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.

Confessions

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. :) 

This...piece...is being shared, despite its imperfections, with Poets United and the aforementioned Sunday Muse.

-- Chrissa

This Last Weekend

This last weekend

–Saturday—

One day, one day only, one day in the face

Of the myth of the familiar flood of which

One meteorologist can tell you with magenta smears

Deep in the yellow and red blobs of projected rainfall

This! Magenta danger!

Turned out to be gray, windy; rain skips welcome

In the stifle, a brief watering for wilting participants.

What was I saying?

Oh, yes—Saturday...

This has become our yearly place.

With our small, local sci fi convention now defunct

Our anniversaries wear threadbare

For the lack of hotel parking lots giving onto fields

Full of bunny eyes in the twilight,

Rooms of authors and books and astronauts

And that one child in a dragon costume who cornered my husband

Who is not used to children but does like dragons, stories...

These threadbare anniversaries when we have to count years

That billow behind us like paper bags,

Skimming the lives of our families, 

Unanchored, save by anecdote...

This Saturday—

I’m getting to it. The books, the local authors

One day only, the day when the gatekeepers can stay on their shelves

In Barnes & Noble, near the puzzles and children’s toys

One day when we could poke around and he could say

“Be careful, you know you’re naïve when it comes

To hope…”

Only, this Saturday, I was there with other writers

And this was a first, a new anniversary, a book of poetry.

I was the rabbit in the field whose eyes were caught

A first-timer, a this-side-of-the-fence lurker.

Dragons in paper bags ballooning above us

As if emptiness was treasure.

Only You Could Know

When I pull up to the coffee queue, tugging off the jacket
From the interview, the line's all the way around the store.
I watch it go by in stops--window open,
One arm and shoulder in the heat shallows of the drive-through,
Dragging my fingers through car wakes.

Brake lights. Slide forward. Brake lights.
Heat settles like a second passenger beside me.
Light lurks in the waning storefront museum
Across the flat Texas road. Brake lights.
Slide forward. I used to love these highways
With a heat shimmer pilot light that flicked on
As soon as the tires pulled out of the apartment driveway.
Brake lights.

Empty afternoon, where the questions should have been.
That one internship summer
In an edge zone office beside that body shop
Where you worked. We met when I was walking, restless,
To some fast food lunch. You swore that plastic toys and
Plastic booths meant plastic people. You wanted to know
If my arms bent properly, and my fingers.

So we ate lunches in the gas station between office and shop,
Laughing about the girls who came to meet your boss,
Saying they'd studied his book in class and wanting his secrets.
Wanting him to be one of theirs.

And I was just as plastic as you said. Just as plastic
As the frazzled cover of this used book, only you can still see
A black and white photo of a woman and motorcycle
Some summer before I was born, your boss's name
Printed same as on that body shop.
Where I'd seen the original photo, but never believed in the book.
And whatever I'm looking for is never going to interview me
Because the road doesn't ask those questions.
I'm still in a skirt and hose and office shoes,
Even without an office. And the coffee line
Moves like an amusement park river
And I drop my hand into the tepid, oily breeze
And wonder what the secret is.

Sharing with The Sunday Muse and Poets United Poetry Pantry # 480.

-- Chrissa

Untitled, The Second

It's been raining for days, but the old flood path behind the park has reopened. There's a man standing beside a folded sawhorse and a Path Closed sign leaning against a young sycamore. He smiles at my hesitation. "A chance for a cent. Normally, I have a bag of seeds." He holds out his hand and the shadows of the branches and one circling bird fall across his palm. He could be offering entrance, but I find myself checking pockets for change.

I spent the five I'd been saving for months on coffee, although I'd tossed the last bitter swirl of burnt crumbs and ice earlier. There is something in my pocket, though.

He's still waiting, glancing up as if to check the originals of the shadows he seems to be offering. "The seeds don't drop for me anymore. And there's the rule against gathering them here, and so many are weeds. Shadows are easier." A smile, as if we're talking about the park, the newly opened path.

And then I find what's in my pocket, an old metal disk I'd picked up, thinking of my dad. "Never leave anything on the road that might be useful." I can't think of why I'd need this and make a show of offering it to the stranger.

Before I can joke, he clasps my palm. His skin is cool and the shadows twine around our hands. "There's hope exchanged for a shadow." He steps into the park and his expression is blurred in a blaze of afternoon.

It's too bright and hot that way. Too many things you can see--empty pockets. Good advice, even. Prickles of light catch everything. I tuck my shadow in my pocket. Breezes shove the murk of a dark gang of clouds over this path. A feathered head with a sharp eye and beak pops out of my pocket. There's wisdom in bad decisions, too.

Sharing this post with Poets United this week (sort of related to The Sunday Muse post, but not really). Okay, so this is more phobia and fears than otherwise. I think I've mentioned before that I'm not the kind of person who usually leaves the path...but I am the kind of person who can be persuaded to do so. And being called out for trespassing (not to mention worse outcomes) just worries me. At least in real life. There are no rules in fiction!!! :) 

Enjoyed this prompt--and it was the first prose one I managed to do! *streamers explode* *Muppets cheer*

I don't usually write about the things I fear--there's leftover fairy-tale shibboleth warning me that that would only draw their attention--but this week I've been rather over-reminded of all the things that creep through my head and snicker wickedly just as I start to relax...so I may be taking up torch and sword in upcoming poems.

Hope everyone has a good week!!

-- Chrissa

Untitled

Clouds cast aluminum shadows along a plane

We watch yesterday cloak their flight 

As we harrow the backyard

Toss old blueberries to the lizards and crows

Saint Patrick cast out snakes

Saint Kevin held nesting blackbirds

We hold out our hands, arms shaking, to see 

If any tired blessing nestles against us.

Sharing with The Sunday Muse, who provided the image, above (Fledgling American Crow on Hand by Robert Langham)

-- Chrissa