One Poem Only

Ode to the Familiar Strangers Yara Tawk Like a wave crashing down on shore to then melt back into the ocean, I wonder if I too must break to recollect myself in my mother's embrace. Do droplets of rain miss being a wave? Will I ever miss being her child? Where does an unstoppable river go once every ocean has run dry? And what of the lake with no mother to run to, what of the waterfall with no arm...

Loneliness is a strange dopamine Dipanwita Dey Loneliness is a strange dopamine. Slowly, steadily, it consumes existence. Under its spell, it traps, strangulates, murders, and extinguishes. The desperate try to defeat it, unleashing the invisible chain around the collarbones. Feels like a gravitational force, pushing into the darkness of the unseen. Solitude devours the ultimate version of yoursel...

A Boy Moose Ate My Tulips Erynne DeVore i discovered marbles and obsidian buried in my garden next to the worms after a moose ate my tulips “of course it was a boy moose,” someone joked with me i tried not to wake my daughters scaring him away they woke anyways irony is never lost on poets my daughters have ears and eyes and hearts of their own they would’ve seen the evidence in the morning those...

Raindrops Kunjal Saraswat Raindrops shine under warm lights. I notice it for the first time As I sit here— Two hours deep Into this night With the rain. Well, not just the rain. It brings its companions: Thunder, Lightning, Showers, And storms. Tonight, it’s a stormy rain. The wind is wild, And the glass of my balcony shutters Shudders under its weight. I sip my coffee And keep penning my poetry—...

The Anatomy of a Queer Body Gokul Prabhu This poem first appeared In Plainspeak . Please tread gently. This poem has potentially disturbing content. I see death, perched at my window. Sometimes, they even sit on the edge of the bed. Death is my friend now! I am often tempted to draw them into a kiss. They no longer hold a scythe, and are no longer dressed in a cape. They dress like my ex: shabby t...

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead. Nov 10 - Signs by Defne Kartal @defnewrites on Instagram Nov 11 - Sometimes I feel like writing by Junaid Ali Akbar @the.misfitpoet on Instagram. Nov 12 - "this is not a poem (exactly)" by Tess Ezzy. @themoodyproject_ on Instagram. Poetess Press on Substack. You can listen to me read Cross Roads by Tess @remb...

"A lousy sunday afternoon when" Aliya Narghese A lousy sunday afternoon when The world had gone, for a momentary slumber Her world fell forever quiet beneath the burning timber An unwelcome call, a cacophony of cries Looks of pity, soulless sympathy Life that was laid gently into her hands Now a burden far heavy to carry They called her brave, called her strong But she knew they were wrong Met wit...

The Altar I Didn’t Know I was Building Elle Zaspel There’s a small bowl on the bookshelf, not meant for anything in particular. But in it: a cicada shell, a rock from a Hamptons beach, a blurry photo propped up beside them. Things I kept without knowing why. Things I wasn’t ready to throw away. Cicadas remind me of him— loud among friends, a little bit silly, as if joy itself made them tremble. Th...

In Another Lifetime Edyth Grace To an old friend, wherever you are....... In another lifetime, Where the skies are plastered With soft pinks and blues and golden hues And the grass, softer than your skin I once caressed. In another lifetime, where the air hums the lyrics of the song, we would've remembered And your fingers would've fit mine like the stars aligning in some perfect, forgotten sky. I...

"this is not a poem (exactly)" Tess Ezzy this is not a poem (exactly) but a leaf-fall of words unclaimed— (dear dirt) how softly you listen and when wind folds the gumtrees into parentheses (yes) what survives is breath— a syntax of birds unsinging • meanwhile: Calla walks thru rain’s lowercase and writes a cloud into her pocket (a sentence of dew) Orion maps stars in the dark of the page, his foo...

Sometimes I feel like writing Junaid Ali Akbar Sometimes I feel like writing... Writing words that could shake the earth, But how foolish of me to think, That ink could stop the bloodshed. Sometimes I feel like writing... When I see the corpses of children, Hanging from the rubble, Their bodies too small for the weight of this world, Crushed by the sins of those who never knew their names. Sometim...

Signs Defne Kartal I don’t believe in signs but I do I beg for them daily, and when they arrive - A postcard, a dog, a friend, a group of musicians, a Canadian - i don’t do what I think they’re telling me to what are signs for? I don’t believe and I don’t know, I don’t know, so I don’t believe Instead, I conjure up an image of you Walking away through the crowd, I follow you Eyes closed in my bed...

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead. Nov 3 -   Naked by Danielle Martin @cosquelle.mind on Instagram. DanielleM on Facebook. Her book, Kissing Shadows: Caribbean Love Poems , is out now. Nov 4 - Poetry Reading by Maggie Devers Nov 5 - Her Absence by Katrina Kaye @poetkatrinakaye on Instagram. You can read more of her poetry on her website p...

A poem inspired by Emily Dickinson Dear death How can I stay when you, more than life, make me feel seen? They call you cruel, but I have seen the gentleness in your cruelty— the mercy in your ending, the way you unburden bones and hush the screaming thoughts no one else could hear. What if the ones who scream are not cruel, but trying to anchor me to a world they still believe can bloom? And I— h...

Nightmares are dreams too Dimple Dinesh Lokhande In the midnight sky, as breeze passes by, In our sleep, we tend to fly, To a place where dreams seem to lie. Dreams whisper on clouds in silver light, We see in shining armor a knight, Who wields his sword and provides justice to what's right. Dreams are a picture of the future, some blurred, some clear, Where hearts feel safe and fears disappear. B...

you wrote anyway Abhilasha Ghosh july 25th, 2025 you were told writing was a man’s terrain— ink too heavy, thought too sharp for your soft hands. so you wrote anyway. you became george eliot when mary ann wouldn’t be taken seriously. they admired your mind but never called it yours. you were the brontë sisters, signing as currer, ellis, and acton bell— three pens dipped in restraint, writing women...

Her Absence Katrina Kaye I do not regret the days I spent loving you in her absence. I do not regret your tempered touches as you searched for her skin under my scales or the way your eyes reflected her sharp chin and freckled chest when they fell on my frame. I do not regret the fleeting space we created, morning gestures in the folds of sheet and flesh. Tending your wounds with tongue and time....

Poetry Reading Maggie Devers After Chelsie Diane This is a remembering When we come together And read our truth. We have been doing this forever. They have tried to stop us— Burnt us alive, tied rocks to our ankles and threw us in the river, locked us in cages. So many cages. But we didn't stop. We can never stop, We are right where we are. The audiobook of my debut poetry book, For My Daughter ,...

Naked Danielle Martin Naked in the truth that she is alone she hugs herself tightly and succeeds in creating the illusion of wellness. Damp eyes close as jaded lips conjure up wide smiles. Damn! Her mind begins to do its own thing again. Briefly, she forgets, as she floats on a magic carpet of memories, smiling, as death did not steal everything after all. Basking in apparent nothingness, she wait...

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead. Oct 27 -   i don't remember being small by Momena Khan @still.in.my.d4afts_ on Instagram. Oct 28 - What Are We by Laker Patience @laker.p_poet on Instagram. Her poetry anthology, Echoes of Colour , will be out soon. Oct 29 - Green Soup by Tabitha Dial @TabithaDial on Instagram. Her book, Cheese Astrology...

I would peel pomegranates for you— Not just slice them open, but gently with my fingers stained red— I would learn its anatomy, the way they bruise and break if held too harshly, the way they hold memories in every seed. I would sit at the table, a bowl between us as I unraveled the fruit slowly— almost reverently. I’d gather the delicate pieces and offer them to you like little treasures, letting...

Coffin monologue: The non-rhyming rant poem Manasvita Sukthankar I love myself, but which one? Can I love the person that most hate? Does she deserve the ache in her chest? It feels like being trapped in a coffin alive, like death is leaning by the doorframe. If so, I'd like it to carry me home, and leave me on my bedroom floor to stay. Maybe I feel safer in this coffin, No one can get to me. Mayb...

The Spider Philippe Blenkiron "Is God a Spider?" I asked, "constantly weaving electron threads into spiraling elemental webs? His iron will, spun with a silk of liquid steel, torn by the slightest of whims? His tenacious tapestry resewn, a glistening embroidery of frosted jewelled fibrils?" "God scares me," you said, "In the corner of the room, observant, unmoving, a silent host of eyes. His uncan...

Green Soup Tabitha Dial (Halloween Night 2020) From a quiet keeping-space, I promise my motherghost to create meals and music. Even if from dry bones and tangled memories, my vow as I unstem kale and spinach, add it to the copperlined pot with green onion, cilantro, yukon golds and snap peas. Remember when I made your favorite soup last year? I caramelize the onions and recall that patient pot. I'...

What Are We Laker Patience What are we? is there even a we, or is it possibly just a you and a me, a concoction of delusion, desire, mismatched expectations with no actual communication. What are we? what is this? Because my soul can't keep skinny dipping in the misread signals of others, it can't! My heart can't keep bungee jumping off of platforms made from shaky commitment, committing to shaky...