Skip to main content

Handmade

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #238.


Being put to the question and will you read
What poem comes from the hand?
Winter is spring, grey-white and yellow
Circulation is down to the band.
An industrial room with Mary on canvas
A murmur, a dog, and this stand.
Will you read the room, the day, the hour
Will these seasons ever land?

Let's start with lunch: it was a handful of peanut butter M&Ms because breakfast was late because yesterday's tired hasn't yet washed out of my head and I'm still considering what it means to have dreamt that the secret to success was engraved on a clear plastic knife and handed to me just before I woke up. I'm pretty sure it was a good secret, really motivating and clarifying and totally impressive for having been scratched onto a picnic knife; a creative and useful tool that totally wouldn't accidentally get thrown out with the casual thoughtlessness of waking up. It's going to haunt me all day. 

-- Chrissa 

Comments

  1. What questions do our symbols trigger in our day to day life. Or should we just accept them all as the ordinary. Then where will our poems fit in the scheme of things.
    Hi Chtissa. Happy Sunday. Thanks for dropping bu my blog today.

    Much💜love

    ReplyDelete
  2. "An industrial room with Mary on canvas" - awesome.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Your note makes me smile, Crissa. I think I would rather be in your head right now rather than my own. My poem explains why. Smiles.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Wow, Chrissa, this is truly lovely. It flows magically and creates a lovely series of images.

    All best,
    David [ben Alexander]
    http://skepticskaddish.com/

    ReplyDelete
  5. "An industrial room with Mary on canvas" Love that line. Beautful writing

    ReplyDelete
  6. You had me at being part of the question. A very thought provoking and lovely poem Chrissa! I hope this week brings some renewal and joy my friend!

    ReplyDelete
  7. How about a cup of coffee and some saltines with Peanut Butter and Chocolate Hazelnut Spread? That's what I do when ??
    ..

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Not Slacking, Just Writing

 So. My actual screensaver called me out today. Have I been writing much poetry? Is the doggerel below P O E T R Y? Yeah, probably not. However. The real story is that I'm working my way through a few stories for Camp NaNoWriMo. At almost halfway through the month, I'm still not sure what will end up under the pen on a day-by-day basis but I've added to several.  My reading has been similar. Lots of initial chapters or initial handful of chapters but very, very few final chapters completed. I'm thinking about taking a day and just clearing out my zine basket. Summer heat settled in early, so I haven't been doing any outdoor reading, but zines are pretty quick and I should be able to finish several while the squirrels raid the birdseed. :)  Hope you're having a good writing/reading summer! It must have been a movie, black and white, Watched when I was younger, maybe sick, Glancing between Mom cleaning and the screen. A father and his daughter in a lighthouse New ...

Phalanxes

Phalanxes of plastic ducks: wizards, barbarians-- the occasional detective-- swirl in the giant conundrum. Plastic dolls (fashion dolls?), no judgement on brand or aisle or hair, especially now, hear the canard-verse via pathways laid down in heat, in formless transformations. They know the wars. They know the strategies. They know the tidal energies. Or so Mandy says, holding a damp doll by the hair, dripping on the carpet, sleepy as an oracle  fresh from a hot spring [or a bath] prophesying plastic. It's been a week since The Sunday Muse. And I'm working on the Indie Summer Read/Writeathon (currently reading Rocket Science  and enjoying the drama) and working on other projects...but I find that I'm missing my Sunday poetry. :)  -- Chrissa

To Blue Fields Far Below

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #228 , The Fashionable Twenties.  A sycamore fairy sits crosslegged in the road Dragons swim toward smooth hills above the storms Vines embrace the telephone poles  Someone washed the blue skies and she knows  It's time to dare the salty foam It's time to wade through the eternal fields' folds And gather golden apples for home.  Hoping this finds you with space to daydream and a good book in which to wander. Working on turning last week's prompt into a longer piece, as I found myself intrigued by the idea of tea in the garden as combat. Social situations are not my forte. As it's still Spider September, there will be a chihuahua-sized jumping spider that is none too happy about anything but hunting squirrels (that's for you, Mom).  -- Chrissa