Skip to main content

In My Head

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #243.


The writer in my head is never honest.
He sits back, pokes a memory...sighs.
Reassures me it's completely meaningless.
He grabs a sheaf of ideas, fans them out:
Detritus. High school? Offices before social media?
One by one, he feeds them into the fire.
Briefly, he stares into the flames,
Shakes his head, tilts back, stares at the ceiling.
He's stuck in a ready room. 
In a skull.
He could make fifteen different novels
At least one deathless sword-and-sorcery series
Out of this--he'd be the wizard.
The fire crumples the paper, petals it.
A vase of charcoal, fiery blooms.
Boring. Burn the worst, the best.
He's a liar, a fabulist, a critic,
with a sorcerous talent for disparagement. 

Greetings and salutations!  Thanks for the kind wishes toward Merlin, who has been doing well this week, alternating between super bouncy (is there food potentially available? new people around?) and his natural pillow state (see below).


-- Chrissa


Comments

  1. I especially love the opening:

    "The writer in my head is never honest.
    He sits back, pokes a memory...sighs."

    And this:

    "The fire crumples the paper, petals it."

    "a fabulist" ... that too :)

    ReplyDelete
  2. Hmmm.....there are a lot of interesting ideas going around in your head:) Quite complicated ones. Pats and tickles for Merlin.

    ReplyDelete
  3. This speaks to and for every poet's mind and muse Chrissa! I love this so much and the feeling it swiftly tosses at us! Brilliant writing my friend! I am glad Merlin is feeling better. He is so adorable!

    ReplyDelete
  4. A bummer for a Muse. But you write sooo many nice things, it has to be fiction, can't' you.
    ..

    ReplyDelete
  5. All the possibilities in the head of this creative writer.

    Merlin looks happy 😊

    Much❤love

    ReplyDelete
  6. This makes my layed back muse sound very lazy!

    ReplyDelete
  7. "He's a liar, a fabulist, a critic" - isn't that the truth!

    ReplyDelete
  8. Oh this speaks to me of how much I argue with the writer in my head, often not trusting she's given me anything worth a pen or keyboard.

    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