The Knight’s (Dragon’s) Pedestal ~ Samantha Rose

MORALITY PARK

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.

But he…

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1969 ~ Samantha Rose

MORALITY PARK

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

long ago

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.

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Chupacabra ~ Samantha Rose

MORALITY PARK

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.

Closer now.

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.

Until

silence.

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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Purple Senses ~ Samantha Rose

MORALITY PARK

[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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High Desert ~ Samantha Rose

MORALITY PARK

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,

vacuities ablaze,

vacancies illuminated,

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

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Astoria ~ Samantha Rose

MORALITY PARK

Something lurks in the obsidian atmosphere

above the quaint town

as fog creeps in tandem with the night tides.

Whistling winds

sway the chimes and the bobs at the wavering docs,

draining still silence from empty streets.

The theater smells of a handsome fellow

cloaked in a white tux and smoldering jaw,

who dances in mirrors

and paints with shadows in the corner of your eye.

The doorknobs turn themselves,

the empty hallways shriek the loudest.

The lighthouse, a columbarium

leaks ectoplasm from its barnacle covered bricks.

Protecting its honorary lighthouse keepers

as ships miss its lights

and perform vanishing acts upon the deep waters,

leaving phantoms in the night

to be dashed against the rocks

and to creep upon the skeleton of the wreckage.

The moon drags Cthulhu’s silhouette across the ocean floor

as cosmic chaos implodes

in the sleepy town

that never sleeps.

© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018

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Broken Dreamers

Step right up to the political armchair, flip a coin for a Folk Devil! Scapegoats can't escape your fear-based ICE-laced Koolaid!   Welcome to Alex Jones-town, pour the poison down the people's throats until the words claw back out their mouths and frame a cage around the children!   From the cradle to the courthouse,... Continue Reading →

Black. White. Silver. Red.

MORALITY PARK

There was a hole

buried deep into the left side of your body,

behind the bars of your rib cage

and sinking under the hollowness in your chest.

It’s blackened mouth swallowing you limb by limb

until anything you ever were

was nothing.

But this was a slow, painful process.

A hole this size

could only be dug

by the ashy hands of the years

which crawl by with broken bones

caked in dust,

and the sound of deafening silence

which refuses to be heard by anyone

who is not being slowly strangled by its cold, leathery grasp,

its nails clawing down

your chalkboard neck.

Black. White. Silver. Red.

And I haven’t even mentioned

the second hole,

which marred the side of your stone cold face, bleached white by death

to match the shards of ice

piercing every angle

of your shattered spirit,

which frantically tried to escape

your empty…

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