Nodulated hand curled, pen furled in grip, shaking at the ship’s wheel, making waves of paper edges. Hoping to dog-ear history, creating flaps reminiscent of flayed fish. Your body a place marker amongst words drowned in seas of lost literature, novice sailors dastardly shipwrecked upon the pages, evaporate under the illusion of the siren’s call.... Continue Reading →
One fateful night in 1954
A storm brought from the sky cold rain
Cracked tracks swollen below the downpour
The Hudson swallowed the runaway train!
And since that night our train disappeared
To the deep floor of the riverbed
Legend says it comes back ‘round every year
Collecting the souls of the dead
The train starts back up on the darkest of nights
To play reaper in spirit abductions
You’ll see in the black two shining lights –
And with that, let’s begin introductions!
One-eyed-Tom is no stranger to gore
Friendly guy – too much so, thought his wife!
She caught him in bed with the girl next-door
And wiped his smile clean off with a knife!
And Margaret here is such a dear!
But she was caught in a small mix up
She tried to poison her lover last year
And accidentally drank the wrong cup!
To you, it’s true…
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I am honored to have my poem published in the Feminine Collective this past week! I love this collective and I definitely recommend spending some time looking around. If you would like to read my poem, you can do so HERE. If you want to learn more about Shulamyth Firestone and how she inspired this poem,... Continue Reading →
They say that femininity is sweet to the taste
and too delicate to choke on.
It is a platter of cucumber finger sandwiches
and lukewarm tea served with sugar cubes
decoratively catered to the Male Gaze.
You, girl, are an edible doll.
Soft on the stomach, primed and proper to devour,
the only thing to satisfy a sweet tooth as well as a bored hand.
And you were always taught not to play with your food
but that didn’t stop him from making you desert.
You are the epitome of finger food,
your worth designed to be unraveled like licorice twists,
candy coated in curtseys, blush, low self-esteem,
and poisoned pastel femininity—
you delectable, delicate, porcelain machine.
You only let yourself bleed in pink.
As fingerprints are exchanged for your “purity”
you must melt on his tongue like chocolate
and always smile with your teeth—
nice girls don’t shatter on display for the world to see!
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It is a long down from this dungeon fortress,
captive behind bars of fangs and smoldering dragon’s breath,
sliced open on the glimmering edges of his scales –
I placed her gently in an ivory tower, saved by chivalry’ sword
and shielded under my cloak and protected from the mighty
brutes and beasts lurking in the oceans and on the earth –
He stole my wings and stitched them onto his own back,
my flight stripped and swallowed by his gnashing jaw
and boiled in the fire of his belly, the heat allowing him to rise –
And she, the purest of the sexes, soft, porcelain, breakable –
exalted on her feminine pedestal, I bow to her, lifting her handkerchief
as if bestowing a crown upon her delicate forehead –
His dagger horns form a cutting crown, belying his total power,
he ruler of the earth, I, confined by his decree.
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The wheels on the wagon don’t work like they used to,
they’ve stopped turning around the axel.
Rust has collected between the hinges
of about the same shade his hair used to be
when the war began
and bombs fell from grey skies
as dust settled amongst the cries of the wounded.
Newspapers sang of the death toll
as she waited to see his name
buried among the obituaries
or for the day
she would stop receiving tattered letters
scrawled in cheap ink in his damaged handwriting.
They’re saying the war was unjustified,
she felt so too.
And she waited for him to come home,
and he did
one day, long ago
when all hope dissipated
from her azure eyes.
And she waits for him again now
at the side of the hospital bed
but the wheels on the wagon don’t work like they used to.
Obsidian melts off my glinting fangs
as cosmic rivers gleam down rippling spines.
I lurch out toward the rolling emerald pastures,
brush struck naked under the cut of my tail.
Goats, unaware, feed off the land below.
Crickets silence and scatter as my claws crunch
the dry leaves, like brittle, crackling bones licked dry
by smelting flames.
A bubbling odor creeps off my scaly flesh,
filling the desolate earth from the ground
as murmurs stretch louder,
echoes gurgling up in the gut of the valley.
Tomorrow they will find
punctures buried in the fur caskets
of blood-drained bodies,
my hunger satisfied
for one more night.
© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018
You can catch more of Samantha existing at her blog, Existential Poetry.
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[Ode to Albert Camus]
Purple smells like
The passing of ages,
The time-singed edges of a secret journal
full of bleeding ink from tear stains and coffee spatters,
Crinkled old newspapers with melancholy stories,
Bonfires on the beach in the thunder and pouring rain,
Dewy lavender swaying in the wind,
And fear in the unknown and confidence that it’s all we have.
Purple sounds like
The echoes of nostalgia,
The creaking wheels on an abandoned childhood wagon,
The bone-like crunching of fallen maple leaves underfoot,
A sad song playing on an old piano for no one in particular
accompanied by the steady drum of heartbeats
pattering like rain to the sound of their own revolt.
Purple looks like
The depths of absurdity,
The amethyst rainy hay-daze
outside the cracked and dusty window of an abandoned farmhouse,
Pumpkin patches with tattered straw scarecrows shrouded in twilight,
The dog-eared pages of ancient philosophies,
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Salmon sunset cracks open
the celestial skull of the desert like an egg,
pouring light in the empty space
that kisses the mountain ridges.
Sagebrush grabs pools of glittering sand
between its greedy roots.
Droplets of sunlight leap from the ground
as if violently repelled by earth’s core,
filling up the atmosphere
like a golden goblet, as the bolting,
ethereal silhouette of a jackrabbit
drinks up the drops of light like fine wine.
Here, emptiness has more gravity than matter,
voids dazzling brilliance.
Light exists solely in cracks and crevices,
spaces unpossessed by mass,
uncontaminated by substance,
let alone by presence.
So we drain ourselves of sorrow like a sinkhole
and abandon baggage on the dusty trails.
And with nothing blotting out the path before us,
we race the sun on the long drive home.
© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018