Skip to main content

Flagrant

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #217. Come be part of the conflagration. :) 


Oh, they called the mob to celebrate
But only the fire heard
They called the mass to congregate
But only the dry grass bowed

A conflagration
Called to prayer
Hungry for light
Hungry for air

Oh, they called the mob celebrate
Wearing flames in their hair
They called the mass to congregate
Faceless in the burning air. 

Greetings and salutations. I'm not sure what to say--we're not celebrating the 4th this year (not that I'm prepared to cede one holiday to the authoritarian idiots in charge of our state, but our grass is still dry from the heat and we have a dog terrified of fireworks...so we're celebrating by bunkering down and watching Howling 2 at the gleefully deranged suggestion of my sibling) and otherwise I've turned our dead corn plants into the basis for this year's Camp NaNo project...it's turning into a weird year, the kind of year where I'm reading more horror than normal and fictional dragons are turning toothy and serpentine and much hungrier. Camp NaNo is going to be...creepy. As summer camp, at times, should be. :) 

Hope you have a good holiday & summer season!

-- Chrissa

Comments

  1. Having lived in south Texas for 6 years a long while ago, I cannot even imagine what the atmosphere there must be in 2022. I'd be afraid to show my LGBTQ face, which I guess is what they want. I love your poem.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Your poem holds a heat and power like fire itself my friend! Love this! Yes I am with you on the hunkering down. 💙

    ReplyDelete
  3. "they called the mob to celebrate
    But only the fire heard"

    That opening is fabulous.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Fantastic wordsmithing Chrissa
    Happy Sunday

    much💚love

    ReplyDelete
  5. Picture and words in perfect harmony. Well done.

    ReplyDelete
  6. So strong Chrissa — excellent! 🙂

    ReplyDelete
  7. "Oh, they called the mob to celebrate
    But only the fire heard
    They called the mass to congregate
    But only the dry grass bowed"

    Excellent and powerful, Chrissa!
    I have a cousin that lives in Austin, but claims
    it's not really part of Texas!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

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...

By the Roadside

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #260  with much appreciation to Carrie & Shay & everyone. Just a reminder: if you have a poetry book, please drop a title in the comments. My TBR won't thank you, but I will. :)    I drive by the armadillos, dead where they fell. Sunlight is so heavy it folds into damp shimmers. All the roads are widening, dispersing the ditches, Grinding out parking lots, killing slow steps. I speed up; crisp winter in the passenger seat. We will arrive at the store soon; I will drag her Chill, into the store. Breathe for both of us. Brightness distorts the lots, now grown gigantic. Roads need blood, the state needs the kills. We will make it through barriers if we wear them: Dead armadillos, caliche dust, gunmetal sunshine.

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