Skip to main content

Water or Fire

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #201. Come to the poetry parade!


You can see it in the eyes -- the path is falling away.

Behind the walker, a world has been crushed back
into the primordial: water or fire.
And still, the camera remains on the motion
toward the viewer. 
As if you were solid ground.

You see them everywhere, now.
Walking away.

Turn into the subdivision, which lies quiet
under a sky glorious with sun and lilac clouds;
even here, someone is walking away.

We have watched them so long
there are images in our history books
and in our televised memory. 

the walker comes without expectation
without possession, without expression

The screen bleeds fire. 
You stanch it with laughter.
A fiery scab forms 
in the back of your mind. 
Solid ground, magma into islands.

Eventually, you take off your shoes.

I keep starting this over: my brain is in overdrive and it's been a little while since I was able to walk through the local park and just breathe. It's a good alternative to screaming, although neither accomplish very much. 

-- Chrissa


Comments

  1. I can feel the deep emotion this holds Chrissa. Sometimes the ground we stand on can feel like it is losing it's foundation indeed. I hope that regardless of the need to scream that you have some peace and the joy of your lovely furry friends around you to make your day pleasant.

    ReplyDelete
  2. May your feet find solid ground and your soul find peace! Blessings

    ReplyDelete
  3. Frightening to consider: islands of magma that morph into islands ... separating us, we lose touch with other humans, the end.

    ReplyDelete
  4. The chaos is difficult to shake at times. Nature does help but not always.

    ReplyDelete
  5. That is fantastic. This especially: "A fiery scab forms / in the back of your mind. / Solid ground, magma into islands." Damn that's good. And the poem itself forms up as it bleeds.

    ReplyDelete
  6. Love the reminder Chrissa to try back part of the old normal on our own. Been a few years
    now. It's being healthy to be out in the open again !

    Hank

    ReplyDelete
  7. The reader can feel a helplessness when reading these lines. The images of the refugees come to
    my mind...lost and homeless. Not sure it that is where you were going but, that is the message that connected in my brain.

    the walker comes without expectation
    without possession, without expression

    ReplyDelete
  8. This morning I am watching the walkers, trying to flee, being ruthlessly gunned down in the streets as they clutch their babies and dogs. Absolutely unbelievable for soldiers to behave this way.

    ReplyDelete
  9. So much power in your poem, Chrissa. A strong emotion flows as I read every line.

    ReplyDelete
  10. "The screen bleeds fire.
    You stanch it with laughter.
    A fiery scab forms
    in the back of your mind.
    Solid ground, magma into islands."

    Your writing is unique, and vivid. We are all watching, but its not enough.

    ReplyDelete
  11. This touched me deep.
    They walk, with nothing... not safe at all.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Treacle Season

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #190 ,  hosted this week by Carrie. Keaton was great in that show—the one with wings— Where he was constantly a [man]child on a ledge  dreaming an angel who became a superhero.   She was a sarcastic (fake?) angel—it was the 80s— But always good, on time, her lessons easy, Easy as it would have been for him to fall.   The metaphor so obvious...but I didn't get it. Nor the easy and obvious good. (/s)   I watch the TV movie every other December Remembering believing in easy And crushing on this character, that city...   Angels should be sweet, sarcastic figures, knowing (like nurses and social workers) we prefer Sleeping on the ledge, reckless to call for "heroes." To clear up any confusion:  there is no Michael Keaton movie we watch every holiday season. Although, if there were...I'd probably watch it.  -- Chrissa

Turn Away

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse , for #193. Turn away, like the moon, listening... Listening to the planet that rumbles with a hundred million slaps. All the feet, all the rockets, all the  pistons in the cars on the asphalt over the chasm where the veins run deep, blue in sunlight, black at night. Running over the chasm.  Once or twice they ran to you. Once or twice they ran by. Greetings and salutations. The sky is an entertaining shade of concrete yellow as the rain promised earlier in the week makes good on its arrival. It's a disturbing bright sallow sky, the kind of sky that puts you in mind of old movies and degraded film stock and the pops and crackles incidental to the main story.  Several years ago I made a resolution to journal more and last year I came across a video that suggested I actually re-read those journals, at least those of the previous year, at the beginning of each new year. Technically, I have kept the journal resolution, making daily notes in the margins of

Revelations

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #169 : It takes time for the quest to settle into your calves, to work through your soles and up to your shoulders, spreading through nerve and vessel until  you can't go home because you've already left something of yourself there. You can't be in two places at once. You remember vacations but now you think your family's plans probably resembled some supervillain's monologue:  we'll do this and then take them here. It'll be fun. When do you leave the house on time? Who's time? There's a collar of dead bushes at the lawn in front of the gas station, a tiny, grassy patch of the suburbs beyond, ruins of landscaping, bright, dead. Two years ago feels like twenty, feels loud, a power wash of wind through the window; roaring down the dry sewers that funnel a/c through the lawns and backwards, carrying dreams dry and sharp. At this speed, everything cuts as it passes. Appendix 1:  Chrissa is Full of Stuff and Nonsense Let'