As the ink dries I see
the definition of who I am
in the poetry.
Though I have written
many a line and verse,
I have not found anything
like poetry that can hurt.
Ars poetica November 2
Category: pen names
P.A.D Day One
Ars Poetica Returns
How strange it feels
to pick up the pen,
with the intent to write.
As if I could peel away my skin
and let poetry see the light.
Exposure of the soul
in a way that few would
understand,
leaving my pen sitting limp
suddenly in my once so eager hands.
I feel like it should not stop me
the idea that I might be misunderstood,
instead I will let flower the words
and see if I can find the art within.
A hallow’s Eve Treat
The Forest: A Flash Fiction
By
Serena Mossgraves
They will tell you that you are safe in the world, and you are sometimes. The cities have only people to worry about. Though they can be frightening…it’s the least frightening thing that I know of in this world. The truth is the things that watch you from the forest, that you can never see are more frightening than anything that exists in humanity. Some of them used to be human. They have fallen from who they were to become something else.
The swamps and rain forests have their own life, their own creatures…and those are tales for another time and place. I want to talk to you about the forest, and the things that should not be. The things that watch you…that you never see. In trying to find peace, so many venture out into the forgotten places. This leads to so many deaths.
People have no idea what awaits them in the trees. It is better that way. Those of us that await amongst the foliage enjoy the ignorance…I once was human. Now I feed upon the stupid. I eat those who come out thinking the woods to be a safe place. The foolish ones. There are those who know about me. So much so that they have made even speaking of me taboo.
I am what they fear that they will become. They feel the possibility as they come closer to where I make my home. The smart ones retreat back to their cities. They understand that the evil man does to each other is nothing compared to what the forest can bring them.
Then there is the ones who have the touch of fae to them. They fear nothing in the wood, for they understand not to challenge what they cannot see. There is rules after all. We can only feed on the ones that come looking. Those we can take freely. The divine will not protect the stupid.
Sometimes, being eaten is a kindness…I went looking to see what was looking at me in the woods outside my cabin nearly two hundred years ago now. Transformation was educational. Now I teach those who come seeking…
Wednesday whisper
If I paint myself
By
Serena Mossgraves
Would you love me
if I paint myself
to resemble the child
you wanted me to be?
plucking away each
of my differences
making sure I was just
the one you planned me to be ?
The paint is peeling,
perfection an illusion,
not reality…
I cannot make myself
fit the dream of who I should be.
If I paint myself to fit the world
I lose the colors I was given at my birth,
And darkness settles in…
smothering my mirth.
Monday Poetry
The Lore of me
By
Patricia Harris
I tried to write
the lore of me,
telling the world the truth
of my forgotten reality.
Perhaps it was written
in script too dark to read…
or maybe I wrote it carelessly
because no one sees me
honestly.
Announced changes
I am going to be doing two separate Poem a Day challenges and I am going to be doing the Fae 50k. I am going to be going for a daily habit more than the word count. The fun thing is that you don’t have to do 50k to win the Fae 50k you merely have to write daily. I am going to be trying to get as much word count as I can each day.
I Think I am going to just leave my Monday as a single poetry post for the remainder of October and figure out what I want to replace Publishing Demystified with in December.
Wednesday whisper
Under my head
By
Serena Mossgraves
the stones are poking
so painful today,
the box is broken
under my head.
I was laid down
and told to rest
in place filled with
glass from my memory
grounded.
perhaps it was supposed to be
soft silt for me to lie,
but due to the chaos of my broken life
shards of stone and hatred
are poking painfully
under my head.
Monday Poetry
Sympathy
By
Patricia Harris
lost in the notes
of overwhelming sympathy,
the pages flooding over me,
I am struck by the reality
of the dreams we leave behind.
Perhaps the story we hide
is to protect both me and you,
from the truth
we rush to headlessly.
Wednesday whisper
Stained Glass burial
By
Serena Mossgraves
bury the urge
in my soul,
to be perfect.
I am broken glass
from a stained glass window
only in the shades of gray.
Crimson drops reveal
the fault lines
that deeply carve into
the soul released across
eternity .
Pattimouse 