Didn't I Tell You?

When they cut the scrub down to build those houses
They evicted my soul, although the dying plant on our porch
Which I had just watered, gave it shelter and a drink
While it waited for me.

When I left the house to go to work, it flew
Straight to look in the eye and tell me I was released.
Soulless, soon to be. I must have put a hand
To my mouth in shock.

When I lifted my hand, my soul settled, briefly,
On my fingers. It sang for me. It accepted a single kiss...
Although it didn't fly back into my body or linger
On my knuckles.

When it flew from me into in the sunlight
Over the pine trees, into the thinness of that smudge
Of trees that marked our neighborhood's built edge
I watched; wept.

I was late to work today because a bird--
Because my soul--has left me
For another forest.

This post is being shared with Poets United and The Sunday Muse. Also, if anyone has advice for not being overwhelmed by writing projects (currently working on compiling some existing poetry), it would be greatly appreciated. Thanks and hope your week is creative & reasonably warm & dry. :) 

-- Chrissa

Shedding Seeds

Someone joked about the seeds drifting
All across campus, sororal June blooms...
All the daisies must have opened up at once.
It's the same line, different girls this year.
I'd rather be an orchid, some strange flower
Like eyes in the Spanish moss--
Let me tell you what I'd see, dangling
Just off the quadrangle, blinded
By the dedication on the metal bench
Rain spatter afterthoughts
Grey heaven, uncombed
Sunset storm highlights
God's roots like neon...
Silent walkers, day in their bags
Unfledged myths on their tongues
Adjusting the wires, casting a song
Over the heartbeat cracked out of the sky.
I'll dream of angels sweating at a stage,
Texting a flame to heaven
Which will open up, all at once
On the same chord in all of us.

Cross-posting with The Sunday Muse and Poets United. Hoping that this week brings more good news than otherwise...maybe a little rain to break the heat. 

-- Chrissa

Booke Faire

For fruit I’ve got McDonald’s and the temptations of the fries

And for the paths of dread, doom, and desire there are

Videos and network shows; chick lit movies binged all afternoon

I do not need the goblins to entice me—but, oh

If only there were goblin bookstalls hidden in the woods.

Untitled

On my back on the carpet, post-yoga, contemplating
That I should not have forgotten that my last use
Of that DVD was three months ago
Breathing as per the instructions and staring
Up into the limbs of the Norfolk pine
In a pot high enough on the shelves by the window
To almost reach the ceiling...it's like a real tree
My brain is happy to note...breathe...breathe...
Three months? Not that long ago, really
And I made it through the entire DVD
At least I held whatever poses I could manage
Throughout and I'm floating on a sheen
And that pine..is really dusty...and...

It's like a puppeteer from behind the curtain
Gives it lips, eyes, the shape of a dragon's head
And it speaks.

Go to the road and walk the road
Until you find a shop that sells my teeth
And buy them and bring them
And them in my mouth that I may eat
For I tired of that squirrel on the fence

We're both tired of the squirrel
Which sets the dogs barking and they're...eh...
Hundreds of other squirrels (probably) in the trees
Where the houses give ways to a weedy forest...
I'm still breathing deep breaths per the DVD
Which is still playing music that might,
If one retrogrades it with a certain suburban tint
Be considered fay...if you imagine a bored elf
Telling her aesthetician how heritage is too quaint
But it's fun to shop Under the Hill in the summer
When all the festivals are put on for the tourists.

Then the Norfolk pine growls
Which is not a thing I thought dragons did.

And so I get up and put on socks and sneakers
Because I think (maybe) the squirrel's out there now
And the dogs don't notice because they're hiding
In the bedroom because there's a dragon in here
With me (thanks guys) and if I scare away the squirrel
I can just pretend yoga puts me to sleep.

The backdoor, though, opens onto a highway.
Right through our lawn and weeds and the neighbor's
Ill-kept crepe myrtles and lawn all the way
To a town that never existed on the other side
Of the neighborhood. So I go.

I walk down the road and it's cool and wide
And it never smells of asphalt because the weeds
Are lush and I find the shop in that town although
I didn't bring my wallet...instead, we barter
For sunflowers, bluebonnets, black-eyed Susans and mallows
Which I pick until my hands are green and sticky
And my shirt is a seedbed and I exchange them for teeth.

I walk back uphill with my bag, toward a fence
In the distance bordered by those mourning myrtles
When there's a buzz and a voice says "Hey, buddy"
And a giant yellow jacket comes up and tells me
He's heard of giants rampaging through the pollen fields
And he hates to ask but would that be me?
With my shirt full of seeds and my hands sticking to the bag...
Because he's willing--flipping up some kind of seed badge--
To let it go with a warning and I'm naive enough
To think he means verbal.

Which is why I'm standing here watching a dragon
Stare at me from the squirrel's favorite ledge
On the back fence while my left bicep
Throbs a venomous tattoo of a yellow-jacket
With biceps and a glare guarding a sunflower
While the dogs bark furiously at the dragon
From behind my calves.

Meanwhile, the DVD is telling us all
To breathe.

Posting at both Poets United and The Sunday Muse. And there is no excuse for the length and ridiculosity of the above...let's just remember to breathe. And...breathe.

-- Chrissa

Morning Pantheon

Today's pantheon floats across the window--
In the East are the signs of the Swimmer, the Head of the Llama
And the curved horns and body of the Watching Bull
In the West there is only the UFO Creating the Mountain

My side of the planet has tilted toward the light
Ice crystals clump and burn into minor deities
They watch over the roads humming to breakfast
And I watch them morph from dark to pale

Watch the sun burning the drifting incense of them
Rising.

It will last long enough to bring me down the ways
Of waking.

Once In Every Family

We never talk about her when we go
We never ask our fare when we go
We walk the path, we open the door
We don't ask about the room
Connected to nothing but weeds

We tell them to bring whatever
They loved or wore when they knew
Life would work out for them
She likes to lie to us
About the happiness she hoards

She'll tell you that she lives like a girl
Because only girls believe in fairies
And she believes us that we're sisters
Under the skin, maybe
A sororal sunrise over a hidden isle

Her heart rides the tides, she says
When we're on the path, when we
Are pretending we're all one thing
A potent pixie family
Smeared deep within her veins.

Happiness must be the shabbiness
That brings all creatures soft into a den
A way of holding on to restless time
Dragging them, like a mother
Through the dizzy daytime into bed

We don't talk about our family
Under the hill, toes in a circle and up
She never liked dancing, but I can't
Tell you what she did like
Only that she's here, bring your happy gift

Posting both at Poets United for Poetry Pantry #414 and at The Sunday Muse for Muse #15. Hope everyone finds that next week brings at least one good summer afternoon and evening. :) 

Best wishes,
Chrissa