A Weed on The Curb

 Sharing today with The Sunday Muse #225 . I was asking the sky where the rest of me went Where the lace goes when it frays Where the net blows when it snags Where the party evaporates   The sky asks me where it goes when it breaks. Where parties form condensate Where net is woven into rays Where lace ravels into panes   I was asking the sky where the rest of me went. I find myself at the weekend sort of feeling at sea. I'd like to hit a local author festival as I'm in need of a little push/inspiration to get through that part of the draft that sends me off looking for new, shiny ideas. However, there isn't one nearby and I'm not really sure I'm up to peopling today. It's a pickle. :) -- Chrissa

 Sharing today with The Sunday Muse #224 .  Hospitality. We broke open the jar... Offered a magic couch, an ancient feast, the dust of ages for a pathway. We poured a goblet of our indiscretions Into the inkwell. You scrawled our names In a forgotten notebook. Washed your shorts. Ate breakfast. Stared at the screen.  Drank our stories with your coffee. And still we are dead, Coffered in your paperwork. Currently balancing a keyboard on Arthur...who isn't really a lapdog but who has already destroyed a dog gate today because of the thunder and is currently sitting on my lap and shaking and drooling. :( It's the kind of day where I'd really like to curl up with a good book and...er...snooze. Feeling guilty about not finishing stuff, though. And I can't really move at the moment.  Hope your writing week is amazing! -- Chrissa

  Sharing for The Sunday Muse #223 .  But the deconstruction comes at the chorus It's not the same thing: wings aren't flight The sky isn't the same day and night I'll turn my back on angel's secrets Because my wings were never white. The only time the window rolls down Your palm finally catches the slipstream There's a lift that pushes back, shoves; Flight doesn't float, it's always finding  The hardest push. -- Chrissa

  Sharing today with The Sunday Muse #222 (congratulations, Carrie!!!). Come and see the other poems! It's madness. You can see it. You can't see the music in that spiral. I can. *sigh*  Just like you can see the smoke. The kids'll be here soon. Then we'll hide it in the rack.  Play something safe. Sinatra. There's nothing safe in Vegas. We're not in Vegas. This is Texas. Seedy, oil-town Texas. And this? This particular spiral is madness out where the cows won't go. Give it here. I'll sleeve it. I don't even like the water.  It's brown and thick and rolls like it wants you off-balance. Like it knows the oil's moving through. You come in smelling like salt and staring at the yard  until even I think it's tilting. That salt's good for us. But this--I heard him play. He's nowhere near here. I bought him a guitar at seven. But she took him, sold it.  Bought that fiddle.  And then the devil taught him.  Put it away. The kids are here. ...