One Poem Only

The Miseducation (How the Sugarcane Remembers Us) Lia D. Elen They told us the cane was sweet, that sugar was a gift- never whispering of century-long bones ground into their stalks. My great-grandmothers spoke truth in drum and smoke, their hands weaving rivers of power, the earth crowning them healers. Still, the priests named them devils. Still, their altars were burned. Yet Atabey whispers now...

For the Pines Amanda Galeotti I’ve known the paralyzing anguish Of the dark nights of soul When the gleaming edge of a blade Glints like a glittering savior I’ve been in cave pitch blindness I’ve wondered in a world of 8 billion How loneliness could ever put down roots In despair, I’ve found communion with mosquitoes and loons black bears and ravens And every phase of the moon With sparkling stars...

From a Home, to a House Gunneet Kaur Bhamra From the place, where comfort was found, And people meant happiness and laughter. From the lazy and cozy mornings, And chattering and cheery evenings. From those late-night family games and gossips, Because “tomorrow's a holiday... what a bliss!” To the place where comfort is only sought, Where people mean suffocation. To busy and chilly dawns, And gloom...

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead. Dec 15 - The Keeper’s Dream by Kiki Johnson @kiki_poetry  on Instagram Dec 16 - The Belle Of Yule by Melani Udaeta @melrose_poetry18  on Instagram. Her book,  Of Love and Music , is out now. Dec 17 - Clava Cairns by Jessica Aure Pratt @jessaure.poetr...

Still Light Unveils Marissa M. Zhu Moonrise drapes her muslin throat across the room. Everything hushes. Desire folds itself into brocade: my letter pressed beneath perfume bottles, your name stitched inside a pillow's seam. The sky forgets its vowels. Fingers braid the air with rumor. Windows withhold our reflections. Your face is washed in cathedral glass. We soak harsh truths in amber-dipped to...

Angels In Our Mouths Sandra Beth Levy On the tip of my tongue sit the ancient rabbis Yeshiva style they debate how many angels dance in my mouth thousands, millions, more than the stars in heaven The oldest star in space is named Methuselah grandfather of Noah, oldest biblical patriarch Scientists date Methuselah back fourteen billion years Before our universe exploded into existence with a Big Ba...

The Art of Returning Dr. Deepak Dev — for the ones who stayed through winter Some winters arrive without snow — only the long ache of unfinished warmth. Even the mirrors frost inward, as if the soul has forgotten its reflection. But the earth knows better. It keeps its promises underground — roots rehearsing resurrection, petals studying silence until they can speak again. Renewal is not a sunrise...

Clava Cairns Jessica Aure Pratt Clava Cairns A Scottish Bronze Age stone burial complex 4,000 years, pink standing stone faces winter solstice sunset, entryway to death, passage to return. solstice standing stone face death entryway to sun stone faces sunset passage pink face winter stand return to stone death faces sunset years return pink faces entryway to stone to solstice 4,000 year return pin...

The Belle of Yule Melani Udaeta She walked in the natural belle of Yule, lit up like the glitter upon the trees. Holding a dove waiting for its release in her arms the white bird appeared a jewel. Harmony poured from every molecule, joy rang in and sang of freedom and peace. Flying off fingertips into the breeze its wings carried an iconic symbol. Encompassing each of the Northern Lights her smile...

The Keeper’s Dream Kiki Johnson The ice angel said, “I know you dream of snowfields with lost fawns & tall pines” There are those of us who look to the call of snow’s powder to warm our souls. The blanket of death to keep us moving. To the call of herding spotted fawns back toward clearing in deep woodland, where majestic papa waits. We are the keepers of the deep-down buried things. We unders...

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead. Dec 8 - Momma Said Be Nice by Chris Kads @chris_kads on Instagram. Chris runs Gut Punch Prompts , a twice monthly poetry challenge on Instagram looking for poems that contain visceral language, raw emotion, and/or thought-provoking political and social commentary. In other words, poems that pack a punch! Dec...

Winter Marmalade Matthew D Albertson When the days of midnight sun Are past, a gnawing grows within— A pit of need. Not for want of food Or drink. No, it is the dark itself I yearn To eat, grown in gloaming hours— That of thy heart. Whene'er thy sorrows Fruit like sour, violet crabapples, I Lust to pluck them all from limb and Ground. Those succulent woes, thy Nighttime dread, to me is most Preser...

Good Things She remembers that you get to pick where you want to sit at IHOP And she knows exactly where she wants to sit. She notices we are wearing the same outfit Bike shorts and shirts with sleeves that are too big. Two women pick their favorite booth. She clocks their enthusiasm Content to share the experience Knowing the good things in life Come easy. More from Maggie Devers ↓ For My Daughte...

The Forest Maria Beben We tasted the ache like a familiar cocktail, one we hoped to never drink again. We took a branch that posed a danger and added more kindling, looking around for anything that would burn. We gathered and added until the branch became a forest and we couldn’t see through to the other side. We felt betrayed and confused and didn’t understand how we got there. We stood on opposi...

The Graduate Caitríona Walsh On the vesper of March I pulsed through the desert, Ever the vagary Clot of the bloodline. Koutoubia's minaret Catnapped before me, Steepled in sandstone– A moonshot missile Lullabied by ouds And kittens' Bare-bellied Midnight mewls. Medina mazes Assuaged by Cloud-confetti Orange blossoms– Palls of scent spun In arabesque spells Through souks Keyhole arches. I woke wit...

when we fall Paper Trail Poetry when we fall we give back to the soil that nurtured us. seasonally,  we are compost, yes, but life-giving nonetheless. when we fall our roots are ruptured; we are bare. decay tightens its cold, rotten grasp, but hope shall not be choked out. when we fall the way forward is paved with opportunity so make room for grace to replant you come spring where you’ll str...

Momma Said Be Nice Chris Kads This poem was originally published in Blood+Honey Lit mag and is being republished with SHINE International Poetry Series. You don’t expect to serve mashed potatoes and steak for breakfast. Don’t expect to find urine in a tub or to have sympathy for the assaulter who pissed in it. I’ve learned to let expectations fly like ashes. When the men retire so do the rules ins...

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead. Dec 1 - Timeline by Quinn Holm @quinnholm.muse and @gratusgarden on Instagram. Quinn Holm on Substack. Dec 2 - my throat makes by atm.itm @atm.itm on Instagram. @atmitm on Substack. They are co-founder of studio somnus: a creative project agency. Dec 3 - “as the ground begins to frost” by esso @esso_overflow...

Morning Magic Maggie Devers A princess sits at the edge of my bed Telling fantastical stories, My sleepy head tripping over the details But in line with the nuance. She prattles like a caffeinated sage, Wisdom seeping out of jumbled phrases, Bits of stories, weaving together Her dreams, desires, realities. It’s all the same, She speaks her life. Mentioned in this episode: One Poem Only submissions...

Hearthside Dorothy Parker Half across the world from me Lie the lands I'll never see- I, whose longing lives and dies Where a ship has sailed away; I, that never close my eyes But to look upon Cathay. Things I may not know nor tell Wait, where older waters swell; Ways that flowered at Sappho's tread, Winds that sighed in Homer's strings, Vibrant with the singing dead, Golden with the dust of wings...

Baby Book Maggie Devers I didn’t make my daughter a baby book, I wrote her weird poems instead. I can hear her explaining this to her friends, “There’s no scrapbook full of memories But there is a special poem about me being Athena, and one about my birth, and when I was conceived. My parents named me after a fancy hotel.” Dear God, what have I done? I’m that mom, The unhinged mom that really shou...

“I dreamt I was in Paris” Jen Booton I dreamt I was in Paris scents of coffee and absinthe wafting as olfactory wind chimes typewriters snug on Boulevard Montparnasse tables peppered with burgeoning authors lost among their own generation but destined to be famous for centuries. Drunk on wine, cigarettes and delusion sturdy as centenarian tree roots that their precious moment in time, after war, w...

Of Course Maggie Devers Her feet were purple when she was born, The cord pinned between her shoulder and me. Half a dozen extra doctors and nurses had converged in the room moments before, All of me open to all of them As my doctor, the one I started with so many weeks ago, Back when she told me they don’t use the tongs anymore, Suction cupped her tiny head and yanked, I breathed, And the baby ent...

“My poetry has big bones” Bex My poetry has big bones And big ideas too She wears vintage lace And she remembers every time she was slipped on... Poetry smokes green in the grass with her lover and dissects the sun for she remembers its inception. Poetry says - "I’m with you in this life and the next, I will eat every piece of you whole, wiping up what's left and wringing the cloth out in my mouth...

First Blood Maggie Devers I remember the first blood of her, The implant blood they call it. It was possible I was pregnant, We had laughed about it in Malta a few days and half a world away ago, Sitting on our private balcony in a walled city, Drinking a bottle of wine as a cart pulled by a horse strolled by. We’ll call her Xara, we said, for the hotel built into the battlements where she was con...