Witch-y Wednesday: Poem – “In This One, The Bus Stop Becomes a Coven”

October Spooky Features, Poetry, Writing

shani.jpgMeet Shani Carrington.

Shani Carrington is a 22 year old, black, first generation American, born and raised in Philadelphia. Having recently graduated from Arcadia University with a BA in English literature and a minor in Pan-African studies, she is currently taking a gap year before attending law school next fall. As a poet, she has been writing seriously for 9 years and performing at small open mics and poetry shows for 6. Influenced by a perspective shaped by Barbadian parents and an inner city upbringing, her work often revolves around the state of blackness across the diaspora, the complexities of love, and the way we as humans interact with one another. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with friends, watching slam poetry videos on YouTube, playing with her black kitten Spring, and drinking tea.

Social Media Links:
Instagram – @peaceloveandpoetry
Snapchat – thepoetafrodite
Twitter – @poetic_devices
Pinterest – Shani Carrington
Blog (co-creator) – www.aloeandamethyst.org


The Poem.

In This One, The Bus Stop Becomes a Coven

He spots the star hanging from a
Black ribbon,
Tied gently around my throat
Like the fingers of a reluctant shadow.
And he asks
“Are you a witch?”
And I can’t hide the giggle
That whispers up out of my lungs
Casting a spell on him,
With the sudden appearance
Of my generous dimples.

I reply ‘no’

With more confidence in my answer

Than I truly own,

For what is a witch but

Magic with a mouth

And I just made a boy jaywalk

Without looking both ways

As I waited for the bus

While sipping on a neon blue lemonade.

What else would you call that

But magic?

Madness Monday: Poem – Untitled

October Spooky Features, Poetry, Writing

megan fehrMeet Megan Fehr.

Megan Fehr is a graduate of English studies and pursues the art of poetry in her spare time. Writing was not always her marked interest until her love of languages and deliberate practice compelled her to manifest her ideas on printed paper. Megan’s handful of poems construes a serious, oftentimes melancholy, tone; however, her poems are not to be taken literally. The art of forming her experience into written word through rhymes and adjectives allows Megan to share her internal thoughts and emotions that are not shared with anyone else. Exposing herself through poetry has been quite intimidating, but she wants to contribute her passion to anyone that is encouraging. Not only has writing been a safe haven for Megan, but consistently reading historical fiction and fantasy in her adulthood brought back the urge and longing to read that she has not felt since her younger school years. Unfortunately, her higher education at a university forced her to neglect her favorite diversion. Megan Fehr is of Irish and German descent and longs for the travel to Great Britain and Germany, in pursuit of her ancestral culture. From there, she will most likely feel at home and content with her surroundings. When she has the chance, Megan appreciates the solitude of walking in nature and the frivolity of the Renaissance Faire, complete with different costumes on occasion. History and meditation complete Megan’s reality while finishing each poem.

“We’ve all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That’s who we really are.” – Sirius Black (J.K. Rowling) Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix


The Poem.

Like molasses oozing,

Snake-like, down the corridor,

A dark, putrid liquid reaches

For the stone, cobwebbed floor.


Its stain congeals in an abhorrent manner

Against the bottommost stair

Resembling the concord wine in a decanter

And spirits that are shared


Amongst the doe-eyed reception below.

A tiny drop… silence;

Another drop, following a shrill shriek

Throughout the ever-mindless


Gathering. Gasps and echoing screams

Collide and clang up the stairwell

Toward a dank, infested room

Where a monstrous silhouette begins to swell.


Awake! The mind shouts of the intrepid

Creature, urging its horrific transmutation

Onward, its goal to breathe in the last

Fragments to complete its subjugation.


Unbeknownst amid the flurry,

The Creature stalks down

The stairs in search of its prey,

Tantalizing the crowd’s drowned


Excitement. For this ceaseless night

Will be its last, considering all

Surrounding the room will perish

And be scaffolded upon the wall.


Sneak Peek of Love Letters to the World

Poetry, Spotlight Tour

Love Letters Cover.jpg

Here’s a sneak peak of Meia Geddes’ recently released book, Love Letters to the World! In this lyrical collection, Meia touches on helmets, life, love, toes, adoption, and more. A lot of things influenced the book, including Meia’s adoption from China, her experiences with her small origami business (Make-A-Crane), and her time in South Africa. Those who are fans of Rupi Kaur or Mary Oliver’s poetry might enjoy the collection.

My dear world,

I wonder if you would agree with me that slip is a very good word. Slip is currently my favorite word, though I have never had a favorite word before. Maybe slip is my new favorite word because all the lovely intangibles can slip into your life without your noticing until the slip of your being realizes it is so. Maybe it is because I have a need to slip my life into you in ways unknown, maybe because you, world, are a slip of a word. Maybe because it relates to the way one wants to live, leaving an imprint but no more, maybe because I like the way bodies can slip into one another, maybe because a slip as a garment is ever contradictory, a container yet not. A slippage, what has not come to pass or what has passed, a bit of nothingness or a bit of everything if one considers all a slip of paper might hold. The word slip contains and offers itself. Maybe one should aspire to be a slip, to slip.

With love,

My dear world,

I once heard tell of a tall young man who wore a helmet everywhere he went. He bumped his head so often that he decided it was a necessary precaution. Imagine having to protect the space around your head like that. I think we all strive to be like this young man, wearing our respective helmets, protecting ourselves from the doorways and ceilings of the human life. And when we go to sleep at night, when we are running in open fields, when we are sitting still in high-ceilinged places, we can let the helmets fall to our sides. I did not mean for this to nearly rhyme, but I guess it is not a bad thing, for rhyming can create unity, and walking down the street or through a house with a helmet on one’s head will have a sweet and certain beat, like a person is trying and succeeding.

With love,

Need more?

Buy Links:  Amazon / Goodreads / LibraryThing

Meia is on Twitter @meiageddes and her website is www.meiageddes.com.


Winter’s Breath

Poetry, Writing

I love the transition between fall to winter. It is breathtaking and beautiful. In honor of that transition I wrote a poem to reflect the coming of Old Man Winter.

Let the snow fall.

– Rae

“I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.”
― Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass

Winter's Breath Pic

Winter’s Breath

It started slowly,

the breeze picking up

with a gentle rustling of leaves

sending it spiraling towards

the night sky.


Little shapes,

unique icy kisses,

began to blanket everything

they touched with –

playful abandon.

Their clouds no longer

able to keep them at bay.


On a sigh,

the tree’s bare branches

shivered in awareness of the

approaching presence.

Swaying they started to dance

in welcome.


Furry creatures stirred in their


for they were cold

but content while the

new season awakened,

crooning to them to stay at rest.


The night came alive with

a passion so achingly familiar,

a yearly guest that was mourned

each time it passed.


Even the forests ancients respected its


allowing the stars and moon

to light a slivery path

in a silent offering for guidance

to the hardships likely to come.


For Old Man Winter could be cruel,

condemning those who mocked

him on those long cold nights,

as they wished for him to remain



And yet winter’s temper was mild tonight,

for he was in awe of the changes

made during his slumber.

His voice was loving as he whispered,

I’m back my children.

Their Grandmother’s Love

Poetry, Writing

Good morning readers!

So today is my grandmother’s 69th birthday (even though she doesn’t look over the age of 30 *wink*)! In honor of her birthday I’m posting my second attempt at a poem, something I wrote back in 2012 just for her. It isn’t the grandest, despite numerous tweaks, but it holds an important place in my heart and hers. Without my grandmother I wouldn’t have gotten as far as I am today. She is my rock.

This is a shout out to her to have a great day and remember that despite our fights I won’t ever forget what she has done for me.

Lots of love –


Their Grandmother’s Love

One birth, two births,

another makes three.

All additions to a single family.

Three prized girls,

r a n g i n g in age –

all                    equally





Their grandmother’s love.

There are fights and arguments

over pointless things.




to become a mixture of


There are tears and screams,

moans and groans,

but nothing can change the truth,

there is always

Their grandmother’s love.

Year after year p a s s by,

The girls





to become


Each has her own –




Each will become her own person,

Go her own


always knowing they have

Their grandmother’s love.


Coming Home

Poetry, Writing

It’s Veterans Day. To show my appreciation, I’ve posted an older poem I wrote in high school about soldiers coming home from war. It’s a little rough around the edges but it gets the point across.

A special thanks to those who have fought, and or, are fighting to protect our country.

You are in our thoughts.

– Rae

Military Picture

Coming Home

The inside of the plane

was hushed,

each passenger lost within

their own thoughts, fears,

and excitement.

As they came to a stop,

a collective sigh

resonated from the group

as one.


they had faced


loss, and


Their anxiety of the upcoming

separation was plain –

they had become

brothers in arms.

One by one they went

down the stairs into

a new beginning,

their pasts forever


Cheers outside invaded the quiet,

collectively they

wept in joy

combining tears with

spontaneous laughter as

husbands and wives kissed,

parents embraced,

and children danced.

The mending of

something broken was taking place.

A song started to play in


the flag rose in silent pride,

its colors symbolizing

a nation’s birth



For they had arrived.

The soldiers had come home.