A Weed on The Curb

  Sharing with this week's The Sunday Muse #184 . Come celebrate Halloween with verse and The Muse.  I don't think the lantern needed the day; I needed the night: Lit and close and dark and smelling of faraway fires. I needed the smoky flicker that darkened the late-season field I needed the thin linen dress someone else's jacket hides; I needed the nested shadow; not blue, clear sight. It's already a spooky weekend: one window wedged itself just open enough for the breeze to moan beneath, James heard a drone last night (according to him, circling and circling the neighborhood without lights), and our sometimes neighbors have started to set up their backyard for whatever festivities they're planning for Halloween weekend. So...tomorrow (Halloween) will be a good day to read through the books picked up at the local author Spooktacular hosted by a used bookstore not far from here and to say a few final prayers before NaNo begins. Also, celebrating another zine draft r

  Linking with The Sunday Muse #183 . Information I recycle my opinions like personal moisture What I absorb is filtered and received as new; Pure. I can't believe we're already a week away from Halloween. I can't believe that I'm considering expanding my vampire story into my NaNo novel. Therefore, a short poem in honor of a very distracted Chrissa. When is it time to hibernate?  

  A Much-Loved Book I won’t follow the predictive poem; those green waves, The ones the software believes I’ve never seen… I saw them beyond the ink, smelled them in the paper; Whether my Cornwall is as imaginary as Camelot, The ocean touched mystery and greened every imagined coast.

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #182 , hosted this week by Shay, whose poetry is a festival unto itself. That chill you feel creeping around your shoulders probably has nothing to do with the images she chose. They're definitely not waiting for you to offer a poem... All the thoughts are curated; vitrines locked and watched; We sprinkle dust along the floorboards, poison to rat and roach. Spiders are swept by the women we bring in early. We choose them for their solitary...strength. Witches? We provide the brooms but not the titles. Here are your dark robes, avoid the stun of the lights. Gather your cobwebs, sister. Here is your shoe box for bodies. No. You are alone among the shadows, here. Go on. All the thoughts are labeled; unbroken glass won't breathe.  Hello and welcome to another weekend poetry blog. My marigolds are blooming this week!!!! This is the second set of seeds that I put out after the first set just fizzled. Celebrating small victories this autumn.  Hope your wr

 Sometimes, it's impossible to get a good square poem. :) The following was inspired by a pit bull sleeping in a window, presumably waiting for his people to come home. 

  Come, my sons and daughters, here by the great trees of autumn where sail the vulture above the field and footstools the brain and bones of the forest yield. Watch dragonflies knit the sky back up  after the sun shattered it to fill the butterfly's cup. Feel the wind's hope as it searches through the leaves for dreaming-to-sail urchins. Stay close; reach far Catch the best of the tales in your jars.

Inspired by The Sunday Muse #181 : This feels like the beginning of a sheaf of rules, Small print, thin paper, ghosting of another language. This feels like a question at the point of a lance: Where are you going and why should I allow you to? This feels like a determinative intelligence test: Guess which bubbles lead to a happy, remunerative end. Except It's only a game  and his board is all set. Hoping everyone is having a bright October and a cozy fall. It's not quite cozy here yet...but Halloween has arrived. :)  -- Chrissa

 Tripped over a book in a Jen Campbell video and fell down an internet hole to the Pretty Owl Poetry site , and further tumbled down to this image and the instructions to create a poem from it: The 8th Month Lingers Heat leaves an impress of the year The mold set by summer's muscles Pressing us into the shadow Of a bow. Summer breathes and you reach To hold its golden head, feel it Rumble like a passing shadow growl. The year is set, it turns, goes Over the fairy hill where bells Ring doors closed, sits down. The eighth month lingers. Summer makes the time.

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #180: He had it wrong with that painting.  Lie to yourself, first. Like self-care. Like a vampire's self-worth. If you find my lost compact, look. Let the monogram be your best self. Silver bites deeper than fangs. A little bit of potential soul-stealing for the first October Muse. For no good reason (it's October, my back is still wonky, the stress is messing with my head, I watch 80's movies and teen dramas when I'm feeling bad) I've decided that this month, I'm writing my own vampire tale, soon to be zine. LOL, writer brain was just like... hmmm, sounds like you've decided to become a vampire.  Anyway. Hope you're having a good weekend/week. :) -- Chrissa