Claire T. Feild

The January Featured Poet is Claire T. Feild

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My dining room table is not that dark as a
damsel can see her attractive face in its

As the wind becomes brusque, it sends its
flow to the girl who catches herself
on one of the knobs the table has
so she will not fall downstairs.

Because of the magnitude of the wind the
conjurer sends, other maids recede
to the basement of the house where
they are forced to drink an elixir to
relieve their pain.

Most spit up the therapy and suffer through
this pith as they walk through the                
basement’s garage that leads to the

They run as if they are in the Boston
Marathon and descend onto their beds,
fearing that the witch will find them
and modify their appearance.

But she is long gone to another village to
cause havoc to as much of its
cryptic population as she can.

Confused by the witch’s return, they
plant her in their rich soil to see
what will happen.

Because she grows so tall, she turns over
and dies a peculiar death.         


Although Lemanda had an independent
streak as peculiar as a diagonal, some thought
she was moving toward the norm to fit the
personality she had worn with the carefree
nature of a baby’s bootie.

Since Lemanda was too agreeable, a foreign
entity as sneaky as a bacterial thread had to
be crawling through her system.

When her once lovely brown face resembled
a hairy coconut shell, the ciphony she
transmitted made her closest enemies think
they had won, and they had beat her down,
for the immaculate society they had
formulated fit over her like a purple hood,
their disease as wicked as crown gall,
Lemanda haven been taken hostage by the
plants she had worshiped since childhood,
the ones turned cancerous in the pliable
hands of the contingent in power.


He lives in the cryptic weeds where no
one can see him plan his evil

His shape varies so that he can slither
into small crevices and on top of
large mountains where the houses

Enigmatic, he cannot be seen by those
going about their regular duties
and habits.

He slips into homes and moves objects
from place-to-place to mystify
the owners.

On a darker side, he sets the homes on
fire the way he set paper on
fire when he was younger.

When some die in these fires, he
cackles like the eldest man
in town.

Since no one can see him, he will be
prophetical to the creatures
he teaches and then will rip
them to pieces.

Manic, he lives to destroy.


Claire T. Feild has had 428 poems and seven creative nonfiction stories accepted for publication in 134 different print journals and anthologies such as The Tulane ReviewFreshwaterGhostlight; Alabama Views and WordsThe Muse; SpillwayPoeming PigeonsJelly BucketThe Carolina Quarterly; Slipstream PressThe Horror Zine MagazineThe Path: A Literary MagazineCake; and Literature Today (Volume 5)Her first poetry book is Mississippi Delta Women in Prism. Her next poetry collection is Southern Women: The1950s. Her third poetry collection is Indigo Blues (Origami Poetry Project). Her first nonfiction book is A Delta VigilYazoo CityMississippi, the 1950s. Her second nonfiction book is Mississippi Delta Memories