Sunday, June 16, 2019

Leavings: A Cat Story

I have come for the hearth, you see
Every hearth has a cat space, a brick that gives
From the branch, from the fence, from the empty
Harbor where all the eyes of the house gather
Waiting for me.
And I have come for their ears with a tale
That slinks through outer spaces and is unafraid
To claim its path through these peopled rooms,
Lurking by the edge of floor and wall and web,
Waiting for fate.
You never come to clean the dusty selvage
Where lives flit swift through the sunlight
And slow by the vents, where the shadows
You imagine as fuzz pull their legs tight
And wait for them.
You leave the leavings for me.

Sharing this week with The Sunday Muse and Poets United.

-- Chrissa

Sunday, June 9, 2019

The Age of Essay

Photography by Carlo Pautasso
I have reached the age of essays
Home from the quest years,
Beyond the fairy tale lacuna, 
And so, restlessness catches my eye.
A wake of impatience in the bookstore,
A boy standing on a dark, wooden bench
In front of a window, which is also stained
With whatever lining blocks the sun--
He bounces his soccer ball against floor and glass
And asks
Whether his mother played soccer?
Whether she was any good.
Perhaps he's seven? Eight?
We've been listening to essays in the car
Driving down to see my nephew
And I pause, wait to hear the answer,
Even though I don't know either the boy
Or his grandfather. Who tells him yes,
She played soccer, year-round, indoors in the winter
And that she was good, at least in his opinion.
The boy asks another question
But impatience has caught us,
My nephew has perused the robot kits,
We've already had lunch, there's an upcoming "next"
He's well into the age of quest
And, for him, there is still the possibility 
Of someone to get lost in the stories
He brings back. on earth, the poem from the picture? And there's not a good answer. The tulip lying in the light filtered through the water just seems like something that has been left a bit too long as someone does something else, an absence indicated by the full glass and the thirsty bulb. And absence in the midst of care struck a note and the poem was the memory of that note, hastily written. 

-- Chrissa

Wednesday, June 5, 2019

Extra Fancy

Balderdash orders a universe to astonish,
Sips a neutrino martini, burps a theorem oath--
Felicity will be born in stilettos and algorithm


Oblivion wings let the Rolls soar silent
Behind thunder creeping delicate to watch
Galaxies jam the engine near the high school


Felicity has borrowed a feather & ash dress
Flame is her prom theme, her attitude reeks
70s phoenix in sequins, sweat, and the weak force


Beats spin the last dance, a rumble of atoms
Slams through click of diamond neutron heels
The exquisite pop of a universal champagne birth


Nebulae spiral in her plastic cup, she sways
Balderdash leans in the gym window, hungry
Feedback whines in the speakers....

B A N G!

Balderdash swallows the universe

Monday, June 3, 2019

Left in the Sun

You must have worn this for…years…it tastes like flesh and soap and…time. Do you need a nugget around your finger? Does it taste so good? But humans eat as I used to, with teeth, mouth.

Such a small thing and yet, it could begin a hoard. Today’s lost treasure will be amply storied as a fundament of this hoard. You will be remembered as a hero. Only worthy gold finds it ways to dragons, even chained ones. Even transformed ones.

Wait! Before you search among my roots, consider whether I can consume more than gold. And listen, a story for free.

The dryad came to me, called me flabby, even though my hoard was large enough, then, to shed gold into all the streams flowing from the forest. She smelled like acorns and cracked her knuckles like some cow stumbling through the trees. Said that I drew people too close. The rumors of the gold, the stories that I whispered as I slept about the pieces I slept upon wound like vines through the trees, blooming at the edges of paths and roadways.

She said I needed to awaken. And then she offered me a pouch of pollen, claimed it was magic and it would make me fierce, for the knights were coming. And I believed her. Dryads talk always—they carry the stories as easily as the wind—and I feared spiked hooves and magic swords at my throat. These are the stories of heroes, after all. And I tell the story of every piece of treasure, faithfully.

I let her pour the pollen down my throat, coughed fire, and then rushed out to drink from a nearby stream. When I began to writhe, she chained me, dragged me here. Left me in the sun, smelling like resin, and much too wakeful. She returned, to cover herself in gold and scales and stories.

Sunday, June 2, 2019

The Unicorn's Invitation

Photo by Tatiana from Pexels
Where you've left your trust
Where you've left your hope
It fell from my forehead, too

Where you've left a dream
Hatched in your forehead
Like the horn from mine

Where you've left courage
Unbuckled, like a breastplate,
Fallen as you've gone

Where you've left yourself
Curled in leaves long closed
Against the myth of me

I believe they've all grown
Into the vining tower, where
Lost things are to be found

We could search it out.

Sharing today with The Sunday Muse. :)

-- Chrissa

Thursday, May 30, 2019

A Shrinking Agate of A Puddle

A shrinking agate of a puddle
In the sandy swerve of the ditch.
Most of us will never notice;
Water's too low to merit concern.
Maybe the joggers, or the kids
Coming home from the last day of school.
And I'd like to say that forests heal me
But in truth, it's water, even set
In the faded sandy chain
Of a drainage ditch, or
Concrete ponds the color of sky
Or coconut syrup fountains...
Even clear, if it's just for wading.
Dark rills chilly on hot concrete, too.
I see that agate down there,
Green rims holding the sky brown
Center, where the eternity of rise and sink
Is held in perfect float.

Sunday, May 26, 2019


I begin the conversation because of a TV show
My brand-new fear of chiseled angels sparking a dialogue
This bench backed by a concrete angel and a cold shiver
Along my back as I look away, murmuring at my phone
Reflecting his patient visage.

At the edge of a memorial park, on the Corner of Sighs...
So called by the kid who walks by and asks me
If I am still alive. I suspect everyone here is asked.
Perhaps he has read a book about lingering ghosts.

The concrete is warm, the grass itches my ankles.
I must be alive, irritable. I tell the angel I dream of books
I haven't read. I dream of a second chance for voices
Like dreaming of different angels on your shoulder.

It would have been a different life.

The above was inspired by an image on The Sunday Muse. It's, of course, not a true poem (whatever that may be; neither sonnet, nor sestina, nor epic; not written in Greek, Latin, ancient Irish, or Mandarin;  nor does it refer to the deeds of a king and court or suggest a moral or ethical framework for the actions therein). It is a working draft of an idea. Perhaps tomorrow it may have more structure or it may bend toward a prosier delivery of the ideas percolating like weeds in the trampled margin of the roadway. I am grateful to have places to share it and the community of other poets whose work constantly challenges (and hopefully betters) my own. 

Also, excited for the baby ufos currently growing in the backyard. :) being shared, despite its imperfections, with Poets United and the aforementioned Sunday Muse.

-- Chrissa