Skip to main content

Endemic

 Sharing for The Sunday Muse #171.


"Roots" 1943 by Frida Kahlo

I wouldn't believe in Halloween
Without grocery store pumpkin displays;
backyard vines yield green, sunken fruit.
I plant bright squash décor when it fades,
when the fruits sink into themselves. 
Dad says the worms are too small to see,
endemic to the Texas soil.


In the mood for a little Halloween/fall content here in the dog days of summer. 
-- Chrissa

Comments

  1. You went with yoyr muse willingly. Thats the creative way sonetimes.

    Happy and creative Sunday

    Much❤love

    ReplyDelete
  2. What pure delight this is! Questioning the reality of Halloween until we see pumpkins in grocery stores?? Laughing now.

    ReplyDelete
  3. There is a book I've seen around but not read, entitled "Shit My Dad Says." Too good!

    I, too, am dreaming of fall, my favorite season (with summer my least.)

    ReplyDelete
  4. That's a fascinating take -- Halloween as an abstract belief system. Like Christmas and snow and Santa in the tropics. The last line with with worms and the soil is perfection.

    ReplyDelete
  5. I love what you did in this deep poem Chrissa! What we don't see is easy to dismiss but does not mean it isn't real. I love the direction the image took you! Brilliant writing as always my friend!

    ReplyDelete
  6. You know, now that you mention it, she does look like a punkin in TX in the painting. Fun!

    ReplyDelete
  7. I love the thought of fall! Loved your poem.

    ReplyDelete
  8. I love how you saw, felt Fall/Halloween in the image. I too yearn for spice scents and cooler weather.

    ReplyDelete
  9. What a leap to fading gourds falling in on themselves and Halloween! I love ekphrastic poetry, and the varying messages it carries! Love it!

    ReplyDelete
  10. "Dad says the worms are too small to see.!!" That Dad!! Will those tiny bugs harm, sounds like a virus? Also reminds me of the Scabies. Have you read "Drood", a novel written by Dan Simmons with his version of the last five years of Charles Dickens? Mr. Drood controls folk by transmittal without rupturing the skin of a bug too small to see.
    ..

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Once Upon a Future Past

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #204 . It's too far in the afternoon, I thought but evening ran behind me dragons, demons, and the sleeping world; afraid to turn, to wake me. Power needs its horror stories, its ghosts. It's too far in the afternoon, I thought but evening followed close; a fantasy of goodness, where the gold is always covering bones. Power needs its fairy tales, its witches. It's too far in the afternoon, I thought but evening treads my hem, like an army from the dragon's teeth and all the lies therein. -- Chrissa

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 ...

Fearsome by Survival

  Sharing today with T he Sunday Muse #189 , where Shay is hosting. Come and read and share a piece! On a web-white, wool-quiet morning I found the girl our stories gave us The one who survived She wore the meadow, carded and sewn Long since burned for field Still, she knew me Her stories named me fierce, feral She might have feared  The one who devours Neither of us spoke, patient at morning Breath, warmth, silence Innocent of power We know the stories kill us both We know that we become Fearsome by survival Hello and welcome. It's 67 degrees outside this morning and a warm December weekend might seem like the kind of thing that would prevent me from following through on a plan to hibernate with a good book for the rest of the weekend...but it's the doomscrolling that's run down the charge on my phone that's preventing me from doing that. Also, I may have developed an intolerance to long stretches of quiet during the past year and a half.  Anyway. Looking forward to r...