A Weed on The Curb

Phalanxes of plastic ducks: wizards, barbarians-- the occasional detective-- swirl in the giant conundrum. Plastic dolls (fashion dolls?), no judgement on brand or aisle or hair, especially now, hear the canard-verse via pathways laid down in heat, in formless transformations. They know the wars. They know the strategies. They know the tidal energies. Or so Mandy says, holding a damp doll by the hair, dripping on the carpet, sleepy as an oracle  fresh from a hot spring [or a bath] prophesying plastic. It's been a week since The Sunday Muse. And I'm working on the Indie Summer Read/Writeathon (currently reading Rocket Science  and enjoying the drama) and working on other projects...but I find that I'm missing my Sunday poetry. :)  -- Chrissa

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #261 , for our final week. Thank you for reading & interacting with these poems over the past several years.  Cold blood works the fire bushes:  marble, serpent, maybe.  Snakehearted limestone gathers a full bouquet.  Line the tables, cook the feast over the flowers, Hang the bottles from the marble bodies. Gods are sporting tonight; Dancing under the empty jars Eyes clear as the darkness, Deep as the heavens. Hang bottles to catch the sparks, Bottles to cast from the shore Already burning from their nearness. Bottles to kindle a thousand Epics, hearts, madnesses, parties... Bottles to seed the fire bushes On some colder, newer shore. I'm not sure whether I'll be returning to weekly poetry for the time being. I might turn this blog to reading to inspires me to get through a grim and treacherous TBR that seems to swell with books that aren't quite read, even if bookmarks appear in their shallows. From June through September I'm ...

  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.

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #259 . I'm the last of the fairy band  all our tricks given away  I follow wings and a sticky strand above the storm and day Farewell is a nightly tune this became goodbye An elegy trilled to carnival beat stained blue as the sky Strong as the scent of  popcorn May cola hold you fast The rope grows thin, the music faint Of the fairies, I'm the last. I am sad that this will be the penultimate poem I share with The Sunday Muse , which has been constant while I've been an irregular participant. Thank you, Carrie, for giving us this space each week!  It's been a privilege to be able to read what has been a chapbook, generated every week, by a committed and talented group of poets, several of whose books are now part of my library. Please drop a link or title below if you'll have something coming out (or that is already out). Best wishes to everyone (I'll hopefully be back next week but I'll be more emotional then...) and happy Moth...

 "No, Meredith, he's not going to...That car'll make it to the moon before she..." Light blazed across the screen.   Hate the way sunset catches these wings. Pinions still ash and heat shimmer, far enough from my back that they're just an illusion. Like the sarcasm I learned from this . He flipped the phone over to watch the sunset in the case. For a heartbeat, until glory stole even that view from his nerveless fingers, everything was light-washed, clean . He banged his fists to his knees. You could add all the sarcastic narration you liked, no angelic voice--no angel's human-seeming face--would trouble social media. Maybe they didn't need him. Didn't need his lessons. He threw his arms over the back of the old couch, kicked his feet out into the scrub . Maybe someone would figure out how to capture a video testament. Ask for help. Not for him.  Carrie brought us a group of great prompts this week but I've been really distracted lately and didn...

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #253 .  A vine sprawls over the post, leaning over the railing, pointing down the culvert. A poodle stumbles to a saunter at pressure while her boy shuffles up into a yard  to avoid a parked car, a puddle of old pollen, and the sly glances of squirrels.  The coyote feels the vine pointing and suggests the girl tear her photo, revealing she's just another vine. The poodle strains but the boy doesn't see and the squirrels don't tell. I think a summer day has become lost in the middle of spring and I'm just ready for summer's hibernation. Poets hibernate in summer, right? -- chrissa

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #252. Come, this anniversary of the winter nap where the soft soil warms like stone And the summer bears a rolling fealty Weeping thunder above the ice Shearing sleep from breathless bones. Right now, I'm seriously behind on a draft for an early summer festival and struggling. Poetry might thin on the ground right now...but who can pass up the white wolf in the forest? -- Chrissa