Poem prompt: "Our featured resource for the day is the online collection of Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts. There’s much to explore here, but just to get you started, why not peruse their images of beautifully designed and varied musical instruments, ranging from a guitar shaped like the moon to a rattle in the form of a bird that…
Poem prompt: "Today’s daily resource is the online exhibitions page of the International Folk Art Museum. I have a particular predilection for folk art, in which the strange and boisterous so often finds itself going hand-in-hand with practical objects of daily use. But the museum also showcases work of other sorts, like 100 Aspects of the Moon,…
Fog deep by dawn shrouds gold sun in amethyst rugs. She flourishes through wintry air smatterings of loose threads that weave with hoarfrost crystals to tapestry the Anemoi visible to mind and vexed skin. Toffee sighs blow. Non-finalist entry in this contest: https://allpoetry.com/contest/2831195-National-Poetry-Month-April-30th-noguestI will fully admit, there doesn't seem to be much going on here…
We stir up sand running at speed to climb clouds towards a milky galaxy we’ve labeled the ethereal Heaven. Yet what do we use to achieve our goal, but plastic supplies stored in polyester bags. Eternally, we remain ill-equipped to face the ex-wife when we keep fingers laced with her abuser. Man-made madness so consumes…
A marked path, pristine, sterile dirt finally buries all trash, litter, mutated monkey bones. Synthetic beauty of art and architecture: an acceptable loss to bandage over ever-bleeding deep human scars of utility, efficacy, and convenience that forever plagued the autotrophs. The last artist loses himself in fog, enfolding his essence between ancestral trees. He finds…
This basalt-paved walkway juts out into deep water, concluding suddenly at an arbitrary edge…but the path continues subaquatic. No surveyor has ever discovered they walk on rooftops of tower columns: skyscraper rivals with how deep they go. Aboveground cousins own whispers of giants and their causeways, yet divers do not explore what lies beneath. Not…
Tiptoes of snow encroach on tranquil streams that feed the sea. The same drops that touch the Emperor's toes ripple back to the Witch's heels. Her hands turn pretty patterns around her wand. Spirals and helixes create icicle skins to form after an icicle heart, her cells slowed down by lack of invigoration. She, oh,…
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?…
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…
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…
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 