Amanda Lee Calderon (a.k.a. A Fox in the Wild) is a photographer, writer, filmmaker, and actress from Alton, Texas located in the deep south. Her photography and poetry have been featured in Encore Magazine, The Paper, Speechless in the RGV Magazine, Mirrors An Anthology, The Chachalaca Review, House of Horrors, House of Horrors 2, and Otherwise Engaged Volume 3. She has written over 10 screenplays and enjoys shooting short films during her free time. One of her biggest inspirations is nature. She also enjoys the outdoors.
Instagram – peculiardarling_photos
Facebook pages – Peculiar Darling Photography A Fox in the Wild
Cat on a Ledge
I was Always Afraid Of Rabbits
“I was always afraid of rabbits”
said the purple dragon.
I knew it to be true.
I’d known him for a long time,
long before I became a witch
and took to the water
to watch over him.
It’s the white ones he fears most
and they are mostly white ones
He won’t eat them.
He used to eat fish
but now he is afraid to eat them
now he’s seen them eating the rabbits.
They’ve eaten the fur off this one,
but he believes it was white
and believing is seeing
The fish have eaten everything
except for the head and eyes
the most fearsome parts
for the purple dragon.
It’s found him now,
he pushes it away in panic
but it won’t go,
it won’t go.
It’s covering his face,
taking it over
and getting ready
for the rest.
It won’t go,
not unless I can grasp it,
and hold it
peel it off
take it away,
then bewitch them both.
First published in With Painted Words, October 2018
Off With His Hair
“Off with his hair!” Cried the Red Queen.
“I don’t think that’s quite right,” said Alice.
“It should surely be, off with his head”.
The Red Queen’s frown deepened.
She didn’t make mistakes.
It was a well known fact.
Never the less…
She shouted to Jack
who was reclining lazily as usual.
“Which is correct, hair or head?”
“Well, you are quite right, of course
as everyone knows.
As all strength flows from hair to head,
Cutting off his hair may make it unnecessary
to cut off his head
even though all around are losing theirs.”
“Of course”, cried the Red Queen.
“Off with his hair!”
“They’re as mad as hatters” thought Alice.
But she didn’t say so,
Just in case an unfortunate judgement was made.
One couldn’t be too careful in a mad world.
First published in Blognostics, April/May 2019
The Breathing Days
In the days when I still breathed air,
the days before
living took my breath away,
the days before
I knew my soul was there.
I thought about this time,
this time of no light,
the forever night time
with no breath, no air
Just dust and darkness.
And I pondered.
Would there be slow decay
Stillness or movement.
Now I know.
I know everything about
the dust and darkness.
But I can’t tell you.
in these days
of no breath,
Only my soul can speak.
Can you hear me?
First published in Fragments of Chiaroscuro, Summer 2016
Just a beginner
at finding the contrast between
the poison flowering in the oleanders,
and the blindfold steeped in
warped ignorance – a cybernetic hemlock.
Frolicking in a virtual reality
with a graphic fallout
encrusted with a stiff pessimism
forming around a gutted hostility,
the crowd howls for the prospect of
a gruesome horror,
like a face shagging a hacksaw.
A sadistic alienation is
created by the diabolic applause,
first one to bend will be torn apart
by the cannibalistic swarm.
They Who Stumble
Blessed are they
who run on ahead,
ignoring the signs,
the warnings in red,
the razor wire
strung out along
They who stumble,
having only one shoe.
Who leap over ditches
and know all directions.
To all those on the lam.
Heavy is their burden
as we run them
into the ground.
Mordant are the plaints
of bloodhounds howling.
The Twelfth Of Never
Soon, they assure us, soon.
When fish will sing
and the flagpole blossoms.
When it rains children
and the mule has foaled.
Gather up your impatience, they say.
Soon all shall be revealed.
When chicken have teeth
and the crawfish whistles.
On the seventh Thursday in November
and snowmen reign in the fires of heaven.
Before The Dawn
A night so dark
mice huddle in terror.
So dark thieves fail
to venture far from home.
The fool cannot say
if his eyes are opened.
The blind leading the blind
on a grave-dark night.
As dark as a cellar.
As a wolf’s mouth.
The night when darkness fell,
as it continues to fall.
When every fearful thing
stops to listen.
Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician currently residing on Salt Spring Island BC, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with over 1,500 poems published internationally in magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His books are ‘The So-Called Sonnets (Silenced Press); ‘An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy; (Cawing Crow Press) and ‘Like As If” (Pski’s Porch), Hearsay (The Poet’s Haven).
The moon shines in
Woken by a cold fear
I hear a sly breeze through the trees,
I feel a frost on my skin,
The moon shines in.
I remember this room in the morning.
My pulse is even my breath is warm,
Yet figments rise to my calling.
I am recalling all the secret destroyers,
Breath in, breath out.
I am in doubt and yet still the same
Twisted in shame without a voyeur.
In the bones
of my dreams I see the teeth of what ate the meat
Is it only me or do we all have a hyde inside?
That thwarted self that never got to express itself
I wanted to run ranting and laughing when my consciousness was cracking
I saw under the veneer to the child that played there
A child who was enraged, who didn’t believe that films were staged
Who’s jailors walked in the shape of her parents
I felt her wanting to be, wanting to believe
I seethed with the ache of the distance between the truth and my dreams
I had to be a better parent to her
To comfort, to reassure and nurture and set her free from self torture
Oh please let it be possible that she could be loved
To understand what is and what is not real
I am keeping a vigil with the night
Curling in on thoughts that can’t bear the light
I feel only small distress at my plight
This is not my first visit to the dark lands
Here I stand on the shore of a vast lake
Watching sea monsters stir and wake
If I move aside to late
They will swallow me with open jaws
Then I lie in a belly deep
Finding at last the edge of sleep
I pray that with the light I’ll wake
Dreams like this are not for the meek
In the morning the tide will wash back
I will emerge from dreaming’s crack
And wonder just what was all that
The trick is not to look behind you
The sleeping monster
The monster sleeps
Its teeth concealed,
I can’t bear to look
To know it’s real.
Let it be what it will be.
Sometimes out of no choosing,
We are chosen and the confusion
Of walking through that delusion,
A minefield of half submerged treasures
Where our blood is measured.
We still have to face
Our forever’s our tomorrows.
Laura Moverin is a queer Brisbane based artist and poet. She was born in Africa and came to Australia as a child. Currently she works with teenagers as a librarian and is part of a writers club. As a visual artist she works with many forms and mediums. She loves art, nature, children, music and all that is playful. She deals with two invisible disabilities that make life interesting.