A Weed on The Curb

  Greetings and salutations! This is a piece for The Sunday Muse #237 . Come and wander down this week's paths! The path was just the remains of houses, Barns, sheds: if you want to find the ghosts You have to walk the their homes' bodies:  Think balanced thoughts in the evening, Listen for the coyote and deer running, Watch for snakes on the cooling boards,  And tell yourself the shadow is a house.  *deep breath* Yesterday was a lesson in listening to your gut. Today I'm trying to remain awake despite the rain (and the warm, fluffy dogs) and my brain essentially saying "sleeep....sleeeeeep....sleeeep." We were in a minor fender-bender yesterday and it aggravated an old injury (it's much better today) and I don't think my body or brain has caught up with the fact that EVERYTHING IS FINE. And I have a wordcount to hit. (....sleeeep.....sleeeeep....sleeep) Today's poem is therefore short, my draft currently consists of lots of deleted sentences, and...zz

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #236 .  On the day when the day didn’t come The house hared off after the latest suburban renewal A goddess came riding; no longer did a fence Prevent the forest or its spirits from knocking Do you answer in shorts? You don’t. You dress for the nothing in the silk Trailing mulberry forests in the dancing breeze Take yourself to meet the sullen creek Who never wanted neighbors like you And it is thirsty for the waters already bottled On the shelves were the goddesses shop They throw the plastic behind them Perhaps believing they worship the roadways According to the creek, who, it turns out, Toadless and thin, is relieved to talk to anyone On the day when the day didn’t come. -- Chrissa

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #235 . Poetry is the usual rule of the venue, but the community is generous and welcoming. Come share! They had voted against keeping chickens in these suburban yards during the last election, but Vita could hear neighbor’s birds, restless and outspoken as the neighbors. She could also hear the tiny chick that someone had left just under the hand of the statue in her garden, trying to inform it’s family of its location. It had been sitting quietly until it noticed Vita.  Those kids probably assumed it was St. Francis rather than the Rambler when they snuck it into her backyard. Everyone assumes the pomegranates are apples and my yard a metaphor for Eden.  She leaned against old fence section she’d converted into a plant stand and stared at the bird, who stared back at her.  That one knows who’s protecting her.  Vita wasn’t sure whether she or her garden could claim any protection from the saints of Green House. Fae saints weren’t into that. This week'