Tracy Kreuzburg
Bio
I love reading, writing and storytelling, and using stories to convey truths. I feel this is a platform that will encourage me to write my stories, I also have an interest in connecting written work to art.
Stories (44)
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Like a Mollusc
A cephalopod bleeds her blackness, she feels afraid, senses danger, and the darkness provides refuge, seconds to escape carnage Others of her genus sheild the pain with shells tattooed in delft blue, Lined with mother-of-pearl Some use toxins to kill – Their lazy form of aggression, all the while, she dreams of being a bull shark with razor teeth to gnash her enemies It's a foolish dream, of course, for a shark cannot truly hide (and she wants to hide), so she quietly lives as an indigo girl in her ocean den, rarely revealing her weaponry: The tide goes out, mussel beds exposed, the wind tangles her skirt, echoing the sea breeze as she advances the sandbar, hauls off her rubber boots one at a time, allowing her stubby tentacles to generate the satisfying squish squish squish sound as they wiggle in the beach silt.
By Tracy Kreuzburg 6 months ago in Poets
The Kneeling Siren (Grandmother's Statue)
Ruddy, she speaks as loudly as a wild china rose but proudly carries herself like a genteel marigold hanging onto happiness as life’s chain letters unfold While blushing her cheeks pink, she said that's how the story goes: Pick a title, write your chapters, everybody knows Our days are either short or long or lonely as we grow old Pick your leaves, pack your thorns, because cut flowers will mold - If you don’t change the murky water, the fungi's kingdom grows She teaches from the sea now, her lessons yet to be learned from her statued perch, when the sun rises from the Earth Hybrid, she kneels on her hands, and I know she is afraid I wrap my arms around her, even when I feel her burn I shine her faded finish when I borne and bear our worth giving rise to the golden lotus as we sit side-by-side and pray.
By Tracy Kreuzburg 8 months ago in Poets
Memory Doors
A step back in time is A billowing bedsheet let loose in the wind filling up like a balloon shifting, expanding my perspective. Lightly grasping a butterfly’s wings then letting her go as her reflective scales gift their shimmer to my skin. Closing my eyes to wade within, to breathe like a lungfish out of the water but burrowed in the mud that is memory.
By Tracy Kreuzburg 8 months ago in Poets
Time Skirts
My mind and eyes believed frost always thawed And it was the sun who whisked it away It was gone when a worm poked its head through the sod And when the boreal creatures and critters played I muse about this, like cats do of mice As I urge spring's snowdrop to edge and push through The ribbon skirts of dirt and rocks and ice Now knowing the frost is crystallized dew I recall searching for fairy knolls in rabbit holes Although I knew they were surely hidden well – Burrowed beneath hills, made with walls of gold (Now I’m just taller, so it’s even harder to tell) When the smoke of time rises, I can take a peek And see what I thought crumbled only changed hands My grandmother’s grandmother’s bones are not weak Even if broken and buried beneath the sand The pebbles are merely misshapen by our busy fingers She is present always because the past forever lingers.
By Tracy Kreuzburg 8 months ago in Poets
The Taking and The Redress. Content Warning.
The beautiful creature was dressed in red she sang with the whales and the caribou she wore wings and antlers the men had said so she was heckled and hunted by their crew She fled and dove deftly into the seabed but her red dress clashed with the ocean blue so she crept and scurried deep into the forest where they swore she made a witches brew She then flew to the sky and there she fed as her shiny wings and sharp beak grew but the men picked her off and ripped her dress squeezing her neck till her beak turned blue
By Tracy Kreuzburg 9 months ago in Poets
Generations of A Christmas Morning
Cold wooden stairs don’t slow them as they scurry to the freshly cut tree propped against a concrete brick wall decorated with red sparkly garland, a craft paper Santa wearing a cotton-ball-topped hat as woolen socks swing under the stairs, a silent chorus of juicy apple and orange pendulums Shaggy orange carpet tickles the children’s toes as they hear and run towards the crackling fireplace downstairs, welcoming them a tinsel-covered, angel-topped tree next to bulging velvet red stockings hung on the mantle with care baby dolls and a little tea cup set that delights them Lighted decorations sing and flash as the scent of hot cocoa and bacon mix with aromas of a slow-cooking turkey dinner filling every corner of the house while children sit and open presents, parents beaming and snapping posed photos by the multi-coloured-lit tree of heartfelt and excited smiles Family gathers together wearing pyjamas and smiles that match coordinated décor and a bright synthetic tree while they capture pictures and videos with their versatile phones of hugs, laughter and gifts exchanged, shared instantly across the globe.
By Tracy Kreuzburg about a year ago in Poets
Winter's Wizardry
Colossal crystallized icicles cling to the edge of the roof in winter and glisten like teary eyes as they stare down at me on a crisp, sunny day before I break one off and poke its pointy pinnacle in between my lips – wetted – so it does not stick on when I pretend the snow angel rises to perform in the orchestra I am about to conduct with my brumal baton after I savor its fresh-frost flavour and watch as freezing fluff descends like dazzling collections of dainty diamonds that put the ghostly glitter of a snowglobe to shame and gently kiss my nose and feather my lashes so that I look like a beautiful Arctic owl, my eyes round and wise as they take in faraway views of a glass lake covered in whirling white skates slicing the ice into flakes that fly from them like a spray of stormy hail that whistles in the wind when it is too cold to create the lacy hexagons that layer themselves into mounds meant for sliding down on wooden toboggans and crazy carpets until my nose and cheeks are cold and as red as Rudolph’s nose, only making the hot cocoa taste sweeter when I hold it with my hands wearing soft woolen mittens that are now heavy with crusted ice at the cold concerto’s closing.
By Tracy Kreuzburg about a year ago in Poets
