Lay your eggs, Nature says. Lay your eggs, Biology says. Lay your eggs, Fate says. You’re the youngest you'll ever be again And that's not long at all. Not anymore. Caterpillars can't see the horizon But you're almost at the finish line. With only days to fly, Your flaps are numbered. Wings irrelevant after a…
Activity here has died down a bit on my part due to all of my attention being diverted to BlueSky, the new Twitter/X alternative. It really is as nice as they say (at least for now) and I'm able to market my work with a wider reach. I've posted a few poems there that I…
Mama Bear asks how we can know childfree is the way to be for ourselves without experiencing what would be our children, but it's not bleu cheese, Mrs. Bear. I can't gag and tell the waiter to take it back. The waiter would just laugh and say "you made your choice, now choke and keep…
You say my eggs are fried? That's exactly how my husband likes them on the kitchen counter before work: slippery, licked, dead and gone. Photo by Megha Mangal on Pexels.com
Daily writing promptWhat is one question you hate to be asked? Explain.View all responses Do you have kids? When are you having kids? Why don't you want kids? I was a girl with a list long before Tiktok's the girl with the list. I just never had the audacity to post it online or the…
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…
I am the bird that swallows your seed. I am the thorn that pierces the husk. I am the path leading away from every one of your fenced-in gardens. I am the dusty road desiccating your calloused farmer feet. I am the rider on a flight of wind far from hands that would throw me…
Self-inflicted sterile, so my beauty is just a fairy glamour. I feel safer. Stranger, I will never bear your tainted legacy no matter how firm you insistently thrust. Assail me with your crooked mast. Breach my jetty. I may crumble and bleed but I will not die by your parasitic hand in all the days…
National Poetry Writing Month
Keeping the world immersed in stanza.
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"The silence of the night awakens my soul"
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Saralyn Caine Poetry 