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…
These firenadoes from the West whip me 'round to skin and bones, a never-before-known sight only detailed in dystopia. Encroaching on my doorstep, enrobed in Hesperides aflame, they want to take me away to Gehenna country in Oz. No illusory wizard can point me home. His balloon is halfway 'cross the Pacific, leaving ashes lying:…
From brackish swamp water to skies of crystalline specks, I call up in delight, feet feeding leeches while fingertips tickle the abyss of stratus, tempting rain to tease butterfly kisses along my freckles, press just so on the one mole that will send me into ecstasy for living sincerely by the bald cypress tree, breathing…
Daphne died to arrive not in Elysian Fields but still in her assailant's embrace. She fled all joys of life to reach in fear, one arm to Olympus, the other to Peneus, her father who barely managed to petrify her in bark, create a breathing statue Apollo could snap, rip, tear pieces to praise, grace…
Tied down by iron chains tight across my ribs, two-ton manacles ‘round my wrists — beyond immobile: I am inert, heading subterranean, sinking through solid rock like quicksand. The one I love, the one who is supposed to save me, says he is still amassing provisions, collecting coin, waiting until it’s not so sad to…
The popcorn ceiling could be cotton candy clouds if you let it, if you imagine what life could be out from under your box, in the light of Jupiter when he winks at you from behind Luna’s skirt, like a little boy too scared to show his face, but when he does you can see…
Sticks and stones break mortals’ bones But for a witch, they heal Until fire ashens me, as it does the trees; The dryads are my kin. Pile peeling bark betwixt another, Light the match and ask yourself Does she scream in agony Or in pleasure? ...What are her words? ...Why do I hurt? Photo by…
He plucks the pretty ones So fresh upon the bloom, Yet wonders why they wane In darkness and in gloom Apart from root and love. Coveted to gild his room, Alone and withered until — Shriveled, he beheads to groom; The longest-lasting buds Wait in anguish for deplume, Forced to fade for forceful will To smell a…
I never felt holier than when I defied holy men — when I spurned subservient prods by society’s pricks to become bare-teethed, brazen and bold, barking mad, Wild Again. My naked feet have been muddied in my own blood mixed with seed-laden dirt by roots of living trees, having spilled all weevil-infested progeny. Together we stretch our leaf hands to the…
Vibrations of volcano glossolalia vibrato spark, fly, pour, run red rivulets, drip burning droplets into my canal. A tune of flames I feebly touch. Hot summer air from forgotten swamps carries bullfrog solace o'er meadows to my humble carbon home. A laugh — human? A laugh, not mocking but sweet, cooling the heat to soft…
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 