You Think I've Come in Judgment

Breathe the rhythm in the world
I've been walking through it, a pair of lungs
For centuries
And you think I've come to
Weigh you, but these scales I've got
I use to breathe

Posting with the Sunday Muse and Poets United. It's been a bit of  a drenched weekend here in almost-coastal, definitely swampy Texas and I've been reading avidly, catching up on the 1001 first chapters downloaded and thinking about snap judgments regarding titles, book summaries, and the like and preparing for Camp Nanowrimo (starting tomorrow--working on a poetry/short story collaboration)...which means that there's a jumble of other people's words in my brain and I, too, need to cover my ears and listen for the chords I'm trying to make. 

-- Chrissa

Like a Rumor

Photo prompt courtesy of The Sunday Muse, Photo Artistry by Erik Johansson Master Photo-manipulation Artist

It came like a rumor, through the Gilley's backyard,
Drowned the Rasner's pool, and then it took our fence,
The azaleas. And then it washed through Sandy's house.
The realtor's letting the man leaning over the fence
Tell her what happened; why she should keep looking.
But she can imagine all the blues the house can now hold:
Tiles, wood, Sheetrock, sills, baseboards, doors, ceramic.
She knows how hungry the waves are;
Feels her own stomach growl.
It's been redone, they'll still insure it.
It's still a Good Neighborhood.
And if you stand in the middle of the living room
You can hear the sea calling all the creeks and rivers,
Telling them they used to be an ocean, a gulf;
They used to be clear and beautiful as salt.
She stands in the emptiness and listens.
Hears a cry of Land! But not yet.

Sharing, in the middle of a rainy Sunday afternoon, with The Sunday Muse and with Poets United, while waiting to see if the coals will be extinguished by this sloppy weather. It's a good day for staying in and reading. Hope this day finds you in a good place for reading, without the sloppiness. :)

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

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.

So...how 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

Extra Fancy

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

                -skip-

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

              -skip-

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

               -skip-

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

               -skip-

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

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.

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