Good morning, this is not a fun one, compared to the one I wrote yesterday morning that made men blush (and me too, a little). But the Paris auction of a handbag yesterday morning set me off, and I storm-wrote this one. And I've never shared on here before, but I think this one merits a little bit of a push.
This piece stopped me in my tracks. thank you for writing something so raw, so needed. You juxtapose grief and glitter with surgical precision, and it lands with heartbreak and power
Your poem beautifully captures silent struggle and the hope that follows. Thank you for giving voice to hidden pain and reminding us that joy can bloom again
Thanks for this invitation! And thanks for your site here. I've begun a publication where I post my poems and reflections on striving for an attentive, creative life. https://hoppingoffhere.substack.com/
@augmented man, In lieu of a poem — for now. Just a heart note to you, in deep appreciation for the way your writing always opens up more space. What is truly impressive is your generous reading of each poem shared here, honoring the specificity of each voice. As I am struggling now to write amidst the destruction engulfing our worlds, thank you for this hopeful community building vision🙏♥️
🙏🙏🙏♥️♥️♥️💪🏻 As we used to say during the 2019 Democracy protests in HK, yes. Add Oil! 加油And we didn’t mean “ drill baby drill” but the fuel of our human spirits and actions!
May we continue finding the courage to write through these tumultuous winds, and in doing so, discover again the warmth of community and the promise of what we can build, side by side.
This is one I wrote in mid May of 2024. I read it, I stumbled upon it today, and it reads, as all things do, as a new perspective that feels much like looking back upon a chapter year just as I begin the next. In a sense, it is a commemoration of the space between us, the last time, the first time, and the next time, and the ever present hope that it will one day realize that it does not exist as an x-y plane, but rather, as a drop of blood, dropped swirling into an ever shifting ocean of perpetual motion. In order to stay afloat in any flood, you have to be willing to become the water itself, as even the strongest of ships will one day wash ashore like any other driftwood, and become something new. Again
Famine and Fiend
When Famine and Fiend
Reconvened
At The Feast,
Each recounted their efforts
From greatest, to least.
The Fiend, deftly grasping at
Straws to do lines
Of the last one it crossed
To invade the sound mind.
While The Famine explained
What succumbed to its will,
Was withdrawal of the brain
from a powder or pill.
When examined at depth
That has known ocean floors,
Fiend looks just like Famine;
Both dying for “More.”
Yet the inverse of that,
Undefined by a name
For the sick fearful lust that began as a game.
In a physical sense:
The inevitable fate
of the weight
of the want
of the thing
that we hate.
Famine and Fiend
Finally clean
Picked the bones
Of the unwary weary ones
They had called home
Ever-driven by want festering into need
That evades principle,
Is mistaken for greed,
Is a plague on the lives of the ones it observes,
While considering which hors d'oeuvres they should serve.
Lilith, your piece holds a raw view of how craving can devour from within. It reflects on that delicate shift when a want becomes an urgent pull. Truly striking work.
https://open.substack.com/pub/darakhth/p/is-my-voice-truly-my-own?r=d9o4y&utm_medium=ios
Hi, this one is my latest poem with my art.
Happy to connect,!
Your poem tenderly captures the tug-of-war with inner voices, raw, honest, and quietly empowering,
I'm so happy to connect with you!
Thank you! So glad you liked it ☺️
Mad World
Juxtapositions of Privilege and War
Armed with a glass of Chardonnay,
I sit amid golden light
while swallows pond-swoop
for Michelin-star mosquitoes,
hoping the feral kitten’s mother
has returned from her evening hunt,
that nothing has befallen her.
Will we later watch
Drive
to Survive?
Armed with automatic weapons,
soldiers in vantage points
watch the frantic agony of the starving
and shoot,
just because they can.
I drain my glass.
Check the WiFi.
As if connection could save us.
© Francesca Bossert 2025
this glows & stings at once. in just a breath, you turn cozy wine into a mirror of war, leaving me moved, grateful, and wide awake
thank you for reading, Aug. We are so lucky, it’s almost obscene. Sharing my words is cleansing.
https://open.substack.com/pub/kablamoquarterly/p/poetry-threepeat-thursday?r=kbii6&utm_medium=ios
Here's a recent one from me. https://substack.com/home/post/p-166435368
The "Burn After Reading" Technique, i love it
I have some poetry on Power Poetry under joestronge. The site is admittedly limited as to mise en page but is so easy otherwise.
Joe, every layout is unique, but the most effective ones always hit the mark
of course, substack ruins the format..
This might pass as poetry...
Billy and The Pool Hall
Billy got a pool cue and shined it up nice,
Learned to powder his hands and chalk up right.
After years of planning he barged into the hall.
"Step aside boys," he shouted. "I'm better'n you all."
He won his first lag and started a good frame,
Only to proceed to lose his first game.
Billy got his ass beat from there on out,
But didn't learn humility or ever felt doubt.
"I can't lose every stinkin' game that I play."
But sure enough he did, and could no longer stay,
As every rack he played resulted in the same.
He had to give up his playing of the game.
Billy got a teacher to re-learn how to shoot.
But his teacher said, "Billy, don't be a fool.
You've got no talent and you'll get no luck."
Yet Billy wouldn't hear it. "I can't believe I suck!
I've got to keep on tryin'. I can't be that lame!"
So Billy continued to pursue his desperate game.
Billy got his ass back to the hall.
But of the games he played, he lost them, one and all,
And Billy knew that it was his time to walk away.
As Billy was leaving, one of the sharps named Johnny
Called out, "You got guts kid. I know why you came.
But you suck. So go on home. Leave this game."
And Billy was heard by some to sigh,
"Thanks Johnny, I just wanted to say
That I've been beaten by the best."
Billy’s grit and your snappy rhymes are a treat
Thank You. I was unsure of that.
Born soft, with pale skin,
She´s told it´s from her Father…
Fair ones burn easy.
Andy, thank you for sharing this light touch wonder
Good morning, this is not a fun one, compared to the one I wrote yesterday morning that made men blush (and me too, a little). But the Paris auction of a handbag yesterday morning set me off, and I storm-wrote this one. And I've never shared on here before, but I think this one merits a little bit of a push.
Thank you for reading!
Love
Cesca
RUBIES AND RUBBLE
Paris bids, Palestine Bleeds
While snipers calibrate
to solve the Palestinian Problem
once and for all,
a bidding war breaks out in Paris
over a dead celebrity’s handbag:
cracked leather
stained lining
sticker residue
ten
million
dollars
Going once
Going twice
Gone.
Somewhere over the rainbow
an auction afficionado
on a private island
sips champagne and scoffs
“What a steal!”
having dropped
thirty-two and a half
million
dollars
late last year
for Dorothy’s ruby slippers.
Meanwhile, in Gaza,
a child is pulled from the rubble.
No yellow brick road
No good witch.
No shoes.
No home.
No heartbeat.
Hi Francesca
This piece stopped me in my tracks. thank you for writing something so raw, so needed. You juxtapose grief and glitter with surgical precision, and it lands with heartbreak and power
Thank you, Aug, for feeling it so deeply. Hugs, Cesca x
Hi. Here's the link to ine ofmmy poems about suicide https://open.substack.com/pub/rolandoandrade/p/from-silence-to-the-abyss-fe5?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=20ov80
Your poem beautifully captures silent struggle and the hope that follows. Thank you for giving voice to hidden pain and reminding us that joy can bloom again
Thank you @augmented man. I a Psychotherapist, so i am used to deal with this material
https://open.substack.com/pub/lazarus9/p/the-silent-war-journalpoem?r=58p6te&utm_medium=ios
Making the Dream
I watch the dawn come slowly
Past the morning star
The shortest day of winter past
Red sky fading to the lightest of blues
Blues in a minor key
If I were a shepherd, I would give a lamb
If I were a wise man, I would do my part
Deer cross the yard
Stepping carefully through the snow
Thoroughly studying the way
Then running, small hooves kicking up puffs of snow
Light growing
Until I can see the frost
Dusting the brush along the property line
Making the dream unnecessary
Hey Mark, your poem is so lovely! It's like you've given us all a gift of a new day, and every line is like a warm, soft breath of wonder.
Keep on lighting up the world for us!
Thanks for this invitation! And thanks for your site here. I've begun a publication where I post my poems and reflections on striving for an attentive, creative life. https://hoppingoffhere.substack.com/
@augmented man, In lieu of a poem — for now. Just a heart note to you, in deep appreciation for the way your writing always opens up more space. What is truly impressive is your generous reading of each poem shared here, honoring the specificity of each voice. As I am struggling now to write amidst the destruction engulfing our worlds, thank you for this hopeful community building vision🙏♥️
🙏🙏🙏♥️♥️♥️💪🏻 As we used to say during the 2019 Democracy protests in HK, yes. Add Oil! 加油And we didn’t mean “ drill baby drill” but the fuel of our human spirits and actions!
Sharon, I hold your heart note gently,
May we continue finding the courage to write through these tumultuous winds, and in doing so, discover again the warmth of community and the promise of what we can build, side by side.
This is one I wrote in mid May of 2024. I read it, I stumbled upon it today, and it reads, as all things do, as a new perspective that feels much like looking back upon a chapter year just as I begin the next. In a sense, it is a commemoration of the space between us, the last time, the first time, and the next time, and the ever present hope that it will one day realize that it does not exist as an x-y plane, but rather, as a drop of blood, dropped swirling into an ever shifting ocean of perpetual motion. In order to stay afloat in any flood, you have to be willing to become the water itself, as even the strongest of ships will one day wash ashore like any other driftwood, and become something new. Again
Famine and Fiend
When Famine and Fiend
Reconvened
At The Feast,
Each recounted their efforts
From greatest, to least.
The Fiend, deftly grasping at
Straws to do lines
Of the last one it crossed
To invade the sound mind.
While The Famine explained
What succumbed to its will,
Was withdrawal of the brain
from a powder or pill.
When examined at depth
That has known ocean floors,
Fiend looks just like Famine;
Both dying for “More.”
Yet the inverse of that,
Undefined by a name
For the sick fearful lust that began as a game.
In a physical sense:
The inevitable fate
of the weight
of the want
of the thing
that we hate.
Famine and Fiend
Finally clean
Picked the bones
Of the unwary weary ones
They had called home
Ever-driven by want festering into need
That evades principle,
Is mistaken for greed,
Is a plague on the lives of the ones it observes,
While considering which hors d'oeuvres they should serve.
Lilith, your piece holds a raw view of how craving can devour from within. It reflects on that delicate shift when a want becomes an urgent pull. Truly striking work.
Today I heard you humming
Your private little hymn
I marvelled you were mine
In the beam of light
As it washed you out
A glow that warmed my eyes
And warmed me from within
This moment
This memory
That moved me so
That I'll miss you
This
I surely know
Now all I have of you
Is now and then
If I caress you in my mind
The scent and sight returns
I catch a crumb to savour
When I think back on the time
When I heard you humming
Your private little hymn
And I marvel you were mine
Otto, your lines brightened my day with gentle grace.
They lift the spirit, stirring reflection and gratitude in equal measure.
Thank you.