Symbolic Scribbles Series #039
In Series #038 @JozefCain released a fierce oath of survival, while in this series, new writer @Elena counters with the raw, chaotic cost of upholding that vow
We’ve Kissed Death —
Mama’s hands slip-stitched crochet
Friday evening murder, she wrote, played
Reruns through the TV’s cathode ray
Shadows on the wall veiled blues and grey
Memories of big papa, belly tribal drum echo
And the vision of his crispy crunch bar let go
As I pick one up from the gas station, in the Metro
At the hospital, a Renaissance rival beside art deco
Where dad’s heart died, another beats inside
And Mama’s living room blues and greys
Now cast shadow on my mother’s face
And an emptiness remains even when I cry
But we’ve kissed death and survived
I’m a man of means with an oath, Alive.
©2025 Jozef Cain
Produced by Saccharum (Sylvia 🌞 Kalina & Jozef Cain)
[The Reply]
cauchemardesque —
I ground my teeth until their remains turned to white powder mist.
Pulverized like my sense of self.
Seven minutes passed as a tsunami found me.
Fast asleep, but in that alternate corridor
I was sitting in a room with an ocean view,
watching it come toward me
I had seen it coming all along
did not hesitate to warn everyone.
Yet, when it came the time to run
like everyone in the room had done
I had to sit, tied to my chair
Unable to move.
Just bear.
I watched it break over me,
its ribs of torment, my lungs drowned
in anxiety
Then
Rose,
thorned.
Back in,
I got stabbed by a stranger in le prochain épisode
He went through the meat like a professional.
I felt it all.
Parsed, catalogued,
filed under the kind of hurt I did not ask for.
Equilibrium? None.
Just the three of them cascading through one night,
my subconscious stitching warning signs
concerningly aware I was adrift
hand barely on the gear shift.
I stumbled upon some notes in the denominated iPhone App
about that one gruesome night in late August
where I had a sequence of nightmares,
each one waking me up,
only minutes keeping them apart.
Each return to sleep a new monocle pressed against the next horror.
As I am weaving the fragments
of that time quintessence leaving
this body of mine
reassembling the shapes of enamel, blood
and water that promised
a quiet knowledge
like a broken vinyl record
I had to sense
and then repeat, repeat, repeat
to seek
a terror-dictated heartbeat
@2025
Produced by Saccharum (Sylvia 🌞 Kalina & Jozef Cain)
Submissions are currently closed due to the popularity of the series, but we want to hear from you!
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Please send a message of inquiry to:
S y l v i A 🌞 K a l i n A < or > Jozef Cain
Guidelines: Poems should be at least 50 words and use rich symbolism and metaphor.
Remember the joy of receiving a handwritten note or letter? ‘Symbolic Scribbles Series’ rekindles that magic, creating a space for poetic symbolic ‘scribbles’ where meaning hides in metaphors and symbols, waiting to be discovered. Each poem builds upon the last, like a literary game of telephone, where interpretations can twist and turn in unexpected ways.
New series will be released every Thursday, so subscribe to stay connected! We look forward to building a publication that transcends distance and bridges it with fun and inspiring poetic scribbles.
Saccharum is a sensory journey of depth and contrast where written poetics and the spoken word merge with music unlocking boundless artistic possibility in the rhythm of every breath.
 | A guest post by
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Jozef Cain, maaaaan you slant rhymes like pure craft-chi. They ghost the ear just enough to feel like memory and grief themselves: familiar but smudged, intimate but cracked. The sound mirrors the scar. You survived, but the fractures buzz, om on like aftershocks from the throat.
And Elena your piece is a fullbodied panic symphony. Raw, nerve, lit imagery dragging dream terror into the daylight, all throbbing subconscious sirens and psychic undertow.
Together, you 2 alchemize pain into art: one through memory’s blur, one through nightmare’s blade showing how loss and survival echo through every dimly lit hallway of the self. Poet snaps contemplative shake of the head.
Gah, I want to watch a movie with the two of you playing poets like Lala Land meets Mall Rats.