Salt and Sand and Savor

Hot honey splatters freckle the page
Tea is warm in the throat and, somewhere,
On the other side of a screen or a door or a mirror
There's a long walk to the edge of eternity
Deeper than the bottom of the mug.

Bees swarm in the desert nearby, all
Typefaces; headlines buzzing in the morning
And the door is open, the honey sweet
All the cruelties boiled to candy
Wrapped in garish hyperlinks.

And someone is inviting sand
Where the honey and the salt and time
Melt into the ocean, a paradise of pallid noise
To dream of savor, trees of honeycombs
And the tea is cooling in the mug.

Normally, there is a note, project plans, something. This week I'm feeling that low ebb of creativity, where your brain tells you  that you're running low on some crucial writing vitamin. Linking with The Sunday Muse. Hopefully, this week finds you well and writing! 

--  Chrissa

Sight, Like the Bells, Chiming

What the fox sees flenses my vision from the screen:

Airplanes and fence nails the color of stars in a cold night

Moonlight saturated with sunlight, tinted of eternity

Forces and matter bent and woven, dipped in this second and

Wrung out--

Constellations moving with the breath of the city

And forever, over the fenceline in a glance and me

Fox-lit in the darkness.

Sharing this morning with The Sunday Muse and  Poets and Storytellers United on a cold January morning that promises to become Spring in just a few hours. :) Wishing you a wonderful new year.

-- Chrissa

Catch the Day on the Rise

What the day might have said is flying 

Whispers on shadows on waves

Green from deep in the grasses

The bottoms of my feet has stained

I've heard the far song in its rising

Feathers on inkstains on waves

Notes from hot brick sustained

Drifting over the forests' graves

Where we chase sunrise we're scrying

Secrets on laughter on waves

Pines who write the morning

Dreams screamed in gull staves

Late to the first of the new year and odd, that's where we are. Sharing this with The Sunday Muse for Muse #89....which, wow. Eighty-nine Sundays of poems. A hopeful thing to focus on in the beginning of the year. There are all the minor adjustments of new circumstances and upcoming weirdnesses and the way that all of my projects from last year fell by the wayside to accommodate a new one that is insisting that it gets the attention in the beginning of the year. Hope that you find yourself in a hopeful place as the year changes. 

Happy new year!

-- Chrissa