How can the water ripple so gently, without a mind for wildfires coating the sky in sunset hues? Human cause is human doom; only humans can move sitting droplets deposited by gust and cloud absorbing drip of sap smoke, scarf in mouth chemicals, and shimmery boulder heat. When a pond weeps, where does it pool?…
The ashen dragon drifts above the golden city and I follow with my composite wings of steel and brass, built without gloves—unoffered— to shield my wrists from the blood my mechanisms conjured in bites and rips. This blood I now refuse to quell rains upon the regime that withheld resources, hypnotized the masses to accept…
Jötnar do not march when Máni’s full face shows. Behind the back of his ebony skull, they stride. When one shivers in the sun, shade is a blanket. Wing-shadows of geese tickle dots across cheeks like the leaf-trickles of sun mortals bask beneath. Cloud cover is as soft to the touch as a feather pillow…
In a dark wood dwelled a djinn who sat on an old oak stump counting his fingers to pass the time. But this was the island for misplaced magic, and two became four became eight… When a fairy stumbled over his feet, his eyes blinked for the first time in 1200 years. He opened his…
The Tower destroyed, ghosts emerge from chamber ruins to cradle the surf and caress the bedrock still leaning in as though the foundation may be restaged. Lightning has ceased, and clouds soon part — until a throne reappears to be razed. The Tower destroyed, the tarot card torn in half: over and over, illusions of…
The more I gain control, the more I resist this world and become a bird of prey machine the farther I fly I become a raptor enraptured by smothering fog, shrieking tempo to every creek ripple, every butterfly effect I leave behind my husk, erased by fading memory. The static Nothing closes in on Fantastica.…
Floating on a covert mist: blood-runes microscopic elves carved from within tree-skins human-mind-thin. Shed etchings scatter to make room for future generations. The elder decomposes all wisdom with his corpse, save the nine slivers for those mortals who roam to find a wanderer’s truth. Non-finalist entry in this contest: https://allpoetry.com/contest/2830958-National-Poetry-Month-April-11th-noguest Photo by Marta Dzedyshko on…
The painted paradise of viridian water f a l l sis a flat intimation of rushing din to drown out the Giver’s frantic thoughts. I care too much, too often, in place of the others. I’ve lost my sense of self and hate the world for it. Someone give me permission to let go, let…
I see you, sun of my country, here in this foreign forest I’ve never strolled, yet I know the 60 trees whose arms no longer offer shade. These arrow-mothers gifted me the keys to find my way back to my home, to my Penelope. If I were Odysseus, perhaps the axehead lock would not hide…
Do you hear it? The beat of the bass that drives the bass upstream, fearing the bows of the mountain tribe, those who bow to the sky. The low bass: their running steps, closing in to close the gap, unassailed by periwinkle waters. The lead man holds no arrowhead of lead, but of obsidian, a…
National Poetry Writing Month
Keeping the world immersed in stanza.
About fantastical places and other stuff
"The silence of the night awakens my soul"
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Saralyn Caine Poetry 