The Soul and The Spine

Sharing with The Sunday Muse #195. Come and share!

When it blew out the candle,

It began to speak, voice low,

eyes dimmer than flame.

Jenn believed, once upon

a childhood (she's still there...

but it's waning), it inhaled fire.

Spines, tonight. Gears ladder

bones and metal and plastic,

all that lived, rungs to heaven.

Heaven is a level of space

where you can't breathe

so they used to send the dead.

When the flame goes,

it takes our memories with it.

But not bot files.

Maybe it believes

she'll sleep easier if bots

go breathless, too.

It continues murmuring

and she pretends she's hearing

a confession in a box

Like the song her mother

plays when the dark stretches

between signals

We can handle shocks.

She can handle the dark, the small

not-flame of its eyes.

It's finally winter!! Which means bitmapped frost on the roofs, cold mornings, and a table full of succulents that are pretty much glaring at me because the kitchen window isn't the same as full sun on the patio...even if it is warmer there. At least there were no creatures sleeping in the pots (that I've seen). I really, really, really want to place an order for spring seeds and go out and pull down the moonflower vine & create an ACTUAL BED for them for summer but, alas, we're still in the where-are-we-going-to-be-this-year that's making me unsure whether to start yard projects that don't involve pots. However...if I end up going to Lake Jackson I might just stuff my parent's small garden tiller in the trunk and Do It Anyway. Bwahahaha. Now...back to the blankets and plant catalogues.

-- chrissa

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...

A Single (Terrible) Poem

I did not buy the poetry book whose sample Was page after page of essay and praise. I'm not following the trumpets. Today I follow the ringers-- Huzzah and call out the streets! Lift your arm, swing the bell; Call out the quiet, call out the neat Call out the loud, call out the bold Call out the wrong, call out the wise We remember the bells We shiver the skies. This isn't about...anything. It's not about nothing. It should go without saying that a poem shouldn't need an essay or a textbook to be what it is. And I'm not sure why, with a stack of poetry at hand to be read, one silly Kindle sample (and writer's block and anxiety and...) would push my buttons so badly. But seriously. Where is my parody book full of fake blurbs that runs for 50 pages and ends with a single (terrible) poem? -- Chrissa

FireblossomJanuary 22, 2022 at 7:01 AM
Who could look at this image and not see a Reaper Dragon? I like it.
Carrie Van HornJanuary 22, 2022 at 8:47 AM
I love the eerie and spooky feel this holds. The stanza about heaven is mesmerizing. A wonderful write my friend! Yes winter is here, and i wish my living room was not half gutted out for repairs. :-(( May your succulents be forgiving and your day have some hot chocolate in it.
indybevJanuary 22, 2022 at 9:28 AM
This conjured memories of my mother in her favorite chair with her seed catalogs in her lap, dreaming of Spring! (We have angry succulents in our kitchen too!)
HelenJanuary 22, 2022 at 1:35 PM
Chrissa! So many wonderful lines ... I can't believe where the photography took you. When the flame goes, so go our memories ... my favorite.
Gillena CoxJanuary 22, 2022 at 10:50 PM
Your fourth stanza about heaven presents a very new concept to me. You made me stop a while thinking about this new stillness.

Happy Sunday

Much love...
TruedessaJanuary 23, 2022 at 7:03 AM
Heaven a level of space to send the dead - wow- hopefully, there is transformation in that
space of light.
Sherry Blue SkyJanuary 23, 2022 at 9:49 AM
I so love where your mind goes (and mine, when I read your poems.) Love the heaven where they send the dead bodies. And, especially "the small not-flame of its eyes".
qbitJanuary 23, 2022 at 1:00 PM
"Heaven is a level of space / where you can't breathe / so they used to send the dead." That is all-time great.
JimJanuary 23, 2022 at 1:11 PM
I once had a job offer to go to Lake Jackson but decided not.
I like the transition device, segue ??, from episode to theory of getting to Heaven and what heaven is. I also liked "Jenn's" idea of the candle inhaling the flame. I think I'll remember that.
Like people are funny, so I probably wouldn't tell. Mrs. Jim told this morning that I "walked on water but didn't do so well with spilled coffee." She was told she was funny.
..
ms_liliJanuary 23, 2022 at 4:48 PM
It is an image that makes the mind wander as you have made the character in your poem wander. Nice parallel.
purplepeninportland.comJanuary 23, 2022 at 4:53 PM
"Heaven is a level of space
where you can't breathe
so they used to send the dead."

What a witty poem, Chrissa! I love your notes as well.
.January 23, 2022 at 5:35 PM
I don't want to copy the same as in the former comment, but after all those years here on earth I never ever thought that way. The logic in it is killing me... haha, this will stay with me a long time.

Love your post in total!!
Sumana RoyJanuary 23, 2022 at 8:57 PM
The poem has a never ending quality. Lovely to read.
phillip woodruff (jalopy dreams)January 27, 2022 at 11:08 AM
this has a very "do androids dream of electric sheep?" feel to it. "Like the song her mother
plays when the dark stretches between signals"... between signals. i like that. enjoyed this very much, well done.

A Weed on The Curb

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