Skip to main content

If We Could Speak

Sharing with The Sunday Muse #210.



No industry where the sea has already eaten the road

No wine where the dreams are salted, preserved

No space for the story when water shoves the sand back,

Takes another lick at the asphalt,

Tastes the human toes, testing.

Gave you the blue sky, the blue sea, the blue planet

Gave you parts of the million years curling in your DNA

Gave you my breath, gave you my breath, gave you

Salt to savor your tears

Salt to float your dreams

If I could speak something other than flood

If you could speak something other than words

If we could speak the awe; if we could, if we could



Comments

  1. FireblossomMay 14, 2022 at 9:05 AM

    This is gorgeous, marvelously conceived and seamlessly executed. I adore this.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Carrie Van HornMay 14, 2022 at 9:17 AM

    I am with Shay here Chrissa, this is one of your finest! The questions, the thoughts, the imagery....it is all amazing and feels almost like a sacred conversation. Love love love this!!!

    ReplyDelete
  3. TruedessaMay 14, 2022 at 6:14 PM

    This is wonderful, the whole thought process. If only we could speak the awe of this beautiful
    world and life.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Marion HortonMay 15, 2022 at 12:50 AM

    Beautifully written - the flow and repetition, that last line ...

    ReplyDelete
  5. Gillena CoxMay 15, 2022 at 6:44 AM

    The rhythms are intriguing.
    Have a good Sunday

    Much💛love

    ReplyDelete
  6. SunitaMay 15, 2022 at 9:27 AM

    This is brilliant! You have touched so many emotions in this amazing poem.

    ReplyDelete
  7. .May 15, 2022 at 4:58 PM

    Love this. Awesome!!

    ReplyDelete
  8. Stacy M.S.May 15, 2022 at 8:15 PM

    i really enjoy the questions left lingering between the lines. wonderful and haunting.

    ReplyDelete
  9. purplepeninportland.comMay 19, 2022 at 5:23 PM

    This is a brilliant, thought-provoking poem, Chrissa!

    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
16 comments
Read more

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
15 comments
Read more

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'
13 comments
Read more