Skip to main content

Hospitality

 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


Comments

  1. so many delicious lines especially "We poured a goblet of our indiscretions
    Into the inkwell."

    ReplyDelete
  2. Oh Chrissa how I love this poem! I feel as if I have witnessed a life poured in and poured out of a goblet with miracles for all to see. One of your finest indeed! I hope the weather settles down and Arthur settles down too. 💙

    ReplyDelete
  3. Poor Arthur! I feel so badly for him.

    ReplyDelete
  4. If only this settee could speak .... my indiscretions would need a carafe I fear. Chrissa, this is magic, magic only you can imagine.

    ReplyDelete
  5. It would be to fraternalize with the dead.
    On our terms and when we wish.
    Poor Arthur. I read in the Chronicle lately how to keep pets sane during thunder and fireworks, etc. I was saving it to show our daughter but I haven't seen it lately. One thing that stuck with me was to put them in their kennel if they like that and shut the pantry door or wherever you keep it.
    I'm sorry that I haven't been able to answer to your comments lately. But now our laptop cratered, and my son gave me a nice hand-me-down HP laptop. I don't sync it to the others, I still can't comment, even anonymous with the smart phone. I'm not going to sync this one.
    ..

    ReplyDelete
  6. “We poured a goblet of our indiscretions Into the inkwell” loved this line Chrissa. This piece seemed to resonate perhaps about a struggle with motivation to write, or even writer’s block? Great write. BT W, I always smile when I see the image below. It always fascinated me. I remember when it was offered as a “magpie” prompt a number of years ago by Tess. Anyway, I enjoyed this piece here my friend, 🙂✌🏼❤️

    ReplyDelete
  7. Oh I love this..."We poured a goblet of our indiscretions Into the inkwell" The whole piece feels like fantasy mixed with reality.

    ReplyDelete
  8. "drank our stories with your coffee" - one among many excellent lines!

    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...

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 su...

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