Photos from Yesterday. :)

 

Wow, a breathtaking day. Saw one hawk. I'll be seeing more soon. :) Hope you're well.

Christine.

Photo: Billy

 

C.A. MacConnell

Photos: Bicycles, 1&2.

 

Heya. Hope you like the shots.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Fly.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Four Sisters

 

I feel this is one of my best. Took this shot at Sharon Woods some winters ago. Just happened to capture the wonderful mix -- the sisters taking a walk through the tricky ice and snow. Love the "bonding feeling" amidst the cold world. It warms my heart. Hope you like it.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Pride Parade, Cincinnati.

 

C.A. MacConnell

The Heater

Wow, this one's from 1992. Well, of course it's been revised since the first version. Actually, the piece did indeed come from a true story, and the whole thing was strangely innocent. But I remember the moment, and I remember the girls' reactions later...all of these whispers...and I never spoke about it, but in reality, it was just this:  me and a guy getting warm, sleeping, and connecting through silence. That, to me, was special, and there was no way to describe it, so I didn't utter a word. Some things are best left unsaid. Aye. <3

The Heater.

We were the last two
standing

on the soaked floor.
Together, after the packed

rock show,
we sang Indigo

Girls in his beat up,
blue van.
Modestly,

ears were ringing.
We said so.
The weather

turned cold,
and everything white
fell from an aching sky.

Late, vacant highway.
No, no noise.

We checked in. Two
double hotel beds.

Like brother and sister,
we rested separately

until I sat up
on the bed
by the heater

with my head
propped on my hands.
Soon, blood rushing,

hands and feet
came alive again.
I breathed deeply,

pretending sleep.
He sat up, creeping

over to the heater,
twice feeling the air.

Finally, his slight weight
fell down next to me.

It was five a.m.

Back home, girls
whispered.

Back home, girls
asked me for a souvenir.

They asked me,
What’s he like.

They whispered
and asked me,
What’s he like.

He spoon-slept
by my side,
holding up

his hand, pressing it
against my palm.
We measured,

and I couldn’t believe
that his fingers

were just as small
as mine.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Happy Almost Halloween.

 

OOOOOoooooohhhhhh. Haven't I met you somewhere? You look familiar. Lollapalooza '94? Hm, no. Kappa Alpha, '95. No, that's not it. Stanley's pub, '97. That's it! The rain. Again, you say? Out West? 2005? The sun. Wait, ... there's more? 2015. Hm, yes. 2017. I dunno about you, but I've never seen another clown like you.

C.A. MacConnell

P.S. THE HOLE, on Amazon NOW! Click me right here.

Photo: You Lead.

 

C.A. MacConnell

Hairline.

Sweaty-wet wings live
In the front row, near
Your temples.
Some tips hover now, reaching out,
Sharply.
Some settle down, half-covering your
Eyes. Some shoot the dark,
Wrong way, no more
Than bars against the skin, making homes
On a smooth brow bone.
You run a hand through the chaotic,
Flyaway hair. Maybe you just rolled out of
Somewhere, a place
Where only her breath
Moves
The part of you
That is wheat.

C.A. MacConnell

Full Length Mirror

She's on her personal, makeshift cat
walk -- it's her body
against
the hang-it-on-the-door bedroom mirror,
and if she tilts it,
she...is...
better,
and the carpet is the wonder of ugly...fat...
beige,
flat in places,
bulging in others,
and she isn't wiry or unique,
and the belly...just...plain
sucks,
but still worse are the thighs --
wait --
yes;
she could tear her fucking face off
and live
forever

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Why?

C.A. MacConnell
 

Frying Pan.

Dear god, the nape of it.

He loves a pale Leo
in November.

His oxen senses,
his driving team,

pull him
into the dream of her

but today,
like yesterday,

there will be no lion,
no afternoon nap.

True, her axle neck
barely holds

her head and heart
together.

And listen
to the sound

of her noel voice.
True, her boy shape

is no pear.
In her hand,

there rests
no frying pan.

Nearly all month,
he has been loping

across the room --
ape-living;

here, empty hands
and empty arms

forever hang loose.
Secretly, he hopes

for a strange,
warm winter.

Home is pretty
this time of year.

He loves a pale Leo
in November.

Dear god, the awake of it.

C.A. MacConnell

Photos: Waterfalls.

C.A. MacConnell
 

From the Wolf.

This is my favorite from this POV series. From the POV of the wolf. Has a really cool echo-voice going on, like a howl throughout, and some wild, fierce romance, which I love. :) Love to you, C.A.

From the Wolf

You are there to me, Mouth
You are here to me, Ear
You are Teeth and Paw
Tonight, where is Pack, I'm coming
Only the gaping
Hello silence
Then Pretty Wolf, somewhere else, West, calls out, yes,
You
Something Thin is running -- slow Old Deer heads south
We let Him live once, remember
I sing, testing Air, loving Wind,
Like Mother told me way back when, over Milk
Pretty, I hear your tone when You are
Home, at hunt, at play
Last week, we ripped up Rabbit
Seems like always, we have Howling
Then we're trapped in Quiet,
Like the too-long Tooth that never falls out,
When it tucks deep in Cheek,
Pressing there, making a Hurt,
A strange shape in Jaw, no matter how hard Brother plays,
Trying to knock it
Loose
Shiver myself dry, and I almost see your
Black Wet Nose
Whiskers, bring your Face home, here, with me
Man, the two-legged ones dug holes again
So I can't find Father
Pretty, Left Ear twitches for You
Lip curls, for above all, I am
Fierce, first
Neck hair feels stiff
Tell Uncle I smell coyotes
I make Prints
I mark Ground
You will find me if Gray Stray doesn't fight me first
We can have Sleep together
I hear You, but I can't see those
Eyes, perfect, like Moon, yours
Soon
You and me, shredding Meat.

C.A. MacConnell

From the Lion

Hi! Hope your day is awesome. My dreams were so vivid last night! :) It's going to be a beautiful day. In my POV series of poetry. :) From the point of view of the lion...enjoy, C.A. <3

P.S. Don't forget to pick up a copy of THE HOLE. GO HERE. Feedback:  "So real it's frightening." Love it. And don't forget to LEAVE A COMMENT. TYVM. LOVE, ME.

From the Lion

Hm, yes, I have leftover
cheetah. Gnawing on the closer thigh.
Maz, the oldest, steals the right.
Sometimes, I let her.
I took cheetah by the vein
this afternoon. He was a slick, pale friend, an albino,
so rare,
but I was empty, and his paw was dragging,
so I saw it as a sign
to hit the neck.
He didn't go down easy.
I roll my eyes, checking. Hm, all of the ladies
are still mine. And the snake...
he's nothing to lose sleep about.
Hazel could take his head off with one
swipe. She probably will if he slides
too close to her Five.
Tomorrow, we're planning on antelope,
and the nap will be fine.
Man. Lately, a blue one stands
on his hind legs, holding a bad stick,
and he's been hunting me.
He thinks he is blending,
but I can smell him through the
leaves,
thirty trees back.
He's not one of us.
He's hairless, but for the head and chin.
I hear from Maz
that Stick Man wants to wear my teeth --
hang them from his chest --
for no reason at all, just because.
Hm, yes, today, in my free time,
I will peel him
apart like a gutted mango.
My tongue won't like him,
but I'll juice him slowly
when he moves the leaf
near the ladies and the kids and the rock.
I love one lady. Salta's eyes, gold
and black, hold sunrise and nighttime.
She has Four, and most days,
they're sucking anyone's tit.
Hm, soon, they will find mice.
And when they pass double hot years,
I'll tell them
to find another stretch, green or yellow,
to call home,
but if they don't listen,
I'll bury them, just because.
I hear something -- a wing.
Tomorrow, change of plans. Lunch will be birds.
Salta's hiding by the stones.
I stay away. Now is not the time.
She would fight me to the death,
even though they're mine.
And she might win. Hm,
I love her.
Now I see dirty Bubba sliding through the grass.
He wants to be king. He'll kill
the little ones. I prepare for a teeth
gnashing. If I win, he will be no more.
If he wins, I will become a dry tree,
or a green blade, or a stone,
so my father told me. In case the Stick Man wonders,
we kill, we eat, we sleep, we are reborn,
and then we go back
to the dust, just because.
Bubba turns away.
Maybe his ears hurt. The sky is talking.
Maybe he isn't in the mood.
I lick my paws clean, just because.
Hazel and Maz are yawning,
and Salta is growling, all pretty teeth.
Number Three kid looks like me.
I guess I have to go take care of this.
The snake is hugging him.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo.

 

C.A. MacConnell

From the Hawk. And hi there.

Heya, how's it going? Hope you're having a peaceful day. Did you check out THE HOLE yet? Find it right here. And if you read already, don't forget to leave a comment! Same link. All right.

I've been recovering from a long streak of sickness. Now addressing the job/money deal. Movement is crucial at this point. I feel driven to write, and for ...let's see... like 20 years, I've wanted to fully devote my time to it, to have the ability to do so. I have worked so damn hard. I have another novel, a book of essays, and a book of poetry all in the works. I also plan to put out a screenplay. I want my work to BE my passion. I can relate to Nomadland. I can also relate to Britney Spears. See, there's a situation. I'm stuck. Anyhow, I write on anyway, because, well, it's in me. :) Truth. Perhaps there are only a select few who achieve the goal of making a life from their art. Hey, I'd like to be in the mix. Just pay the rent and buy some oatmeal, and I'm good to go.

A re-post, but it's cool. From the point of view of the hawk. I tinker w/ poetry and voices when I'm working on new fiction. Helps me focus. And, I enjoy it.

From the Hawk

Time. Some feathers fall out. It happens.
My eyes are rolling now. Got poked
by some twigs. Robin took
my branch, but he won't be there tomorrow,
which is three minutes away.
There. Mine. Now.
Neck.
Achy.
Twitchy.
Mad. All day, looking backwards,
I've been grooming out the bad,
making way for the new.
Belly's rough too.
Hope the boy one doesn't look up here.
He looked.
He cocked his head left, which means me.
Left is my secret smile from his away place.
He's got a voice to kill. Always in the pine.
Even when the sky is white, I know he's there.
Come evening, he'll leave the needles
and fly to the thick, tricky pole.
Lookout.
There, he's taller, but so skinny.
Gave him the chipmunk yesterday.
Together four years now—since the day my Mom got caught on the wire.
A fast flyer, she was.
Wasn't her mistake.
Storms rolled in, making scary sparks.
Old Crow told Mother not to glide so close, but she wanted the fat
mole, and everyone knows it was for me. They still screech about it.
Now most fliers want to help and bring me a frog or two.
My eyes still make me look mean about it all, but the boy one thinks the yellow is all right,
and I guess I love
building the nest. When I'm too tired to fly,
I use the wind, which is sometimes helpful.
Soon, he'll come at me in the air again, but I like him.
He always comes back.
We lost one baby last year. She fell, and before I could claw her up,
the dog was there.
After, I wouldn't stop picking at everything. I admit
that the reddest part of my tail
hasn't recovered.
We have three in the nest this year.
Next week, I'll let them go.
I showed them how to rise up and stay
in the cold,
high part, where it's safe.
I see something moving.
A quarter mile.
I'd tell the boy one, but he'll hear me coming, and he'll already
know.
Now, higher. I stop beating
and glide.
I stop
to thank the sky for the sky,
because even the blue birds know that God
spreads out across the air, and those wings cover all that we see,
even the vultures,
who will one day become
what they eat.
If she wants to, God can fly next to the sun without burning.
Enough of the boy one and being wise.
Planning the dive.
Mouse, you have it coming to you.

C.A. MacConnell

First Date.

No movie. Let's
Really
Skydive.
Look.
That red-winged
Blackbird
Is fierce.
There's another.
Five.
The pipes on him!
Or her.
Did you hear?
Yes, Cornell.
Yes, Singles.
Bet those
College kids
Have never seen
The lawnmower boy
From the film,
Can't Buy
Me Love.
I tell you,
Six now.
I'm sorry,
I hate
The Beatles.
Who cares.
You know Chuck
And Bobby
Won.
Parker, yes.
Look,
Seven.
Remember
The dance,
The hands,
How he stood
On a picnic table
And saved
The world?
He got the girl.
I never trusted
That blonde,
Or any other.
Good thing.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Three.

 

C.A. MacConnell