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
https://athanasiossklavis.substack.com/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=59l45zMyMy
Here's a poem I wrote today,
My Study Facing West
My study facing West
Looks out into the wood
On mountains capped with snow
From a blue house in the pines
Nestled down below
My study facing west
Is filled with wondrous things
With oddities and books
With instruments of song
With elusive melodies
My study facing West
Where my black dog Bear
Curls on his Persian rug
Soaking up the rays
Of a winter’s afternoon
My study facing west
A place of sweet repose
To rest my weary bones
I hide myself away
From the tumult of the world
My study facing west
Is painted with the light
Of a golden somber dusk
Where sun dappled trees
Sway gently with the wind
a call to share
came in the gloom
with words to spare
i offer them so soon
as a comemt poem
silly as i make it
silly as we need it
in these days of doom
https://open.substack.com/pub/iammolting
Every line here feels startlingly alive
This is a poem which is half about my late maternal grandmother: https://poeticjourneyswithsharmila.substack.com/p/i-come-from-ode-to-the-asian-matriarch
Sharmila, thank you for sharing this piece of her with us,
https://substack.com/@poetoccasionally/note/p-177956657?r=4glrpu&utm_source=notes-share-action&utm_medium=web
This is a poem I wrote during two stages of a breakup: when it happened and a year later. Would love some feedback. I hope you like it!
This is quiet, strong work. Keep the lens on the bird and the ground beneath it, and the truth will rise on its own.
Your comment here is very much appreciated
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
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!