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

Undeveloped

 

This is where the house would have gone, 

if they'd expanded this direction.

Bulldozed, sun-dazed, gritty 

with suburban litter; leaves, paper bags, clay.

We come early, chain our bikes to the bars

of the metal fence by the coyote trail,

gathering what we can--feathers,

bones, Cheetos bags; and bring them here.

I stretch and grasp each one, asking 

for a journey that brings me

back to the houses I knew,

even if only to be poisoned by them.

This is where we would have lived.

This is where we would have seen

hawks wheel, mockingbirds scream,

and dewberry thickets turning green.

-- C. Sandlin, for The Sunday Muse

NaPoWriMo April!

 

I was inspired by an unexpected comment to participate in NaPoWriMo this April. For me, this means writing a (short!) poem a day, every day, this April inspired by our backyard. This April will mark a year of staying at home and I was looking at photos earlier and realized that I'm not sure how I feel about that. 

Last year made home more of a haven that it's been in some time--it forced me to think about what I wasn't doing, to evaluate what I've been doing, and to consider what part of that I want back, and what I just don't. There's also the part where I completely lost trust in the social system. 

So...this year, I'm going to consider the dandelions, the clover, the cardinals, the roses, the bees, the rips and the tears and see what poems sneak through. I've already selected the notebook that matches my poetryasaur and we'll see how it goes. 

Also--I'm working on a Camp NaNo project at the same time, but that's a topic for another post. 

-- Chrissa

WordCrafters Wednesday (3/17/2021): St. Patrick's Day

 Carrie's prompt for today is Luck/Rainbow/Irish/Pot-a-Gold and a lovely green bird. While my heart is with the green bird (and birds along the fence have been keeping me sane during this time of sheltering at home), the poem that came was different.

Luck

Luck hummed from his cauldron,

Leprechaun offering this bargain:

Take this gold and spend it fine

In your yard and by your vines.

All the gold has devoured the green--

these prettiest of beetles I've ever seen.

I took the pot of gilded wings,

misled by their shimmering.

Spent it all among the leaves

as it hied itself into the weeds.

All the gold has devoured the green--

these prettiest of beetles I've ever seen.

He needed his coins well-fed;

elf-folk spend only the living lead

which gilds itself by our dreams

melted in the heat of greed.

All the gold has devoured the green--

these prettiest of beetles I've ever seen.

The End (of Some Things)

 So...change. 

Over the past year or so I've been asking myself several questions, chief among which is why am I carrying around all these failed projects? Why do I have a plastic bin of cross-stitch projects started decades ago? Why do I have this stack of scrapbook paper? Why this file drawer of half-completed stories? Why do I have all these unread books? I might have argued that these were in reserve against just such a time as this, when I was continually at home and unable/unwilling to go out into the world at large. 

But really...they're beginning to function as a reminder that things can't/haven't/won't be able to go back to "normal."  The person who started that story or began that book had no idea what the next few years would bring and the story that was started is completely irrelevant to now. I can barely read three chapters at this point, much less create and organize a narrative. 

It's time to stop. 

I've enjoyed having this blog (until very recently) and it seemed weird to just leave it without a goodbye. It's been a great project and let me, for a time, be a poet, which was pretty cool.

Goodbye and best wishes,

Chrissa

Sabbatical

 

Spending the month drafting. This blog will return the second weekend in April with weekly poetry and possibly reading-related content. Hope that your spring is bright and creative!

-- Chrissa

WordCrafters Wednesday Prompts

 Sharing today for WordCrafters Wednesday prompts. Hope your week is going well!

-- Chrissa

One Chance to Pull the Words

inspired by Grover Lewis

Devotion; more than speed:

Hung up tight in art

the fight while fate spins

hanging days, hanging cities; 

it's all spiders, careful.

Fate, an 80's child:

Vectors slice graphic webs

stretched thin as dimensions

worn through to empty space 

to show off their thin knees.

She opens the page

as if a warm, well-lit den

welcomed our words' rest.

dedicated to Carrie VH 

Tightness

Sharing with The Sunday Muse

Dark runs with the imps, the river, and the ions

all together in the fall, over and over and down;

space expands. It was meant to be a hole

but there are crumbs in the empty.

Dark swerves from the backsplash of atoms

combining behind, above, right through--

every explosion reminds it of the light,

the tightness, then the shove away.

tl;dr: taking an extended break & good luck in the new year :)

Well. The yard is looking much less dead than I expected. Dandelions are super hearty, at least for freakish Texas weather. However, there are still several pots that didn't make it or need refurbishing and, as I look around the office, I feel the same way about so many of my projects from the last several years. They've been potted (in notebooks & on the computer) but, for (possibly freakish) reasons, they've failed to thrive. Maybe I've gone out and gotten too many adorable starts that are now leggy or crispy or sort of staring listlessly out a window wondering what happened.  Maybe that's just me. Only round instead of leggy.

Not unlike my backyard--or my crazy provisional Kindle list (reading the first few chapters of a random lot of books should count for something)--my writing has become starts, random notes, and what happened earlier in the day when _[insert noun here]___  pissed me off. Projects aren't thriving and neither am I. I'm not even sure what the question is--is it how to finish? Whether to finish? What new direction to pursue? After the storm, I know that the plants need a little extra care. Maybe then it'll be time for the stories.

Best wishes for your own projects!

-- Chrissa

Slide

 

Sunday Muse #148

It was empty; wood floors varnish slick

You could turn up the volume 

Slide across the surface like a video

Walls caught you

Limbs caught you

Now--it's empty again, walls

Whiter where the sunlight 

Slides across their face like a video

Chiaroscuro once,

Chiaroscuro twice

Lay the memories out, wrap them

Like the final clinch

Before the click as the lights come up

So. This past week has been--for us--less bad than for others. However. Fine has a finite tensile strength and the fraying has begun. I may take a break for a few weeks and see if things get better. 

I hope you have an excellent week and the words run fizzy as champagne. Cheers and good wishes!

-- Chrissa

One of the Wonders

 

A candle and a thin sliver of slate

through which I can see the sky like a herd of wild horses

all blue backs and tangled manes of white, pink, champagne

behind hills of rock too thick to dream through.

I have blown chalk upon the slate and let it lie

for centuries or tuns or aeons...

Until you came along with your candle,

setting it behind the thin sliver of stone,

already imagining the earth as a great, hollow thing,

a giant now filled with you and everyone else.

Imagine that giant with two great candles

set behind the thin stone that flaked

from the bones of the sky, which was a giant

so large, 

the earth couldn't imagine how small

it was--

X-raying giants with only candles and art. 

Hello and welcome to another poetry blog inspired by the lovely Carrie at The Sunday Muse. We are prepping for what my phone insists is a Winter Storm heading our way, which has already consisted of bringing several pots in and lining them up on the kitchen table:

Which, yes, I know there are weeds among the plants and most of the pots haven't been prepared for spring but that's okay. Also, there's an onion that James handed me a few days ago with question "It's sprouting, do you want to plant it?" Sure, fine, at some point. Meanwhile, welcome to the table garden. Honestly, I've wanted a solarium for years because I hate schlepping water in the heat of the summer (when everything develops a suspicious wilt around 11 am--there is NO SHADE in this neighborhood) and I'm not complaining about a table full of plants. 

And, not to be overshadowed by a mere bagatelle of ice and snow (SNOW!!!! I am stupidly excited for the possibility of it), it's also Valentine's Day this Sunday:

Hope your week is warm in all the important ways and your muse is, like Tom Bodett, keeping the light on for you. 

-- Chrissa 

WordCrafters Wednesday Prompt 2/10/2021

 "It is not despair, for despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not." -- Tolkien

Here I am on the precipice.
Already a grey sky thickens winterward
But this is already winter, of a sort.
There is a year gone to ground 
A month ago, burrowing into the past
From which we will find treasures--and dragons--
and great hills of swallowed fire while the trees
put a ring around 2020.
What will that look like?

I add a loop on the line
Pink, no sparkles, like flat sunset
rather than a champagne vision, 
fizzing on a table in an empty restaurant
where we cannot despair
because, of course, there
we cannot be.

I believe that this is another 
stillborn story. I am playing in this journal
at making art--really, I am doing that thing
I wanted to do in high school, 
keeping a diary of the empty days
to remind myself that blogs
and houses and interests and fears
have a lifespan. 

I add a flat link, one letter
to another. A word breaks at the margin;
frangible English or magical
sawing itself 
between meaning and space.
Nearly, but not quite, an end.

Magnificent in the Yard

 Amazing image, Susie! Posting with The Sunday Muse and with Poets and Storytellers this week. 

My neighbor's phone bleats a need for attention.

The wrens have fled; they flew when I stepped out

To check the roses for cardinals.

I pause on the concrete then stab my soles

In the grass just off the porch. There is a single

Bluebird on the fence by the a/c.

It is the suburbs, I murmur. We see a moon

Triangulated by unnecessary chimneys, rooflines,

Fences that rot with each summer.

Still, they sing. Over the gasping shriek of brakes

As the deliveries come. I couldn't have seeds without

packages and the UPS person.

We are magnificent in the yard. A deep grass

Pool that washes weedy at the feet of the fenceposts.

We wade in chlorophyll, pollen.

The phone bleats itself exhausted. I know

That restless nap, the brain mapping a sheer panic

Over imagined emergencies.

That layer, this clear plastic panic, chips

When I am still enough for the birds to return,

Cautious, to the crumbled edges.

Singing, they wear the plastic away.

Good reading moment to you! It's midday here, cool enough for the door to be open but warm enough for shorts to still be de rigueur for in the house. I've been watching entirely too much costuming YoutTube (I have a weakness for tulle that I can't indulge IRL--I would essentially look like Queen of the Spiders with dogs variously hooked to my skirts...although Merlin probably wouldn't mind finding himself snuggled into flouncery...and my brain is now telling me that what I need is a giant skirt full of dog pockets for floofs) A N Y W A Y, this week's image felt like a fairy tale but I am not feeling very much like one, so the poem sort of went in its own weird direction. There's a battle between aesthetics and poetics that is currently being won by a desire for chip & dip. 

Sorry, my brain is still in a draft that I'm reworking. I'm in the process of taking a draft of a story that when first written I took very seriously. As you can probably tell by the stuff and nonsense above, I've decided to take the sense out and substitute interdimensional spiders who are running a subspace station (like a subway, but less practical) beneath a high school. Not YA. Just Why?

And now, back to our regularly scheduled Chip & Dip.

-- Chrissa

SteamPower!

 

They still tell the story, there in the upper lobby
Lurlene and her board and the jungle and the dragon
Which could have been a tiger or a raptor or an ape.
The only thing we’re sure about’s Lurlene.
 
She said her adventure ticket had been punched
At fifty but her trip’d been delayed—by what
She never mentioned. She was tight, that dame.
We’re sure her only hobby was to clean.
 
On that evening, she set up the board—but—
Brought no clothes to iron, not a pant or shirt,
She wore her favorite dress and clambered up…
And set the heavy, newish iron to steam.
 
The wallpaper was bamboo when the mist
Rose hot and the creaking ironing board
Could have been a birdcall—they say she yelled
And fell, but there was no body to be seen.
 

We’ll never know the truth—that lobby
Was redone. The paper peeled, the carpet
Bore a singe and everyone just went to dinner.
We ate well instead of speaking.

But when the sharp-finned dinge begins to creep…
Someone—always joking—calls for Lady Steam.
Our brave , intrepid, ever-fighting Queen.
No moldy dragon ever got Lurlene!

With thanks to anyone who ever mopped a floor, cleaned a table before I sat down to eat, washed a dish or an outfit last minute or Lysol'd a doorknob because one of us had the flu--these are acts for which I'm grateful. Also--this may have been inspired by a family member's joy at receiving the Lysol they ordered from Amazon. Small victories.

--chrissa

Sometimes A Broken Notebook

 

And now, February. January was interesting, wasn't it? 

February. Which means--changing the bulletin board over the writing desk. Thinking about what kinds of goals I have for this month. Taking down the Christmas lights. Continuing to avoid leaving the house. Finishing a book. My brain is no longer able to absorb written media. I've started several books (library, books on the shelves, Christmas presents) and put them in neat piles in various places. I read a few pages, forget what I've read, and pick up something else. This carries over into the writing. I'm filling up notebooks, but they resemble journals with a smattering of plotting.  Also, dog hair, dog doodles, and photos of things that "relate to the story." Sort of a cheating, writer-adjacent scrapbooking. And so, February.

I decided that the goal this month is just to blow off it all off. To pick up an old story that I don't really plan on finishing & no longer fits in with the how-did-things-blow-up-like-this plotlines I've been working on and just finish that story. Or some zombie draft of it. To read, if it's all I can manage, poems and short stories and a ton more first three chapters. To re-read, if necessary. To read more middle grade, maybe. (The reading slump bothers me more than the writing, honestly. When I just stare at pages and then flip over to FB because I'm sure there's a fuse lit somewhere...it's not good.) 

So--the Frog Prince Project. Bottom of the drawer, back of the desk, something to play with until my brain comes back. :) 

Keeper of Drafts,

Prince of Frogs. 

-- chrissa

Nor Yet One Form of Water

 

Not the same nor yet begun, except the sun

constant moves and draws us on

One form of water marks our steps, or more

day's now over or newly come

Bare footprints from pool or wells trod in the snow

slumber, rising, sunset, dawn

Carol of cold waves, then bells, then birds, and now

kindled woods and on.

My brain is pretty firmly wedged into the draft I'm working on, to avoid thinking about a new year cracked and congealing on the counter. I tend to get lost in the thematic aspects of writing (as opposed to finishing drafts--that's not really a skill I possess) and part of the theme of the current draft (and the previous one) is taking a good look and then getting on with life. And, for whatever reason, that's made me question the idea that I need to have a published or a finished or a in-any-way-public writing outlet. My draft is eating my life. *sigh* 

-- Chrissa

It Was An End, We Think

 Sharing this week with The Sunday Muse and Poets and Storytellers United.

When the penthouse fell, it kept that purity,

all the expectations of wealth in the clarity

of water. And the zoo had crumbled,

the bags shredded and flown,

kibble and buckets forgotten.

All the animals now drink our last myth;

our last pellucid tears fell here--the rust

we lean against and these rough

edges once distance smoothed,

press sharp against us.

Stand with me at the last window--glass

is no longer safe, this pane already

cracking at the upper edge.

Lean your weary forehead against the last cold clear.

There's no prayer in the throat of a beast;

there's no song in that blue water.

Lay your head against the flat glass;

there's no more sky in our towers,

no more gold to climb.

So, lately it's been hard for me to talk about anything remotely resembling "real life future plans" without inviting nightmares. Wake up, turn on a Disney movie, zonk right back out nightmares, leading to waking up an hour later to another nightmare, this time with theme song. This unexpected fear of the future fits right in with being leery of having family members in the house and beginning to treat things like malls and restaurants as somewhat mythical places, full of as many dragons as any map from the Age of Exploration. 

Right now, all this is going into a notebook that might metamorphose into a novella or just a remembrance...not sure yet. 

-- Chrissa 

 

Sea Story

 Sharing this week with The Sunday Muse and  Poets and Storytellers United. 

Not the same page twice nor the day--

I read them or I drank them

let's say river water and salt seas

  while coining  waveloom sunlight

rust the barrel of my pen and I begin

gold for all our afternoon sewing;

again, roll the ball through the water,

the soft catch of a needle 

start the story, let the wind

binding fin and silk

take all my feathers and fall

while the novel washes

hard

once

back onto the saltwater cured

through this day and water. 

blank page, stiff now--a scale

Would you give a dolphin a ruff

or a sliver of bone that lifts 

or a tight chainmail weave?

skin towards sun and clouds.

Are you dreaming of the great

Wings flayed from water.

electric heartbeat pounding

Did you find an empty book

against your eardrums beneath 

by the shore? Did you open it?

these waves? Are you too dry?

Was it empty?

Is there a sequel?

dolphin fleeing from costume

So...this week. Thanks to Shay for giving me a way to peel a poem from a poem (and inspiring a minor speculation on how I'd dress a dolphin, if I had the chance)! And start another story notebook/journal for the upcoming week. And resort to the craft closet to fiddle with character ideas. And listen to the video on repeat. :) 

Despite some good recent news, I feel that I'll be holding my breath through next Wednesday (and, of course, we're still staying at home). And, of all the weirdnesses, Arthur has learned how to climb into office chairs but not how to get down. I'll be typing and hear this "tap, tap" and turn around and see this:

And then, gradually, he makes his way (because he's adorable and I drag the chair closer) into a balance between our chairs that is highly unstable and requires the writing to cease and the belly scritchies to increase. Because we all know who's in the boss chair.

Hope y'all are having a safe & cozy week!  

-- Chrissa

Apples, or We Are All Tempted

 

And I kept in my pocket the green letters and icing;

that cake that never got smaller.

If only they'd told me, the bakers that sold it

about the apples beneath.

Golden apples for life and poisoned for death

bitter for faces and...these

All the apples underneath.

And I sold for the locket the unending cake

that never was eaten at all;

I sold for the face of  a foregone beloved

 hope of nothing, well-gnawed.

And still unknown, still concealed, still sweet

red apples gleaming

in the far, far beneath.

Oh, how perfect they are, how unbitten

are the red apples beneath

And how sharp in the shearing illusion

are my beloved's teeth.

Good grief, I have a terrifying thought that I've written a poem that...is about Twilight. Honestly, I'm not sure. I just had this image of buried apples much more potent than the apples of the Hesperides and...you know, there's just no excuse. Apples are always going to be dangerous. 

Sharing this week with the much saner than I poets of  The Sunday Muse and Poets and Storytellers United. Come read widely and well!

-- Chrissa

The Quiet Part Loud

 

All the books are feral,

hanging like bats on dark limbs.

Clocks have sword arms to cut the tough minutes...

Where did you think immortality grew?

If the books don't bite, if they snap

and release, they'll teach you to read.

Like the gnomes with their newsleaves,

gossip gathered vein by vein and underneath,

deep in the root, miles of fungal brain

driving the nerves into print.

It's never time to go, here. Only to stop.

There are fairies in infinity,

their novels starlight and icon and snow.

Gnomes excavate the plot, make bodies

of the cold forever and burn their fears

sticky and melting onto the branches

as they twinkle--laughing in spiral and 

final, crushing, eternity.

Infinity wants its heaven;

wants it goddesses and gods 

and celebrity crushes.

Something for them to eat, upside down, 

all these books gone feral.

-- Chrissa

Time

 

Time is the short flight from the chrysalis to the porch light

Sharp shifts found in the garden, the bugs and the discards

We aren't removing the soil or the rust, let the rain mark us

Time is the mark it leaves or the growth of the machine

Buzz, clank, ring. Leave the edge and the curlicues, breathe

There was a year slowly, slowly excavated from this clay

Time before now, when these instruments marked reason

Let them now mark ruin, flick the lever to soldered gears

Memory solid, soiled; heavy thoughts glimmer, wings tick

Happy New Year! Heading into 2021, I want to be excited about potential. I want to be hopeful about silly things, like going to a mall and eating in a restaurant. I want to believe that I'll be seeing people again, shortly, in just a few weeks, and for fun. First, though, I need to make sense of the pile of half-finished stories left over from 2020. I need to relearn what it is safe to hope for --because it seems dangerous, right now, to hope too expansively. My brain is taking in the sunny window and the warm dog, the iced coffee and the familiar computer room and it's looking for lurking monsters. It will take time to retrain it to see the sunlight and the dogs without the monsters. January is all about finishing drafts & keeping the monsters on the page. :) 

Sharing this week with The Sunday Muse.

Merlin, looking adorable as always

Writing board, updated for January, in a totally 80's unicorn theme

Wishing you a creative, safe, and happy new year!

-- Chrissa