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