One Poem Only

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead. Sep 15 - First Person Account of a Seed by Vinita Agrawal @vinitaagrawal18 on Instagram. Her book Eartha is out now. Sep 16 - the listener by Laura Theis @wodehouse_and_i on Instagram. Her book, Introduction to Cloud Care , is available now. Her children’s poetry book, Poems from a Witch’s Pocket , is also av...

A Pocketful of Joy by Mishty Singh Joy doesn't always dance in parades or call your name from mountaintops. Sometimes, it drifts in quietly the same way light pools on windowsills, the same way a breeze remembers your hair. It hides in mismatched teacups, in songs that start slow and end in smiles, in the rustle of pages at midnight, and the comfort of socks pulled just right. A butterfly doesn’t...

When I fall asleep by Jessica Lyon-Wall I was 12 when they brought me back. The process Was a slow one, over a year I went unnoticed, Pale, thin, and guzzling My brother's juice in secret. One day I went to sleep And didn't wake up. I don't know how I got there, But I remember some bright lights. Then starched sheets and my teddy, The wires in my hair. They said I had been gone 3 days, Link up my...

Sometimes by Hania Anwar Sometimes I wish I was born a Man in true Plath-ian fashion to roam the desolate fields at Dusky Dawn without the gripping fear of being stripped bare and Torn If I were a Man I wonder would I fight half as much with my mother? Would she chastise me for not wordlessly helping around the house were I a Son and not a daughter? Would my father have turned away the childish ou...

I am the dove by GiGi I am the dove. My song is mournful, a single nerve splitting cry out in pain because it’s fucking raining and pouring with pressure and bullshit and there’s nothing I can do to stop it and it feels like I’ll absolutely burst before a diamond is formed. I am the dove. I bring the water through tears and motherhood and a basket of fresh laundry that always happens to wind up on...

the listener Laura Theis her magic was so gentle you may not have known it for a spell the way she was able to listen so openly that we were each coaxed into speaking our language the fiddle began to talk of the willow tree it had been how it had feasted on light and liquid how it had swayed and creaked in the wind like a door to another realm the piano confessed how its beauty was forged from the...

First Person Account of a Seed by Vinita Agrawal All night, the face of awning green hovers above me, its branches carved partly with the grimace of my own imagination. The sacred wounds of trees leaves me trembling in my own hands. This is the first lesson, though it comes from no sage, no guide, but myself: that if I must shatter, let it be outward, like a burst of light, leaves, flowers, fruits...

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead. Sep 8 - Broken by Ani Leland @neversent.poetry on Instagram. Her book, Echoes and Embers , the first in a trilogy co-authored with T.C. James, will be published this fall. Sep 9 - Pop Punk Therapy (Kristen’s Version) by Kristen Rosasco @ poetryandpatchouli on Instagram. Her upcoming anthology, Poetry and Patc...

Mabon Danielle Marie Cahill We choose three glowing apples in the greengrocer and take them home: one for each of us, polished scarlet. I slice them horizontally, so when I open the flesh you both see the pattern of seed stars in the centre. A gasp, and you reach out with curious hands to touch them, picking out the pips with pointed fingers. You create celestial shapes on the tabletop, arguing ov...

Grief is like a corpse in the land of the living. Kimeysia They say grief is found in the saddest of people, In the saddest of families, In the lost and in the lonely. But I say this isn’t true. I’ve seen grief in happy homes In the happiest of people. In you and in me. When grief knocks at our front door, We don’t invite it in with open arms. It comes without a whisper. So silently it creeps up,...

Koi Pond Isra Cheema This poem was first published in Ghost City Press TW: Abortion Look down and see your unborn baby floating in the middle of the toilet bowl—you see it spin slowly like a lone koi fish, it’s soft pinked flesh swirling in a murky pond of blood clot-lily pads. You were driving and pulled over to throw up from the lightning -strike explosion of sharp pain in your uterus—you vomite...

I Watched Gaza Burn From My Bed Fatima Zahra Gul i made tea while gaza lost internet. they bombed jabalia like it wasn’t filled with sleeping children. like it wasn’t already rubble the last time they came. al-ahli hospital glowed orange, not with hope, but with 471 lives turned to ash in one breath. the news called it a “misfire.” as if that soothed the mothers pulling body parts from broken pray...

Pop Punk Therapy (Kristen’s Version) Kristen Rosasco I. THIRTY, FLIRTY, AND DEEPLY UNWELL They told me thirty would feel like freedom— like a crisp Chardonnay in an overpriced glass, like a mortgage, like knees that don’t audibly crack when you squat down to pick up the crumbs of your twenty-something mistakes. But I’m here in my room— a room that is covered in crumbs even though there is a strict...

Broken Ani Leland They say I'm heartbroken But heartache can't sufficiently describe How the physical agony in my chest steals the air from my lungs Pain so visceral tears seem trivial - not a worthy outlet of emotion These windows to my soul are dry, seeing clear for the first time My body is numb - unfeeling Torment induced disassociation shielding my fragile mind My tortured heart no longer set...

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead. Sep 1 - The Bleeding of Dreams by Dean Charpentier @mrcharps on Instagram. His most recent publication: two poems featured in B O D Y literary journal Sep 2 - The Playground by David Park Sep 3 - When I die, lay me down under a willow tree by Peyton Michelle Bryant @mama.laloba on Instagram. Peyton Bryant on...

Stillness of Light J. Ishaan The wind runs wild across empty ground— no footsteps, no voice, no soul to meet its cry. The sun slips away, its final rays brushing the earth in tender, fading gold— a beauty too fragile to stay. The light falters. Darkness folds in: soft, slow, complete. A boy stands still beneath a sky that has forgotten stars. No moon to hold him— only shadows and the silence of ev...

Accidental Birds Deborah Howard Let’s meet beyond the ticking of clocks where the river flows over smooth stone and wildflowers lace the muddy banks. I will come over the stone wall, knees bloodied from scrambling across sharp-tongued granite. You will walk out of the forest, a canoe hefted on your shoulders, past deer silent on fallen leaves, smelling of rot and redemption. There will be a vaguen...

A memorial service before death Adheena S Farhan a house/ before it’s a funeral home/ is a pitstop for God. a hot midafternoon always seems to linger/ past welcome. I live in that part of the world/ where memorial services are never held. Instead, we pool around the dead/ and become a tempest clawing at the dusk, While they wait, in the white docks, ready to go/ Or not/ I don’t know. A grandparent...

When I die, lay me down under a willow tree facing my mountains dressed in blue. Bury me in the costume jewelry my grandmother gave me- a ring on every finger two on each pinky and thumb. Put me in the ground with my pewter wolf still nestled in the hollow of my throat and my sword around my neck. I don’t want a fancy coffin; leave me to the crows I loved so much in life. Let my body be my final g...

Playground David Park In the spheres the playgrounds are alive! Excitement pours forth in laughter and tears. What’s now and what’s next is felt as the vibrations ripple through the air. Rising up through the trees to echo down the fading memory of childhood. In our time, this ever achingly brief blink, as of a child’s tear filled eye, we kneel to honor these moments. To honor the child, the Mothe...

The Bleeding of Dreams Dean Charpentier for Andrea Gibson “Who possesses a perfect soul?” — Rimbaud I am reading Rimbaud on my porch when I hear you have died. It is a thick July morning. The ceiling fan stirs a slow potion of lazy haze and the slow sun efforts to rise above the trees. The leaves are a muted green and gold. Tired birds sing. My soul is patched and stitched together, much of the me...

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead. Aug 25 - Unfinished Men by Miss Greenwood @_miss_greenwood_ on Instagram and YouTube . Miss Greenwood on Substack. Her book, PolyPoetry , is out now. Aug 26 - a soul of no age by Elle Sirs @ellesirspoetry on Instagram and Tiktok . Her book, Girls: A Collection of Poems , is out now. Aug 27 - What I love about...

This poem first appeared in Flora/Fauna an internationally curated book of eco-poetry and photography, edited by Pete Taylor and published by Open Shutter Press Paper Boats Donna Burke Esgro I am a river coiling, curving flowing ore at first light jumping the reeds, rushes, sedges trailing silver ribbons of salmon I run heavy with blood, tears, poison broken hearts of bears wispy with water hyacin...

When two writers fall in love, they amuse each other weaving words And when at war with each other, they use equal amount of flowery words as swords. - Neeta S More from Neeta S ↓ @pahadan.writes on Instagram

Wild Acolyte Jenny Beldame If my body is a temple I am its priest I will offer it the strongest grains my grandfathers did not farm the land for me to starve I will pluck the ripest, juiciest fruits and serve them in golden bowls to this body my mothers did not give me a full belly for me to remain barren For this temple I will sacrifice the fattest calves my uncles did not drive the steers for my...