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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: age difference

sleet caked

27 Monday Jul 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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age difference, cunnilingus, erotic poetry, Scottish dialect, sleet caked, sonnet

“An wha will mak me fidgin fain?
O wha will kiss me o’er again?”

– Robert Burns (1788)

“Feck thes!” Our breath, clouded. The car’s heater
struggled, even at high — In the back seat

next to the baby-chair, you stripped off your
mittens, pulled your jeans to your knees while sleet

caked the windshield. “Ah got tae gie ye back
tae skale in ‘en minutes, we’ll make it queck.”

Guiding my head down, my shoulders hunchbacked
while your snow-boots pressed into my stomach.

It took you eight; leaving me sick, your cum
in my eyebrows. Even after you cleaned

me up I was a mess all day long —
I’m older now. I’ve heard the joke: “Th’ Mum

an’ Th’ Neighbur Bairn.” The punchline: “Sex-fiends
ur made an’ education isnae wrang.”

lapping thistledown

27 Sunday Jul 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry

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age difference, art, erotic poetry, incest, mother and child

car car

piano

bed

purple

kitchen

star

wet as a swamp/ drowning between her thighs/ lapping thistledown

heat shimmers/ in the shade of her bedroom/ the widow goes down

two virgin boys/ all that defines me/ endless hunger, she said

he-she-he/ their teacher showed them how/ to enter together

my heroes are always/ undersexed with/ with the most vivid of imaginations …

you say

13 Sunday Apr 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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age difference, all of us who love the erotic, incest, mother-son, poem, Poetry, sonnet

Not all housewives are hungry, but you are.
Not all home-schooling parents develop

crushes on their sons, but you did. Bizarre
as that seems, many dwell in and worship

at the house of incest. Lot’s daughters did.
The French have a whole genre devoted

to son-and-mother love. What we forbid
always becomes tempting. You are naked,

you say, going mad with need. It’s not right
that no one wants you, you say. But I do.

I don’t care who your lovers are, what dumb
dreams and fancies get you to sleep each night.

I’ve spent my whole life looking for one who
can be honest about what makes her cum.

moon shangxiang: the celestial horse-girl

06 Thursday Feb 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, hentai, Illustration and art, Prose

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age difference, art, celestial horse-girl, Chinese mythology, hentai, Moon Shangxiang, non-human erotica, prose, short story, Sun Jian

 

Feb 06, 2014 (2)

 

On the morning of her one hundred and forty-third birthday, Moon Shangxiang, the celestial horse-girl, went to the secret caisson where all the mysteries of the celestial horses were kept, taking from it a queer necklace that her mother, Qiao Hong, had hammered from a fallen star. She had woken troubled from a longing that at times she had felt, an ache of an emptiness that called to be filled. She said nothing to anyone, but trotted from her family’s forest. She took with her as well that symbol of all celestial horses; the famous moon-bow and quiver, that, in its time, had caused the destruction of seventeen cities of men; the bow that, for a hundred years, had caused Chenghuang Mia, the City God of Shanghai during the Blue Millinery Rebellion, to tremble in fear each time the celestial horse armies waged their fabulous war, for the gods all know that no mortal force can stand in their way.

“I am a mare seeking love,” she told herself, galloping by valley and scar of avalanche, leaving behind forever the mountains of her mothers; letting the wind of the autumn beat cold on her naked breasts and flanks. She raised her head and snorted. Her goal was Yuzhou, the city of the child-priest Sun Jian. What legends of Sun Jian’s inhuman beauty had ever floated over the muddy clay world to the fabulous cradle of the celestial horses’ race, none knew, but if one mortal could fill the strange emptiness in her, Moon Shangxiang thought, then would be the boy.

When the celestial horse-girl touched the grass of that soft, ancient world she pranced and gamboled over the miles, singing to the wind as it passed her. She put her head down low to the scents of the earth, then she lifted it up to be nearer to the skylarks. She reveled through misty kingdoms and crossed rivers at each stride. How can anyone who has only read words and lived their lives in cities, who has never thought to be the sworn companion of the tide, who has never tried to decipher the gossamer riddles that the sky-spiders build, who is neither curious about the towers of Jingzhou nor can find them on any map, how can any such person know what Moon Shangxiang felt as she galloped and sang? The missionaries from the West say there is only one god, which is a different kind of foolishness, as if to say there has always been only one war, or only one hero, or only one language. Moon Shangxiang’s legendary sires, the sea mares, have always been present, just as the night mares’ hooves still thunder across the valleys, just as men still tremble before mysteries, for they recall the ancient mythical wars, and will forever dread that which brings new fears, for fear will always be the inheritance of the race of man as long as there are those who insist that there is only one way of doing something.

By night Moon Shangxiang lay down in the pussy-willows by a river or on a woody, fragrant moss in some long lost forest; before dawn she would rise, huge and dark, starting off while Venus was still visible in the sky. The sunrise would come to watch her, watch the leagues spinning by under her hooves, endlessly, wordlessly, crossing from the other side of the world, nearing Yuzhou now, the city of Sun Jian, as the wind laughed and the young horse-girl, the celestial horse-girl, laughed back, for mirth is a great gift to share among friends, and in each village and town and city that she passed by bells would ring in temples, distraught sages would consult their books, soldiers would gnash their teeth and shake their spears, soothsayers would seek portents from bones, rulers would hide themselves in shame. “Isn’t she beautiful?” the young boys and girls alike would say, marveling at their first ever touch of lasciviousness.

It was late in the day when Moon Shangxiang finally saw the city gates, and she stopped and pondered all the rumors she had ever heard concerning Sun Jian, because this was a city that worshiped fabulous things. The boy lived (she was told) in a little hut by city’s wall. A grove of weeping willows screened his hut from the world, from Yuzhou of the golden temples and lazy monks and scholars who considered Confucius wise, and his door was always open. The people of Yuzhou lived in fear that his amazing beauty, if hidden behind a closed door, might, one day, give rise to the blasphemy that lovely Sun Jian, the boy with the small feet and round plump ass, was immortal; for nothing divine can live among the race of men without them trying to destroy it.

His beauty was as a curse; his mother had been half celestial fire-bird; his father came from the Gobi desert where the Mongols lived. Men did not love him because they feared his connection to the spirit world, the gods did not love him because they knew he must one day die. But Moon Shangxiang feared no curse to be found among men, and she laughed as she cantered to the walls of the city.

Swiftly and craftily, entering Yuzhou by the outer gate, she galloped down the narrow streets. Many a royal courtesan that rushed out on their balconies as she went clattering by cried in surprise, many a swaggering lord who put his head from a glittering window stared in amazement, for none knew who she was nor where she was heading. Moon Shangxiang did not pause for questions or to answer warnings; she sped like the typhoon of her ancestors, galloping with half-shut eyes up the temple steps, only dimly seeing the startled boy through her almond lashes, seizing Sun Jian, his delicate fingers and heavy balls, hauling him away mad-dash upon her back. All that night they rode. The little priest had stripped off his robes, let down his long hair, wrapping his legs and arms around the celestial horse-girl, clinging and laughing under the moon.

The first time he entered her neither were sure if it would work, for neither had taken a lover before. Moon Shangxiang leaned down as Sun Jian came toward her, his cock already erect, twitching. He reached for her first, exploring her hard body, her muscles flexing under his soft hands. With her full breasts pressed against his chest, her hands went lower, kneading his fey thighs and smooth bottom, spreading his cheeks.

When he moved behind her Moon Shangxiang’s breath doubled in anticipation. He kissed her shoulder as she waited, but drove her to complain when he didn’t touch her deep purple cunt. Instead, his fingers traveled dangerously close to her own anus. The feeling was erotic and new. She snorted, feeling his fingers press down. Her moan held promise.

“Perhaps later, lover.”

Three of his fingers slid easily into her cunt, her hot flesh walls closing in around him — melting — MeLtiNg — MELTING — Her wetness sprinkled his hand as he pushed steadily in. She came on his fingertips, letting out a low whinny. Panting, tongue lolling, the celestial horse-girl tossed her head, her eyes glazed from her orgasm.

“I need you. Sun Jian, I need you.”

Arching her ass, she felt his cock pressed hard against her cleft, spreading her legs as far apart as possible. The Kama Sutra warns about the mating of a Mare Woman with a Rabbit Man, but she whimpered loudly when the swollen head of his cock rubbed against the length of her wet open lips, mixing his excitement with her essence. She shuddered, she waited.

“Take me like a filly,” she said, hoarsely. “No gentleness.”

His hot breath on her neck made her shiver. The boy didn’t stop to savor her wetness, plunging into her fast and hard. He grasped her haunches, her tail pushed to one side, his hips moving relentlessly. Sun Jian’s moans were divine. Her grunts were primitive. Moon Shangxiang buried her head into the tall grass, tearing whole handfuls out at each stroke.

— I want to be
inhaled , exhaled
and yet
—

Moon Shangxiang flexed her inner muscles while he grunted at the tautness around his cock. She cried out; Sun Jian arched his back, angling his thrusts differently as he exploded inside her. When she turned her head again, she saw a wild look in his glowing eyes. Nostrils flared, there was nothing left of the city in his face.

— and then? — and then. — and then! —

He remained inside of her for a long while, as if the boy had somehow melted into her, fused. The world smelled of their lovemaking. He finally slipped out of her and watched with amazement when his cum, his first orgasm, dribble down her wet thighs.

I want to feel
your sultry skin

under me revolving
around me as

I make you
gallop all night

in delight
mythic …

all of vice is my hero

31 Tuesday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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age difference, anal sex, art, homophobia, poem, poetrys, sonnet, taboo, you are my hero

Like a roller coaster, like a kiddie’s
park, ride me. I’m hard outside but a fag

deep down — as if I caused your furious
hate by just being me — your: punching bag

— you: thug 4 life. Like Pennywise, I will
let you think that you won. It’s your gospel,

bully’s wet dream, hater hating. What thrill
comes from violence? I’m the gay teenage skull

that you kicked and kicked. Did I say fags? Queers?
T-boys? Dykes? I tell you: there is a price

to this, all rides must end, all that straight hate
that you have toward us perverts who appear

as love’s martyrs. If I’m obsessed with vice
that’s your doing. Love calls. I won’t wait.

the goat dreams of puella aeterna

30 Monday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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age difference, art, erotica, poem, poetrys, puella aeterna, sonnet

Dec 30, 2913 (1)

She passed you on the down stair. Erection.
Each time bullies made you cry she consoled

you, brought you close, held your boyish bottom
closer. The one adult who would not scold

you, loved you in gym shorts cut high, showing
thigh and the hint of cock and balls. Widows

hungry for flesh are either a blessing
or a curse. The way she stripped off your clothes

and took you to the bath. The way she gave
herself to you; you who were far too young

to know why, just how. You must have pleased her,
until you grew up and started to shave.

Even now you recall her hips, her tongue,
her voice crying, “like that! harder! harder!”

][][

notes:

The Peter Pan Syndrome refers to a man’s unwillingness to grow up and take on adult responsibilities. There is an entire trope of man-boy characters in literature and popular culture; in Psychology Jung called it, Puer aeternus, Latin for the eternal boy. I’m curious what the female version of the Peter Pan Syndrome might be. Not Wendy, since she spent her whole time acting as a surrogate mother, but a female archetype that optimizes Pan’s cockiness and corresponding immature behavior. The nearest that I can find is from Jung as well, puella aeterna, the eternal girl, but there aren’t any corresponding female characters that I can find in literature as example. There is such a trope in Japanese popular culture that I thought, at first, might work: the alcoholic, single, lustful office lady who is shown living in a filthy apartment, drinking herself blind every night. However, it is a poor comparison since, unlike Pan who has agency not to take on adult responsibilities if he wants, the Office Lady is the way she is due to the misogynistic atmosphere of the Japanese business industry; regardless of education or background her role in most manga and anime is to fetch coffee, fend off sexual harassment and forever cling to the bottom rung of the office ladder. Perhaps one day I’ll find who I am looking for; until then I will keep on reading.

yuugure and the mountain demoness

17 Tuesday Dec 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Prose

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age difference, cunnilingus, erotica, female Japanese mountain demon, onibaba, prose, Yuugure

 

Yuugure stared at the hulking she-demon chained to the stonewall. It still resembled, a bit, his darling Sayomi. It had her arms, her purple eyes, her mother-birthing tummy, but they were larger now, bestial in ways the human form was never intended to be. Her whole body was covered in soft fur, like that of a mountain boar, but impossibly red. The thing — she — was deformed, with the legs of a woman mixed up with those of some fiendish shadow, a spark of mist and hatred, muscled, hungering as she strained against the thick iron that held her.

Was it really still a “she”? Undoubtedly. Sayomi’s small breasts had transformed, her cunt grown obscene. What had once been legs were now curved like that of a goat. It was those legs that she had used to carry off a ten year-old village boy, only a year younger than Yuugure himself, like a lamb to the slaughter. Yuugure couldn’t bear to think about what the villagers had discovered when they finally tracked the beast to her lair. He had to get his Sayomi back.

The mountain demon glowered at him, her teeth bared as if she would consume him at the first opportunity. Yuugure found himself staring at its eyes — her eyes — glowing in the candlelight. They seemed so much like Sayomi’s at first glance, but were now twisted, transformed. They were eyes that wanted nothing more than to watch the world burn.

Sayomi had spent the holy night of Shimekazari, when each household would invite the kami in as sacred guests, far away from everyone else in the village. She almost never participated in Shinto festivities, spending her time alone in meditation, deep in the mountains. When she would return, as she always did, she would never talk about what had happened to her, preferring instead to hold Yuugure.s tiny body tight against her, telling him that she would never do anything to harm him. Her wolfish scent would intoxicate the boy, the warmth of her body lull him to sleep. At first all her talk was baffling. Now it was routine. This time, though, everything was different. When Yuugure had gone to the well to fetch water he found his lover, old enough to be his own mother, naked, crawling upon hands and knees from out of the dark forest, bloody and insane.

Insane? Of course; no human being who talked as she did could still be considered connected to the physical world.

“I did it,” she gasped. “I drank from an onibaba’s footprint.”

A what? An onibaba? The female ogre of fairy tales? What did that even mean? Instead of answering any of his questions Sayomi went into the house and fell into a magical sleep. The message had seemed cryptic at first but now he understood. Even an eleven year-old orphan could see that there had been a change in the older woman that day.

Sayomi was a Kokumajutsu-shi, a dark witch. A few neighbors knew of her ties to the spirit world and would come, from time to time, to beg her for favors, the sort that the local Shinto priests would always refuse to grant.

There was a lot that Yuugure did not know about his Sayomi except that she loved him and he loved her so he ignored her often dark mood swings and tendency to seek out the most taboo realms of the spiritual world, or so she would claim. That was the problem with using the dark arts to solve problems that her neighbors and fellow villagers should have been able to handle all by themselves. Often they would return, the sorry bastards, begging for her to lift whatever spell or blessing that they themselves had requested. Yet, despite all the damage mere mortals seemed to bring down upon their own heads, Sayomi had healed without pay or complaint everyone who wandered through her door, granting absolute discretion to all the village girls when they came to her in tears over pregnancies they did not want.

“Of course I believe in evil,” Sayomi once said. “Anyone who brings an unloved soul into this world of sin is committing evil. To give birth to something unwanted but forced to live? unloved? uncared for? Even the oni are not so cruel. Better to skip a reincarnation, come back in a new body that will be loved than to be born an orphan whose only fate is to starve to death or be sold into slavery. Any parent who would do less is not fit to be called human.”

Now, though, Yuugure’s lover was gone and the female oni was all that remained. When the boy walked too close she shot out a powerful arm that caused the thick cold iron chains, set into stone with huge bolts, to groan and complain. Each time that Yuugure stepped too close the demoness began to rage. The heat of her breath assaulted his face. Her red arms and legs had muscles her had never seen before, like twisted oak roots. Her fat lips and kissable mouth were now the jaws of a deathtrap.

This all had started months before. Sayomi had begun to run away at night. Yuugure had never really understood, assuming it had something to do with being an adult and her dark witchiers. At first her odd behavior was even a little exciting. She would go during the night and return at daybreak. When she did, she would take the boy to their bed. She was rough and wild, unlike anything she had shown him before, biting and holding him down as she forced his cock deep inside her body. She tore at his skin and licked wherever she could find exposed flesh. Her nipples would grow hard then, each time she mauled him. It was as if the night in the woods had left her ravenous and she would literally howl each time he orgasmed inside her.

Then there was the blood. Sayomi had gone out one night and like before she came home in a daze, unkempt and dirty. She had crawled into bed where he was waiting, already excited and hard, awaiting the moment that she would ravage him. There was something safe each time she did it, except that night when he looked at her bared teeth and saw that they were stained with blood. Yuugure screamed for his love to stop, that something dreadful was wrong, but she heedlessly mounted him. The head of his cock touched her inner lips and he could feel her immediately become even wetter. There was something wrong, this time, though. She crouched over him like a nightmare, eyes gleaming as she rammed her hips down, impaling herself on him. He was afraid this time, terribly afraid. His cock started to hurt as if her cunt were made up of nothing but thousands of tiny barbs and he cried out in pain but she still wouldn’t stop.

Afterward he cried as she slept next to him.

The next morning she had no memory of what had happened. She became quiet when he told her, his dark boy eyes running with tears, about the blood in her mouth and what she had done. Sayomi was never one to exaggerate, but her eyes showed deep fear as she held him and whispered over and over that she was sorry.

It was on that same day that Hidou, a neighbor and Sayomi’s good friend, knocked on their door. She had come wanting a protective charm for her eight year-old son. Sayomi had laughed and told Hidou that boys weren’t the ones who needed protection. Hidou shook her head and told them that there was a rumor that an oibaba were stealing away their village boys.

First it had just been farm animals that had been disappearing of late. A few people had blamed a wolf that had been seen in the mountains, but that all had changed when something that clearly walked on two feet had dragged away a screaming village child. The town was in an uproar and everyone was afraid. On the very hour of her visit Sayomi made Hidou a special talisman blessed by their Shinto priest and told her friend to make sure that her son should never take it off.

That was the day everything in Yuugure’s life changed. He was shocked when Sayomi secreted herself to the outer barn where the ancient chains were. She stood in a corner on that cold day, naked, shackles hanging loosely on her arms and legs and then sent Yuugure away, ordering the boy not to come into the barn for any reason.

That evening everything was quiet. Even the birds seemed to be holding their breath. The sun began to set and Yuugure became afraid. The barn echoed with choked and muffled screams and the sick sound of ripping flesh and cracking bone. When Sayomi’s screams became a hideous roar, the boy crept into the barn to find — not Sayomi — but the onibaba, a real flesh and blood mountain demon, leering at him, steaming billowing out of her wicked mouth. Yuugure opened his mouth to scream in turn but no noise came forth. Sayomi’s breasts and cunt were still mostly human, made of the same powerful muscles as her legs and arms. Her face however was indeed the stuff of nightmare. Wide eyes and pointed horns poked out from the red fur that covered the rest of her body.

Yuugure ran from the room and hid in their bed, weeping at what had become of his beloved Sayomi. In the morning, he awoke to find the older woman in bed with him, back in her human form, sleeping in the throws of a fever-dream. For the rest of the day she lay unconscious. As the evening approached, though, she finally rolled over on her side and spoke to the boy.

“I have unnatural appetites.” Sayomi spoke hoarsely. “I have tried again and again to curb my hunger but it doesn’t work. I suffer and soon I will not be able to stop control myself from breaking loose and killing the first person I see. It might be one of our neighbors. It might be you. I need you to help me.”

“Haii! Anything I can do, please,” Yuugure pulled her muscled body as close as his thin arms allowed. Despite his fear feeling her smooth skin and warmth again calmed his heart.

“Find a dog or goat. Kill it for me. Then feed it to me when I am chained. Once the demon is fed perhaps then we can figure out a way to stop it.”

“Can you stop it?” Yuugure asked, stroking her aching body. “I can go bring the priest.”

“No.” Sayomi shook her head. “I have to do this myself. I can’t kill another innocent soul.”

“But you are so strong,” Yuugure began to kiss her face. “I know you can do anything. I’ll help too. I’ll do anything you ask.”

“I don’t deserve a boy like you.” Sayomi smiled. It was the first smile he had seen in days. It was the same smile that had bewitched him a year before that let her drag him away from the fire at the midsummer’s festivities. He had followed the strange, older woman into the shadows and was shocked when she let him take her. He had been a virgin before that night. Every time she smiled like that he knew that he would do it all over. Yuugure reached over and ran his hand up Sayomi’s thigh, exploring between her legs, touching her clit with his soft hands. She moaned a little and licked her lips.

“Please, Yuugure-chan. I’m tired. Being a boy-flesh crazed monster takes a lot of energy,” Sayomi began to roll away but he held her back in his arms and began to caress her even more.

“Then be still, oneesan,” the little boy teased, dipping his fingers into her hot, buttery wetness. Her body began to tense and relax as little waves of pleasure sloshed within. “Let me help you get rid of that demon in you.”

Sayomi began to breathe harder. She touched Yuugure’s naked skin as the age-old pleasures began to overwhelm her senses. “Don’t’ stop,” she pleaded.

“Do you want me to use my mouth?” Yuugure licked his pretty lips.

“Hai!” Sayomi was in ecstasy.

He drew his body down so that she could feel his young, boyish breath against her sodden girl-lips, the hard T-bone of her clit. She thrust her hips up, involuntarily. Parting her lips he moved all over with his tongue. Yuugure loved the way Sayomi tasted inside his mouth. She made an excellent teacher, so he took it slow at first and then faster, seeing just how deep his tongue could go. He wanted her cum now, to her pleasure to fill his mouth, just so he could hear how she would moan as she flooded because she always flooded and this time …

… when her shaking subsided, when he had swallowed everything, he crawled up and rested his head on her breasts so that he could hear her heart pound crazy. It gave him a thrill to know he made her heart race like that.

[to be continued] …

she called him her

29 Tuesday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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age difference, all that's taboo, cute anal angel, erotic, poem, Poetry, she called him her, sonnet

Mottled tattoo—-a taboo—-beckoning
her to return to—-sip the fine vintage

of his fourteen-year odd—-essence needing
but a single nip from her—-teeth carnage

blood-blood reopened—-her tongue bathing in
his dusk boy—-blood that sticky grin. The curve

of his cock above the sheet’s skin, boy sin
calling to her fingers. Who has the nerve

to go there when lust is neither legal
nor pure? Caught in—-that dim shadow she did

nothing but obey as her cooled flesh warmed
and she called him her—-cute anal angel

he was all—-that’s taboo—-what we forbid.
All that will leave us a monster transformed.

come away

20 Sunday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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age difference, come away, erotic, human foundling, Kitsune, myth, poem, Poetry, sonnet

 

But you’re not a fox-witch, so maybe
it wasn’t how you handed him your damp
bloomers, it was that you had on any
at all. Maybe it wasn’t your half-vamp
eyes, your toothy smile. Maybe that which
bewitched him was when you said: come away.
Maybe. You, who aren’t fox or witch,
had gone out in first light and found this stray
man-cub. “Come away, O human foundling,
to my den in the hills.”
All that fogbound
winter he slept naked in your arms. “My
little toy,”
you called the boy. “My play thing.”
Maybe he loved your wicked smile when he found
that your bloomers were damp. We all know why.

this wine that i uncork

29 Sunday Sep 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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age difference, erotic, poem, Poetry, seduction, sonnet, this wine that I uncork

 

She brushed against him, kissed the devil, sucked
his fat bottom lip into her mouth, flicking
her tongue once, twice; each kiss causing havoc
all through his body, essence bubbling
up, then nipped, then suckled. Virgins were her
biggest weakness. She wanted to taste all
of his fourteen years. Awake the geyser
no one had yet to tap. Little boy doll,
I’ll take what is yours into what is mine.
I’ll make you sob. She raised one arched eyebrow,
posed. It’s done like this, she said, as she bent
catch of his breath down on her knees. This wine
that I uncork, fill me, gag me. Cum now,
son; and with that he spent and spent and spent.

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  • abigail child
  • flint area writers
  • natalia cecire
  • cleveland poetics
  • lyle daggett
  • jackie clark
  • lorna dee cervantes
  • cheryl clark
  • maria damon
  • jennifer k. dick

ars poetica: the blogs e-h

  • carrie etter
  • herstoria
  • amanda hocking
  • liz henry
  • Free Minds Book Club
  • jane holland
  • pamela hart
  • ghosts of zimbabwe
  • hayaxk (ՀԱՅԱՑՔ)
  • elizabeth glixman
  • jeannine hall gailey
  • bernardine evaristo
  • Gabriela M.
  • human writes
  • julie r. enszer
  • joy harjo
  • maggie may ethridge
  • joy garnett
  • elisa gabbert
  • jessica goodfellow
  • carol guess
  • sarah wetzel fishman
  • maureen hurley

ars poetica: the blogs i-l

  • megan kaminski
  • language hat
  • meg johnson
  • a big jewish blog
  • laila lalami
  • lesley jenike
  • IEPI
  • emily lloyd
  • renee liang
  • las vegas poets organization
  • sandy longhorn
  • charmi keranen
  • Jaya Avendel
  • lesbian poetry archieves
  • Kim Whysall-Hammond
  • maggie jochild
  • irene latham
  • donna khun
  • diane lockward
  • amy king
  • miriam levine
  • dick jones
  • sheryl luna
  • gene justice
  • joy leftow
  • kennifer kilgore-caradec

ars poetica: the blogs m-o

  • heather o'neill
  • maud newton
  • marion mc cready
  • ottawa poetry newsletter
  • new issues poetry & prose
  • iamnasra oman
  • nzepc
  • wanda o'connor
  • the malaysian poetic chronicles
  • motown writers
  • michigan writers resources
  • sharanya manivannan
  • sophie mayer
  • My Poetic Side
  • january o'neil
  • caryn mirriam-goldberg
  • majena mafe
  • michelle mc grane
  • michigan writers network
  • mlive: michigan poetry news
  • Nanny Charlotte
  • adrienne j. odasso

ars poetica: the blogs p-r

  • helen rickerby
  • split this rock
  • Queen Majeeda
  • sophie robinson
  • nicole peyrafitte
  • joanna preston
  • rachel phillips
  • kristin prevallet
  • susan rich
  • nikki reimer
  • maria padhila
  • ariana reines

ars poetica: the blogs s-z

  • ron silliman
  • tuesday poems
  • shin yu pai
  • tim yu
  • southern michigan poetry
  • womens quarterly conversation
  • Trista's Poetry
  • scottish poetry library
  • Stray Lower
  • vassilis zambaras
  • switchback books
  • sexy poets society

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