Preyed

 

Whispers penetrate flesh walls,
secrets resound like a melody
within the temple of mind.

A church choir of boys
sing Latin,
a tongue they never understood,
yet made beautiful in spite.

An angelic host of innocence,
perched in perfect rows;
perverse men licking dry lips
conduct harmony, as
chorus echoes in rounds
confined by marble stone
laid by hypocritical hands.

In time holy walls stand,
coffers full and overflowing
while souls remain empty.

Yet pride crumbles the benevolent,
corrupt tongues stumble awkwardly
over the dulled ivory teeth of time.

Stained glass fragments let in truth,
rays of light stream through darkness
reflecting a shattered faith sanctuary
built upon broken bones of man.

 

©Sabrina Escorcio
September 2017

Photo Credit, Sam Webber illustration for “the Priest That Preyed” – New York Times

 

Silhouette- Sabrina Escorcio

She came into the earth
between pillars of freedom
and oppression.
Her incompatible hosts,
were stubborn bones
softened only by fate.

Claiming her burden
head first amidst thighs
damp with promise,
and blush stained bed sheets
that swaddled an imperfect future.
Mother, delivering wisdom,
and purging past,
with each painful groan.

Their silent heritage broken
as the meek battle cry
left fluid filled lungs,
breathing life into a stale room.
A frightened young woman,
now matriarch, cradles hope
between trembling hands
for the first time.

What is the shape of bravery?
A strong chiseled jaw gifted at birth.
A mothers distended belly
at nine months.
The curve of a woman’s
engorged breasts desperate to feed.

Or is it simply,
the silhouette of new mother
embracing her infant.

© Sabrina Escorcio
July 2018

Heritage Series

Dedicated to my mother and daughter.


Sabrina was born to Italian Catholic immigrant parents in the beautiful Niagara region in Ontario, Canada. Surrounded by nature and raised on a self-sustaining farm, nature and faith are two predominant themes often appearing in her work. She grew up with a love for nature, the dramatic arts, music, as well as books and literature. After years of journaling Sabrina came to know poetry, as an adult this became an avenue of self-expression during a time of personal strife. This hunger for poetry was insatiable, leading her to scour second hand book stores for more inspiration. There she found classic authors such as Percy Shelley, Tennyson, and Sylvia Plath, as well as many obscure poets; She began to transform her journaling into the realm of confessional poetry. One of her favourite pieces is titled “Dark Pines Under Water” written by the Canadian poet Gwendolyn Mac Ewen. Sabrina hopes to feature her poetry in print one day, she can also be found on Tumblr as http://brie-writes.tumblr.com .

Shining Through — Sarah Doughty

“I was made to rise above your labels.
Because like the sun, I was always
meant to shine through the dark.”

Savages. That’s what I call them. The ones that believe they can do anything and no one can stop them. The ones that think they have power. They are the ones that cause havoc. They try to break us, just for the pleasure of knowing they can.

But we are too strong for that. We were made to rise above them. Because the sun needs a place to shine through their darkness.

Maybe that’s why, deep down, they fear us. Maybe, that’s why they want to dominate us.

Maybe, that’s why they like to put labels on us. To make them feel superior.

Let them. We know where the power really is. And they can never take it from us.

We are made of survival.

© Sarah Doughty

Maybe that’s why
they label us as witches.


[Sarah Doughty is the tingling wonder-voice behind Heartstring Eulogies. She’s also the author of The Silence Between Moonbeams, her poetry chapbook, and the acclaimed novels and novellas of the Earthen Witch Universe. Good news, they’re all offered for free, right here! To learn more about how awesome Sarah is, check out her website, stalk her on Instagram, and add her on Goodreads.]

Little Death / Playground — Sarah Doughty

“One day, I will overcome you
and all you put me through.”

Every night, I died a little inside.
It was a reward, you said,
for being a good little girl.
Though you forced it,
it was never sweet like you said.
Those little pieces of me
are lost and all that remains
is demon infested darkness.

And I know my place. My soul lives among the shadows, dances with the moon, and twinkles with the stars in the night sky. This, where my demons live and thrive, is my prison. This, my world of darkness, is my salvation. This, where anything is possible, is my redemption. This is my playground.

One day, I will overcome you
and all you put me through.

© Sarah Doughty

Written in response to the
month-long Sexual Exploitation series
on Domestic Violence.
This week’s subject is rape.


[Sarah Doughty is the tingling wonder-voice behind Heartstring Eulogies. She’s also the author of The Silence Between Moonbeams, her poetry chapbook, and the acclaimed novels and novellas of the Earthen Witch Universe. Good news, they’re all offered for free, right here! To learn more about how awesome Sarah is, check out her website, stalk her on Instagram, and add her on Goodreads.]

Distant Memory — Sarah Doughty

“One day, this will become
a distant memory.
Just like me.”

I’ve kept myself in the darkness for far too long. Too afraid to see the marks left behind on my skin. The scars that have healed over, and fresh ones, still red and angry, that cover them. The bruises that never seem to fade. Though I know, with every passing day, pieces of me are lost. I still can’t bring myself to try to save myself. What would be the point? I’ve been down this road before — and nothing can crush your dreams better than lost hope.

My spirit has broken. My sense of self has been gone so long, I don’t know who I am anymore. All this, from a man that enjoyed his cigarettes and beer a little too much. A man that enjoyed my youth and my inability to fight back. A man that wanted to puff up his chest and feel like his fists kept him in power.

Now, I don’t cower. I don’t fight. I submit. I thought, maybe, if I was lucky, he’d lose interest, but it just made him try that much harder to make me cry out in pain. So, you see, there’s no room in my life for hope. And in these moments, when I’m reduced to tears, grieving all that has been lost, I’m reminded that one day, this too will become a distant memory.

Just like me.

© Sarah Doughty

Nothing can crush your dreams
better than lost hope.
Don’t ever let it go.

Written in response to the month-long Sexual Exploitation series on Domestic Violence.


[Sarah Doughty is the tingling wonder-voice behind Heartstring Eulogies. She’s also the author of The Silence Between Moonbeams, her poetry chapbook, and the acclaimed novels and novellas of the Earthen Witch Universe. Good news, they’re all offered for free, right here! To learn more about how awesome Sarah is, check out her website, stalk her on Instagram, and add her on Goodreads.]

Things Rosy – Aurora Phoenix

PFINGSTROSEN

Monika Rinck

 

in allen phasen der faltung nisten die büschel,
geballte pakete, dicht, eng und stumm
hockt in knospen das drängen nach fetten
vermoddelten zentren in purpur und/oder weiß
wohnen rücken an rücken hinübergebogene blüten
auf krautigen stengeln und blühen sich rund.
als es zu regnen angefangen hat, ich am halm
in meiner großen hand den schweren kopf
gehalten habe, zog kindheit in die feuchte luft,
spitze schreie, habenwollen, pfingstgelockt
zum hang geworden. sehnsuchtsarten stiegen auf
und tauchten wieder ab. wie ich das flüstern
ihrer vielen tausend blüten hörte, wollte ich
die regennasse rose strubbeln, knüllen, fleddern
wollte ihr die blüten rupfen, um mich werfen,
und zertreten, freunde rufen, kommt und schaut
das fette große blütending, was ich da hab
katzenkopfrund weiß und ohne augen, ich, ich,
ich will den katzenkopf, der keine katze ist
durch’s irre rudel meiner wünsche treiben
kaputtgemacht und angefaßt, nein unversehrt
lass ich die hehren rosen reglos starr inmitten
jener bahnen stehn durch welche kindheit schnellt.

 

Things Rosy

in all phases of finding fault with that which I hide under bushels

I think of the pecks upon the cheek

slobbered in drunken barroom moments

those verboten moments of purple gazes/ under water

when I wreck and I wreck all that has not been blessed

of feminine strength and the bludgeon of seeing red,

as is the right of angels in wide brimmed hats, I am cool

in my sunglasses that craft my life in their mirrored lenses

exalting what has been, as kindness in the face of failure,

spritzed with glee, woolen underwear, finger lockets

that hang on our words, the sutured stitches of

our widest taut paths. when I am flustered

in the pulsing veins of the bluest hordes, I roll

with renegades wearing crimson glasses, kneading, floundering

among with aisles of the ruby slippers, and with warfare,

and regret, women refuse, orders and shouts

that fit with gross pretending, as all I had was

catastrophic and blithely undone, I, I,

I will then catastrophize, knowing the cat’s tongue

which is rude no matter how hard I try

all is kaput and angst, no universal

woman am I when I wear rose colored glasses and lipstick

swearing that I babble truth while the children run.

Physical Existence- Devika Mathur

Dyslexia, into my thin membrane
to hear your wounding tales
Pervicacious drops of blood stick to my venom
I hear wars, tremors, haze into the folds of my skin,
like palpable beggar’s eye.
My white bed-sheet mark my body with cuts, acidic tears
Proliferating porous permanent scars
Hush, my words are twisting into my own stomach,
My thick mouth deteriorates again and again
Observe my skin, its expanding its dimensions
Changing seasons, changing colours
Squalid eyes pinch the glance, time pokes thorns on my tongue
Am I a myth, still being a reality?
Or I am the reality in your venal liquid baked body.

©My Valiant Soul