Skip to main content

Ash and Ember

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #245



Let us burn the world. 
Burnish it ash and ember! Let gold run like water
Gild the beaches with precious oceans.


Let us hold the world
Close around our flame. Let what remains
Gilded by our warmth, sustain.


Spring cleaning season is here and I'm looking at the pile of writing projects and wondering what needs to be filed and what needs to be expanded and finished. Honestly, with the increase in censorship in the US, writing and reading feels pretty pointless right now. Maybe everything needs to be filed and I should go sit with the birds. :) 

-- Chrissa

Comments

  1. Though the birds would no doubt welcome Ms. Chrissa ... we need your writing!!!

    ReplyDelete
  2. Fun read and scary also, your write.
    You might find some of my relatives with those birds. I was once told that I was dropped on a rock by a bird and hatched by the local chickens. Haha, not quite that way though, I don't wish to be censored.
    ..

    ReplyDelete
  3. The pen is mighter than the MAGA hat.

    ReplyDelete
  4. I love the warmth in your poem Chrissa! Your writing always has a magical feel and anything you are finding in your cleaning is something to expand or publish. Have a wonderful week my friend!

    ReplyDelete
  5. This is a warm and tender blessing of a poem, Chrissa. Excellent, 🙂✌🏼

    ReplyDelete
  6. Let what remains
    Gilded by our warmth, sustain.

    That's a good outcome to result in our desire to keep on writing Chrissa! We are in this together, keep on writing, yes!

    Hank

    ReplyDelete
  7. Interesting and magical the burning yet sustaining precious oceans.
    Happy you dropped by my blog today Chrissa.

    Much❤love

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Treacle Season

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #190 ,  hosted this week by Carrie. Keaton was great in that show—the one with wings— Where he was constantly a [man]child on a ledge  dreaming an angel who became a superhero.   She was a sarcastic (fake?) angel—it was the 80s— But always good, on time, her lessons easy, Easy as it would have been for him to fall.   The metaphor so obvious...but I didn't get it. Nor the easy and obvious good. (/s)   I watch the TV movie every other December Remembering believing in easy And crushing on this character, that city...   Angels should be sweet, sarcastic figures, knowing (like nurses and social workers) we prefer Sleeping on the ledge, reckless to call for "heroes." To clear up any confusion:  there is no Michael Keaton movie we watch every holiday season. Although, if there were...I'd probably watch it.  -- 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 the margins of

Out of the Den

  For the Sunday Muse, #166. Deep in the rain, stand and drink. Water that rises carries the need, Remember the trail where it sinks; Deep in the rain, stand and drink. There is a rumble outside as I write. Arthur has come to check on me and has curled up beneath the desk--once James settles down, he'll probably find a more comfortable place to snooze or shiver through the rain. I am, this week, angry. You'd think a wolf would be a goad for finding words for it; not yet. I didn't expect to reemerge and be angry. I expected tears, the occasional panic attack, relief. Instead I am furious and couldn't say why.  -- Chrissa