Purple Senses ~ Samantha Rose

[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,

And “the certainty of a crushing fate,

without the resignation that ought to accompany it.”*


Purple feels like

Velvet loneliness and mystery,

Soft heather fields pressed by the bottom of muddy boots,

A warm mug encompassed by two frosted hands in October,

Accumulating energy in a rising storm and eerie stillness thereafter,

Tragic twist endings hooked in sentimental vicariousness,

And the weight of time and space.


Purple tastes like

Bittersweet memories and existentialism,

Clear water from cracked, neglected fountain heads,

Dark chocolate and black coffee,

A single snowflake melting on the tongue as cars pass by,

Cold, violet lips kissed when daydreams are better than reality,

And true self-awareness coated in the confections of inner chaos.


* Albert Camus, The Stranger

© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018

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



High Desert ~ Samantha Rose

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

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

Astoria ~ Samantha Rose

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

[Astoria is a coastal town in the state of Oregon, rumored along with many of its surrounding areas to be haunted by various creatures and spirits. To read more about the haunting history and ghost stories of Astoria, click HERE.]

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

Black. White. Silver. Red. ~ Samantha Rose

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.

Its 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 shell of a body,

only to be pinned by the shell of a bullet

to the fleshy walls stitching

what’s left of you together.

White out, lights out.

Run fast to nowhere.

Black. White. Silver. Red.


A single silver bullet,

dull enough to clench between the sweaty skin

of your shaking fists,

sharp enough to pierce

through your hollow bones,

allowing fire to seep through the cracks,

which will soon,

by your family’s own wishes,

turn your body to silver ashes.

Dust to dust.

Black. White. Silver. Red


And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself pull the trigger, could you?

Or, so I gathered,

from the sight

of your trembling hands and dry lips,

suddenly too weak to command your pointer finger backwards.

Your feet got cold as your blood ran.

Your hollow eyes trace the harsh lines of your cool killer,

gleaming with one final plea.

I place the gun back in your frozen grip.

And I see red on my sleeves.

Black. White. Silver. Red.


© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018

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

Introducing Samantha Rose ~ Chasing Ghosts

Rose-gold sunbeams set the autumn trees ablaze

under skies consumed by the pouring rain,

mind obscured in a silver haze.


I search for glimpses in the rearview mirror

and hold open the palms of my hand out the window

hoping to catch drops of nostalgia


that quench my soul like water.

I see drive by memories

strewn apart by the wind


and buried deep in muddy waters.

They swirl apart the tattered pages in my mind

but dissipate quickly on the tongue.


I try to capture phantoms in a glass bottle

but memories are not wine,

they don’t get richer as they age.


They haunt me,

and as seasons die

I try to dig up their bodies –


forever left

chasing ghosts.


© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018

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