Existential Ponders – Amanda Lee Calderon


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.   

Follow At:
Instagram – peculiardarling_photos
Facebook pages – Peculiar Darling Photography A Fox in the Wild

Cat on a Ledge

Dusk Through a Wood
Deep Into the Void
Abandoned Pumphouse

Existential Ponders – Lynn White

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

down here.

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

after all.

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.

But consider..

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 

to breathe.

Just dust and darkness.

And I pondered.

Would there be slow decay 

or fast.

Stillness or movement.

Now I know.

I know everything about

the dust and darkness.

But I can’t tell you.

Not now

in these days 

of no breath, 

no air

to speak.

Only my soul can speak.

Can you hear me?

First published in Fragments of Chiaroscuro, Summer 2016


Lynn White



Existential Ponders – Misty Roper

Systematical Estrangement

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

and devoured

by the cannibalistic swarm.


Misty Roper

IG  dreamlandtree 

Existential Ponders – Bruce McRae

 They Who Stumble

Blessed are they

who run on ahead,

ignoring the signs,

the warnings in red,

the razor wire

strung out along

imagination’s borders.

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.

Moonless. Starless.

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).

Existential Ponders – Laura Moverin

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.

Hyde inside

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

Night vigil

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.