She has been flailing in the ocean her entire life, yet some tsunamis she sails to fool the world that she is strong. She wishes she were upon stars that fall: meteorites splashing up salt in the stillness of silver night. If she could have even the destructive power of those asteroids that smash valleys…
Dirt smears the wrinkled cheeks of a Mothered woman. Sweat or infant’s piss drips from her brow as she steps off her stoop, arms full of a once-black blanket brown with dog hair and bleach. She gathers the corners and shakes, hard, once, twice; the third shows vigor of red lips no longer seen in…
Across the sky Against the ground My spirit sighs, pants, pumps wings like those of a large bird too heavy to keep pace with smaller tits. Across the sky Against the ground Look up and see a phoenix burning bright defiance but the eruption that begat the firebird hollowed out the past. Across the sky…
There was a small hiccup in production yesterday, but the link should be working now. It includes poems from this blog, such as "A Woman Named Armada," "Bones Like Ballast," "Red Crone and the Wolf," and "Prey of Shore and Sky." Follow this link to purchase: The Soul Without a Summer
The Soul Without a Summer is going live tomorrow on Amazon! I have completed a few last minute edits over the past week, including removing the last section I had entitled Dystopia. The poems in that section were specifically about climate change, and they always felt a bit incongruous when taking in the theme of…
Salvos of memories sail through her mind, each one its own galleon, sloop, barque, frigate forming a most daunting navy. Metal rubs against metal so that no man can see the surface of the sea for her might. Nostalgic sadness, nostalgic gladness — like flotsam turned to bombs shoved in cannons — erupt in battle…
Ocher eyes glazed with flames gaze at outstretched wings and grow muddy lashes long, thick as tied twine rising into sky. She loops the strands ‘round Heron’s feet while blindly digging pale nails in her own flabby flesh, grasping at sick bones — like ballast, she throws them overboard her living blimp, praying with enough…
I posted this on my Facebook page when the SCOTUS draft opinion overturning Roe v. Wade was leaked. Now that it's official, so is the poem — on my website. It feels weird to tell you to enjoy the poem, given how I explore the implications of what is coming regarding women's rights, but commiserate…
In my dreams, I lasso Saturn and pull him close, his rings really just part of my weapon, invisible rope tugging him in for a hug, as though solid enough for my arms to squeeze, like those memories I know I could reach out and touch, if only a light projected from my eye onto…
I am the dark thing under the bed — your bogeyman, lint-covered and alone, rasping and moaning I've yet to be fed. I am the dark thing under the bed waiting to seize feet leaping in dread away from dirt angels robbed of gravestone. I am the dark thing under the bed — your bogeyman, lint-covered and…
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 