Praying as she preys and preying as she prays, she lays in wait for him to come too close. He, plump with sweet nectar, flashes glittering plumage before settling for a penny nap. Arms extend and she grasps fine fluff, pulls him in. He expected this. Nestled in pinching fingers, sharp pains send him chirping…
A decapitated doll’s head Discarded fifty years on whims of a child Drifts down a river of sludge. Entropy of flight set in long ago — Oaks home to birds without wings Sliced off and songs silenced During the polystyrene invasion. New toys, faulty toys, metal boxes in transit: Timed to fail, this throw-away culture.…
My soul soars past mountain peaks, finding new latitudes to chart, yet symbiosis I refuse to seek. Polluted petals drift down drained creeks and crows caw to my lacking heart, but my soul soars past mountain peaks. Oak leaves fly wildly across my cheek, willing we shall never part, yet symbiosis I refuse to seek.…
Little pebble, sparkling with flecks of quartz, unique among unique peers, tumbles free in the riverbed. Until a filthy hand reaches down, plucks her, dries her out, rolls her 'round and 'round in preluded dust. So contaminated, she must drown under a mechanical Cascade, rest inside glass panes, a still pond, without peer upon an outcrop…
TW: suicide Mama, Dada: every baby’s first words more than mumbles. Mommy, Daddy: the naïve child sounding sweet to say love and sway pity. Mom, D — no, not Dad. Never Dad. I never reached that stage, for you ran to the edge and crashed headfirst into the silent seats when everyone had emptied out…
One whisper to Huginn and I fly on his wings above ancestral fjords. One kiss on Muninn’s feathered skull and I see the glacial landscape my grandest farmor gazed upon beside the fire of her cabin as she cradled her son and beseeched the birds for her husband’s fate. My red, white, and blue: blood,…
Cross my heart And hope to rise; My demon's reaching For the skies To find the fate I once adored, Which angels ripped From my soul's core: A feather feast Of Nature born — Mut'ed magic, Heaven-scorned. Photo by luizclas on Pexels.com
Ivy vines climb up my willow legs, wrapping, creeping, crawling, inching closer. I feel the twisting green leafy flesh embrace me as you, here at my feet. My branches bow to the sight of you. I surrender to the pleasure tickling my thighs as you grow to the sun mirrored on my face, brushing across…
The garden fairy washes hands, as small as lemon seeds, in a buttercup over swelling with a dewdrop under the shade of a robin's wing-song. Food has been provided by the mortal who lives in that poisonous cave of false walls created from fluid of ancient carcasses, but she does not trust the lure. She watches…
All the geese have gone to sleep, but I still walk the darkened streets on graves of saints who chose to leap and pave atop this foul concrete, masking the drags of others' feet so I may see my refined dreams and clarify my conscious schemes, forgetting my past silent screams. Photo by Alex Fu on Pexels.com
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 