found the conjure path
Slip up, down, contrary; wake the boars by the nose
Or settle anxious hooves upon the softer grass.

You can't see the land or the slope spun underneath.

Thanks to Carrie & The Sunday Muse for the wonderful prompt for this week's poem which I am also linking to Poets United Pantry of Poetry and Prose #3 And it's Sunday, so it's time to take stock of the previous week's writing. I am on track for my NaNoWriMo project and yet...completely frustrated. Although I enjoy the community of writers that NaNo brings, I'm not competing for a word count or intending upon something that is immediately consumed at the end of the month. This story is something that has to grow steadily, as makes sense for my longer writing in general. As a result, I'm finding the emphasis on word count and on working faster than I normally do is getting under my skin. This is far from a bad thing--it lets me know that my writing has changed over the years as I've started a more consistent practice. While I'm always up for a small group of friends meeting to reinforce each other's productivity, I'm not social enough for large gatherings and competition over extreme word count. Looking forward to seeing where I am toward the end of November--will there be a beginning, middle, and end to rework?

-- Chrissa

Sunday, November 3, 2019

Nothing Through Me

 Photography by Oladios
"I can't see the end of me."
Photo source

Fear is a sight, the sight--the one that scans horizons
Where the monsters lurk in the brightest depths of day's end
Where I will sail, where I am going, where I fade
On that line where the day cascades so deep you see the rays
Flatten and melt, render the water unswimmable,
Thin.

I've been sitting on this edge until I can't feel myself!

Fear is a sight, the one you catch of yourself, gone
Down, into the pool of ended days from a cotton bedspread
Legs hanging over the sides as if into that water
Feeling the cataract of all that light, splaying out heavy,
Shaving me away, rays gaping wide, cloaking,
Bent.

Sharing today with The Sunday Muse. Also, using this space to vent--NaNo didn't start all that well for me. My characters and I don't get along and they're not all that confident that I am capable of handling their story. And unlike most of my other drafts, this feels uncomfortably close to Not My Story To Tell. Which is totally weird, because I would have told you before I started that it wasn't based on anything in particular save for some oddball YouTube obsessions of mine. Seriously, someone needs to convince me that dead malls aren't something you need hours of content about. Or, someone in the Houston area needs to point me in the direction of a group of the nearest local enthusiasts. Anyway, I'm also trying to read The Library of the Unwritten to guilt myself into stop creating yet more unfinished manuscripts. And if writing and reading aren't provoking, there's always the need to  keep Arthur from chewing all Merlin's tail ruff off.  Not that he's the type of dog to do that...see totally innocent face, at right. That dog takes a better author photo than I ever will. :)  

On the very, very plus side, cool weather has finally arrived in our part of Texas! Open windows! Candles! 

As you can tell, I'm a little scattered this morning. Hope this is a beginning to a lovely week of writing for you! 

-- Chrissa

Sunday, October 27, 2019

Some Other Light


I almost get the picture but my brain and thumb
Are out of synch, one dreaming, the other balancing stuff.
It's an old dream in a new-ish city, oil leaking skylights
Across the entire dome of tomorrow until we see
The universe and the blue sky in the same puddle;
Until the flight that carries and the flight that punctures
Are the same thing, explosions and ribbons
Ripping and lacing the sky open and whole simultaneously.
We are dreaming in gloves and calipers, only a little
Star stuff and gunpowder before the colors rend
Our sight from darkness and give us light.
Daydreaming in the city already smothered
By creeks and bayous and rivers dreaming of salt depths,
Of the deep darkness where islands are born,
Some other current, some other light
One facing the heart, one facing the heights.

Sharing today with Poets United for Poetry Pantry #498 (sorry it's not a Halloween poem!) and with The Sunday Muse for Sunday Muse #79

NaNoWriMo is coming up and I'm going to be going for the 50K (words, that is) this November, so I might be erratic in my poetry. While November looms before me, I'm thinking of a writing class I recently attended and how I want to approach the project this time. There is a piece that's gnawing at me, asking me whether the other pieces are dodges for the things I could say but don't. Someone claimed today that responsibility was restricted to what you do...you can't be responsible for something global (like pop culture) or for sins committed in the past...but I'm feeling like writing has become...something that shows more blindness than insight for me. And so, perhaps, this November, I'm going to pick a project I don't like and remember what it means to write about the things that bite. Or...maybe not. See you on the other side of November, when I know what I've written. 

-- Chrissa