A Weed on The Curb

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #221 . Carrie's bringing a great end-of-summer atmosphere with movie prompts.  Writers like a tight scene. An angry man talking about his father-in-law Who won't buy his wife a dog It's the only thing she wants At thirty, with two kids And the guy  Still won't Get her  A dog. It's not a bullet. Just a guy Who doesn't know why people  Just won't do the thing. Why the scene  is never tight. We visited a local author event today and I found myself drawn to the children's books rather than the inspo fiction (and the lack of poetry). Unfortunately, I don't read Spanish well enough to take home the story of the dog and the baby turtle...this might be a goal for the next several months. It was a really cute book and my dad is the family turtle rescuer, so I just might have to invest in my non-existent language skills. Both of us enjoy a good turtle story. And turtles carry the world, do they not?  -- Chrissa 

  spent the afternoon thinking there's no prompt, no conversation it extends into the quite grey no snow, just rain I could find stairs  at a mall, near the Waterway but I'm missing ascension in this no-prompt poem

 Sharing today with The Sunday Muse #220. Come & share a tale! Pick up the haunted book, open the cover.  You've been watching the glass for years Surely the specters deserve a voice.  Where have all the people gone? They are still walking the spectrum Watching for the Between store. Where else would you buy the sheets? Not that they wear sheets--just light Spun with dust drifting silk. Practical, are sheets. Familiar chores. That's not why you walk reflections Listening for subtle coughs. So many layers to the dim, flat world Now that sunlight shatters among Walkers and discount shadows. Learning to see the art of desecration Won't confine it to the deadly book. I worry too many think it's possible to win the apocalypse.  -- Chrissa

 Sharing today with The Sunday Muse #219 .  Blow the story over me, the last one, the first one; there's mustard and olive loaf sandwich left and the day isn't as hot as it will be.  Bless the day in Philadelphia when she moved, before the ballet recital, after the record when the wind was high as summer. She'll always blaspheme Texas, it's the hell that took her silk for denim, took her  balance for kids and hurricanes. Bless yourself when you sneeze, snotty thing all I'm telling you, under fairy skirts, what dance you're named after. Bored on the grass of this new park? Think-- I could be famous, and you could be meeting a queen of guitar screams. Believe those come with tutu and crinoline? Let me pull that fey illusion, quick, don't leave bandages on belief too long. Belly up to the table and lean close. Texas ain't the good court. It's too scarlet prideful and every string here shrieks. But really--queens get to scream when they will. Loud as you

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #128 .     Let me swing through the small sins The ones that come with sugar  or gumballs All the fat-fingered chords pooling In the back of the throat, Rising inedible All the small sins that lit the lanterns The ones that signalled  for the demons Invisible freight trains shuddering By this keyboard mouth Slippery decibels We're rising stave by black-eyed trill Keeping our hands tight or stiffer still Let me swing through the small sins Before a lid breaks the kiss Sharply indelible So today contained a slight error in judgement. We ended up on a long-ish walk to a coffee shop in the middle of another day full of heat advisories because I don't navigate well based on Google maps. Also, if you ask me over and over again if I remember a place, I will absolutely say yes...because I remember the name, what it looked like indoors, etc...not because I have a strong feeling for where it's located. Do NOT ask me to navigate. Which leads to poetry wh

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #217. Come be part of the conflagration. :)  Oh, they called the mob to celebrate But only the fire heard They called the mass to congregate But only the dry grass bowed A conflagration Called to prayer Hungry for light Hungry for air Oh, they called the mob celebrate Wearing flames in their hair They called the mass to congregate Faceless in the burning air.  Greetings and salutations. I'm not sure what to say--we're not celebrating the 4th this year (not that I'm prepared to cede one holiday to the authoritarian idiots in charge of our state, but our grass is still dry from the heat and we have a dog terrified of fireworks...so we're celebrating by bunkering down and watching Howling 2  at the gleefully deranged suggestion of my sibling) and otherwise I've turned our dead corn plants into the basis for this year's Camp NaNo project...it's turning into a weird year, the kind of year where I'm reading more horror than norma