lullaby-creepy-gloomy-dark-surreal-artAnton Semenov

I have no wings

Only a single inert feather

Budding beside

A protrusive blade

So I crawl

Wondering how far

The horizon, thinking

Even the surface would do

I study the stalagmites

That form on my mobile

My milk tears spinning

Singing out to you mother

I wonder how many hours

You left me there

Waiting for my shell to crack

Knowing that only death

Could emote such horror


I, a giant grey tongue

Absorbing, hungry

Too innocent

To activate filter

Poisoned by vitriol

In degrees too excessive

To habituate


This the second of my autobiographical poems



the moon garden

Photo by: Oloriel

My heart is a spider’s purse

She overstates reality

For the sake of luxury

She hungers even in content

Each eye a satellite

Milking flowered tendrils

Their potency

I want to live wild

In the recesses

Of your wooly head

Like a rogue shoe

I want to pass brazenly

Pirouetting from star to star

Transparent even in sin


Womb_of_the_World_by_ArcaneWolfXIII (1)



Percussive moths stir

My heart whipping the contents

Into a hysterical froth

I do not like expectation

The futility of my tongue

Nodding against a wooden palate

To speak now might alter

Radically my approach

Better to suppose uncertainty

For what could I know

Of this blue womb

That we euphemistically

Call earth?




The Veil


Tara Minshull

He’d peered so often into her coffin-shaped heart

Ironed the delicate black veils unaware

Was it he that would become a widow or she?

Their love was as smoke divesting each lung requital

They exchanged souls with the passing of pens

Her ink staining his journals from end to end


When drowning she held him by the throat

Her beak as eviscerating as a diamond

His blood despairing amongst her tears

His pulse swallowed up in her screams

He did not want that time should pass

The hours being already too thin to breathe

He sensed long her exit but could not reconcile

In his heart the method of departure

The futility of his own hands to steady her

Was far too permanent a conclusion


The clock became an anvil

Hammering each inflection

Sparks wafting impotently

From the papal white

Of its loathsome face

The threat of forfeiture

A weapon capable of splitting

Even the most obdurate husk


His ego had being unwilling to grant

That love was not as compelling

As murder for which the outcome

Was either evident or irrelevant


He would not call her broken

To say as such might diminish

The supremacy of her talents

One might say that the earth

Was a station through which

All odysseys must briefly pass

Who could judge the distance

Of one so adept at propulsion?

The sky shall not surrender her

Having attached adroitly its hooks

He shall have to be satisfied

With the stars through which she

The quintessential heiress gleans


I took on Bianca’s challenge which you can read about in more detail by checking out the link here


I am not sure what compelled me to take on Ted Hughes. His work is well out of my league. I listened to this poem. You can see I used he and she as he has done. I also decided to embrace his subject material aka the suicidal wife. Hell I even tried to delve a bit into his style. I am not sure how convincing of a mimic I am. I thought about doing a fellow blogger but I am a little scared that my feeble attempts might be insulting but if anyone would like me to attempt them let me know lol

Micropoetry Another Attempt


Simon Siwak


These hemorrhagic muses

Exist within the fluting

Of my symphonic veins

Ready to weep any origin


A drug of design and duress

I execute poems in defense

Of my eternal soul


The essential wound

Being of course the heart

Cannot be swathed or sewn

Without loss of love and compassion


Ink cauterizes my tears

But my words do not

Deny the sentiment

Photo Challenge #5 “Paper Train”


Dheny Patungka

A glass cephalic muse

Yields to disclosure

She knows as I know not

She speaks as I cannot

Of a life so curiously quarried

I am wealthy she tells me

Red as a pagan heart


Volumes of unwritten poems

Fill my carts, at least in theory,

Though having never seen them

I cannot attest a life-giving labor

Too oft stillborn I am not convinced

That I possess a reasonable womb

Death I fear you, as my only companion

That I should speak forever as I was

Wordle #5 Polaris


The scent of your musk

Knots in my throat

Gathers like a coven

Of duplicitous nymphs

Sets free my albatross

That I might attain

A much needed altitude


You are a self-made Polaris

Of impeccable dispersion

I follow you a mendicant,

A thicket, a parting of wounds

Contentiously wrapped


I break my heart

Into shapely wedges

Like a tangerine

A slice for each year

Of residency

We who are decidedly essential

Are likewise finite

And yet I’d gladly bleed

Each succulent cell

That you should know

Eternally my taste