Ghost Train ~ Samantha Rose

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, I still have much to show!

But you now know some of our horde

There are more souls to bring to the undertow

So to you I say, all aboard!

 

© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018


You can catch more of Samantha existing at her blog, Existential Poetry.

 

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Streetlights — Existential Poetry

I made a choice to share a moment that fleeted faster than I could grasp and yet forgot to take my heart with it. I guess feelings don’t fade faster than memories – which are like flowers that die slow and beautifully. Some still stick like honey while others melt away like bittersweet chocolate on […]

via Streetlights — Existential Poetry

Edible Doll ~ Samantha Rose

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!

 

And you should always be sweet like frosting

and convenient like a dinner mint

and only cry tears of glitter and confetti.

Your suffering is a bittersweet delicacy,

Like sprinkles, add just enough but not too much!

 

You are too much, girl.

Mourn your body in silence and bow defeatedly to frailty.

Cry in such a way that they still love you

and fall apart softly like angel food cake.

Because if boys will be boys, then girls will be play things.

 

 

© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018


You can catch more of Samantha existing at her blog, Existential Poetry.

 

 

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

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 forgets that I, too, breathe fire from the matches in my throat.

 

© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018


You can catch more of Samantha existing at her blog, Existential Poetry.

1969 ~ Samantha Rose

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.

 

© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018


You can catch more of Samantha existing at her blog, Existential Poetry.