A Weed on The Curb

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #234 .    Tracie knows the attic holds the mirror Crow feathers, cobwebs, and space Aunt's last legacy, scratched, obscure Crow feathers, cobwebs, and space Beyond silver glass, in the dark cracks Crow feathers, cobwebs, and space Flaneurs dance on the wires, men move Crow feathers, cobwebs, and space What haunts the city, taunts the town Crow feathers, cobwebs, and space Its joys and labor, shadows continue Crow feathers, cobwebs, and space Not sure if this counts as a ghost story, but the first image recalls Nancy Drew covers and the second chimes with the book of ghost stories currently lurking by the couch. I'm about a third of the way through one of the drafts I'd hoped to finish in October and the month seems have vanished. OoooooOoooooo. :)  Happy Halloween! -- Chrissa

Inspired by WordCrafters' eerie wordlist, Halloween Vibes.    Hallowed Vibes Maeve hunts the hills where satellites bloom She dreams of the Grand Ball, the universe outflung, While gathering a handful of glowing moons. She blows them as wishes to the space-spun illusion: Everything above her an infinite fall, unspooled. Hallowed Vibes, The Return Break the clay feet from the sorceress crow Bones fell yesterday on the plaster mold The dead insist you buy them home. Rise of the Vibe, Hallowed Vibes III Drink the potion chilling in the chest We're haunting the lot, horror promised Sheet hung like a ghost new-skinned As the zombie scrawl gleams, begins Decades gone but groaning afresh, Our skulls' precinct pricked with unrest. 

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #233 , surreal and real poetry. Clouds echo the fountain, spray and surround One goose floats swan-ward between the skies Along the empty alley, reflective, upside down. -- Chrissa

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #231 .  I’m waiting on her here,  just leaning between shade, sun, and car door. Gotta pickup here, back entrance.  You’d never know that the sound Washing against the city  isn’t the ocean but a crowd.  She’ll be here. Just a few minutes more.  We’re going to emptiness, some restaurant Used to drive by, smell pepperoni and family, smell America. Used to be.  Dust and sunlight and old brick— now serving a new album. Do they have those anymore?  Wax and silver? Great black speakers? Roll over you  like that crowd floods and puddles in the traffic noise. She knows I’m waiting.  Waiting for her. Waiting for yesterday. She’s got a song about old starlight and I can feel it here Sticking to the hot asphalt,  fused in the shadows,  staining windowsills. Gotta wait.  New starlight on the back of my shoulders, drowned in sound. Finally seeing a little bit of fall weather and I've moved out on the patio to annoy the birds and pretend I'

 Sharing with T he Sunday Muse, #230 . I wanted to hold the city's hand.  Reaching out the car window at a stoplight, shaking the hands of whoever could reach me, stretching from the passenger window. I wanted to live in the concrete. There were days when I trusted bricks, when I slid across the vinyl seats and believed the rain allowed  a faster arrival in their Buick. I wanted a compatible reality In the phantom limb of the ocean,  grasping the arms of dolphin and men-o-war as we skipped down the sidewalks and sang through rain filtering the light green. We would find an eternal city If only we could drown in it.