If me branding me keeps you from branding me ("damage" may flee your lips but never hands; you'll never come close), I'd say my body art has served the world: my fulfilled aesthetic dream facing down an army of red flags for other women to heed. Photo by Athena on Pexels.com
I was lost in the light, vulnerable, easily hunted, nowhere to hide, unsafe, but you placed your hands over my eyes becoming soft sand to my ostrich fear. Our lips mesh at every hitched breath, shrinking lion panic to a mouse easily crushed by thick legs. Photo by Christophe B. on Pexels.com
Gold dances in the memory of green eyes. Coils of fire flare in the dark of Erebus. She could cry...if she still had a body. Making her way with burning shades, she tries not to ponder that killers prey twice: the initiation of attack, and the peak when nervous souls abandon bloody bodies. Everyone here…
When Pompeii poured into the Mediterranean, She was warmed with the spirit of Pyrrha And swam north to kinder colder waters Because the melodious strings of Deucalion called. She was warmed with the spirit of Pyrrha; The daughter of a common pandora came alive Because the melodious strings of Deucalion called And his harp heralded…
He pops a random clam shell, me, just another half shell, out of the lobster-claw ocean, tidal flats' shallow waves crawling across soaked sand. Wanderer, not searching, yet he finds what other men think is only one sea-washed cherry of a shipwrecked cornucopia. For him, filling enough. He will not choke…
Daily writing promptWhat have you been working on?View all responses I am thrilled to announce my second new collection of poems this year! Honey Eaters is special because, unlike most of my output so far, it is full of positive, upbeat, fun pieces about love, passion, and loyalty to my special someone, my husband. Despite…
Oysters are hard to crack, but once open, a pearl is free to roll where she may. In theory. Musty hands reach in the clear water and pick her up, rub her down, put her in their mouths to create some faux clean that fishes cannot comprehend. They take knives to her rounded bits and…
I hold no infants in my arms. Throw your stones. Empty hands can catch them and throw the bloody rocks right back. You still can't believe I'll take my chances with my own pursuit of happiness? Don't be surprised at the lake of spit in your grave. Photo by Charles Parker on Pexels.com
I'll always be the villain in someone else's story. Many someones, in fact, because I exist: a single entity unreliable, irresponsible for being responsible to myself and my mature herd like a quokka, dropping certain vulnerabilities for the hunters so I can run away and breathe another day. I value only the eyes I see.…
I am fully woman always a daughter. Always looking up at wings, blue sky, the solitary moon, never craning down to stare at fertile soil. My neck doesn't bend that way. As far as I'm concerned, this is it. The end of the (pathological blood) line. Ragnarök. Armageddon. My ancestors do look down. There's nothing…
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 