The ultimate freedom is flight above cover of night. I glide to provide a blanket of darker shade to the itsy-bitsy crawlers trying to hide from the stomp of a crusader's sabaton. I am unclean vermin, the faith-filled bishops rage, while I barely flap elongated fingers like needles amidst skin wings woven by nature allowing…
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…
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
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
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…
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…
Dispersing in leylines to fly free, she spins in tendrils truly at one with Gaia, finally away from Guy who ripped out her veins to float as veil, an obscuring halo: a sacrifice she never proposed. Silver winner of this contest: https://allpoetry.com/contest/2830726-National-Poetry-Month-April-3rd-noguestFollow the link for the original picture prompt. I dare not post it here…
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…
National Poetry Writing Month
Keeping the world immersed in stanza.
About fantastical places and other stuff
"The silence of the night awakens my soul"
Poems, Writing Prompts, Interviews, Resources for Writers, Books, Poetry Reviews and more...
Saralyn Caine Poetry 