Isis by Sue Ann Simar

The devil won’t allow
uncertainty.
A bodiless sleep
for your little boy, for his
handheld head.
His blood no longer
his, no longer yours,
his blood a
nothingness, a blessing of
sand.
The mouth agape
censors itself, disavows
its gentle curse.
The hands
alone in their gathering.
Empty hands, their sky blue
reach, the monotonous
scream of sacrifice.


Sue Ann Simar has most recently published in Voices from the Attic, the anthology  affiliated with the Madwomen in the Attic workshops from Carlow College.  She also has a poem in the current issue of Backbone Mountain Review.  Sue lives in Morgantown, WV and works in the healthcare field.

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The Dragon Slayer by Laura Clark

Across the fields and hills
Where hungry cattle graze
Moves a true and noble rider
T’wards a city set ablaze
By a creature filled with hatred
Of the gentle people’s ways
Which in a foul and wicked temper
That great city set ablaze

On his trusty, strong companion
On his brave and loyal steed
He rides up to the flaming homes
To end the dragon’s greed
In answer to the call of
The people’s desperate pleas
His sword and shield ready to
Destroy the dragon’s greed

Scaly armour on the beast;
No one has pierced its hide
Not fearing this, he swears
To avenge those who died;
His steed he leaves in safety
Thankful for this gentle guide
And goes to face the beast that
Extinguished those who died

The creature rounds him fiercely
As the warrior draws near;
He approaches the great monster
So bold; no hint of fear
It roars with mighty dominance
It bellows with a sneer
Yet he holds his head up high
Showing no hint of fear

A tail that brings down buildings
Collides roughly with his shield
Though the beast is far stronger
The warrior will not yield
They circle; they attack with force
One of their fates is sealed
Though until that fateful moment
The monster will not yield

A weakness in its armour
Beneath its giant head
Gives the warrior the chance
To strike the beast down dead
To destroy the wretched creature
That the city folk have fled;
When their fierce battle is over
He pins the beast down dead


Laura Clark is a 23 year old history graduate from England. She has been writing for many years and is very interested in fantasy and stories with morals. You can find Laura’s blog, here.

Wake Up a Woman Wordle

It’s time to play with another poet’s words…mine! I took words from my first book, Wake Up a WomanI hope you enjoy them and find them inspiring!

wordle5

Here are your words:

static
woman
kindling
embracing
banister
vain
clasp
curtains
gunshot
stubborn
relative
ruins
sprung

And have you considered submitting to our Write for Us segment? We’d love to feature your work here on The Reverie! Click here for more information…

Good luck and have fun!

Remember, all entries must be linked back to this post with a pingback or by commenting.

Shaping of an Angry Black Woman Wordle

It’s time for a new wordle! This week, I’ve taken words from one of our editor’s books, The Shaping of an Angry Black Woman  by Tamara Woods. There is no set amount of words you have to use, and you can use any form of the word listed below (plural, past tense, etc.)

wordle4

Here are you words:

drippings
splinters
fickle
barcode
articulate
quivering
accusing
lipstick
DNA
jail
witches
kiss
mimicry

To check out Tamara Woods’ book, click here!

Good luck and have fun!

Remember, all entries must be linked back to this post with a pingback or by commenting.

In This Garden by Almond Syiem

In this garden they do not grow flowers.
Here is earth tarnished by blood, soil mixed
with flesh that returned to an earthy residence,
and the family chanting and encircling a mass grave
is only lamenting for a loved one who had lost an appeal
to live. After all these years, the blood has not lost
its voice and it speaks to a forgetting world.

In this school they do not teach children. In these sad rooms
is only an education from a time of ideological madness,
a twisted algebra to produce of new way of living,
a season when the final screams of those gunned by red fire
were muffled by blaring music so that the neighborhood
would not hear.

In this memorial there is only one honor. It is the honor
of skulls resting with each other, an integral silence
that remembers human cruelty, eyes in empty sockets
that once pled for mercy. We try hard to imagine and fail,
we perspire beneath the blue Cambodian sky, and we click
our pictures, ready to move on to our world of plastic dreams
and fleeting memories.

But these are my cousins of a related tongue, relatives
from a historic time. They say thousands of setting suns ago,
our forefathers walked twelve years to reach these soggy hills
of cloudy waterfalls, of wild berries, pines and shrieking thunderstorms.
They called this place home, determined to explore and inhabit,
cultivate and reproduce, not knowing how decadent we would
turn out to be. But on the banks of the Mekong today, old women
dance with the young, shops wake up to the crowd and the music,
and everyone is trying not to think of the mines that still blow up
now and then.

In this garden there is no hatred. Only the silent regret of trees
whose trunks were used to bash infant heads, excruciating
memories in black and white, children behind fences begging
for dollars, a middle-aged woman in a little shop selling postcards,
artifacts and films retelling the sad history of this recovering country.


Almond Syiem loves to write songs and poetry. His works have appeared in several journals and magazines including Indian Literature and The New Welsh Review. He recently brought out an e-book, Sleepless, which showcases a few of his poems set to stunning photography by Tim Wallis. You can find Almond’s blog, here.

Lost in the Darkness | Prompt

Some of you may noticed the prompt was…well,…not here yesterday.

I am so very blessed to be living in the affected area of what everyone seems to be calling “snowacopolyse.” I’d laugh at the absurdity of it, but I’m on day three of having my children home from school and it’s just not funny anymore.

We had a power outage yesterday that left us spending quality time together in the glow of so many candles it looked like we were mourning the dead or performing a demonic incantation.

So in light of our darkness, I want you to write about the darkness.

Make it your theme, use the word, talk about light in the darkness…Whatever inspires you, let the darkness guide it!

Remember to link up by posting in the comments below or linking back to this post. All poems submitted for the prompt will be considered for this year’s magazine. Happy writing!

Where Would You Go? | Prompt

We just got our first snow of the season here and our skies are gray and overcast. It’s depressing weather. I’m not a fan of the cold.

So to combat that, let’s take this week’s prompt on a little vacation:

Write about a place you wish you could visit.

Any where. Any time.

Where would you go if you could go right now?

Have fun and link back to this post or leave your post in the comments. All prompt entries will be considered for this year’s magazine.