Skip to main content

Once around the Ankle, Forever

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #253. 


A vine sprawls over the post, leaning
over the railing, pointing down the culvert.
A poodle stumbles to a saunter at pressure
while her boy shuffles up into a yard 
to avoid a parked car, a puddle of old pollen,
and the sly glances of squirrels. 
The coyote feels the vine pointing
and suggests the girl tear her photo,
revealing she's just another vine.
The poodle strains but the boy doesn't see
and the squirrels don't tell.

I think a summer day has become lost in the middle of spring and I'm just ready for summer's hibernation. Poets hibernate in summer, right?

-- chrissa

Comments

  1. HelenApril 1, 2023 at 3:03 PM

    Love your maze of a poem and YOU hibernate? Never.

    ReplyDelete
  2. JimApril 1, 2023 at 4:33 PM

    Squirrels are cunning creatures. They squirrel away a lot of useful information. For blackmail?
    ..

    ReplyDelete
  3. AngelaApril 2, 2023 at 6:55 AM

    I love the eeriness created in this poem such a good read 🙌

    ReplyDelete
  4. Susie ClevengerApril 2, 2023 at 9:35 AM

    I love what you saw and created from the image...The worded revelation of inspiration

    ReplyDelete
  5. qbitApril 2, 2023 at 12:52 PM

    Great title, and maybe we are all just vines and tangle.

    ReplyDelete
  6. Carrie BurttApril 2, 2023 at 1:03 PM

    Love the way this feels so mysterious from beginning end...all the while captivating like a vine around the ankle. Even in hibernation you could write the most wonderful poem my friend!

    ReplyDelete
  7. Gillena CoxApril 2, 2023 at 1:55 PM

    What a tangled weave you wove today. I do not understand it. I appreciate it.
    Thanks for dropping by my blog.

    Much💚love

    ReplyDelete
  8. Keith's RamblingsApril 3, 2023 at 2:44 AM

    Interesting, intriguing and a pefect accompaniment to the picture!

    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

Out of the Den

  For the Sunday Muse, #166. Deep in the rain, stand and drink. Water that rises carries the need, Remember the trail where it sinks; Deep in the rain, stand and drink. There is a rumble outside as I write. Arthur has come to check on me and has curled up beneath the desk--once James settles down, he'll probably find a more comfortable place to snooze or shiver through the rain. I am, this week, angry. You'd think a wolf would be a goad for finding words for it; not yet. I didn't expect to reemerge and be angry. I expected tears, the occasional panic attack, relief. Instead I am furious and couldn't say why.  -- Chrissa
16 comments
Read more