Latest Poetry Articles

May 28

Upcoming Poetry Events

Open mics, poetry slams, book launches, workshops, festivals and more!

This week’s newsletter features upcoming poetry events happening throughout Australia and online. Whether you’re looking to write, listen, or perform, there’s plenty to discover. Check out our list of open mics, poetry slams, book launches, workshops, festivals and more.

Uplift Poetry ∙ 2 LIKES ∙ 2 RESTACKS

Ben Adams

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This is a bit late in the game, but I wanted to share 𝗙𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗹𝘆 𝗦𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗲𝘁'𝘀 𝗦𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗹𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗣𝗼𝗲𝘁 manuscript competitions, which are currently open for submissions but 𝗰𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲 soon at midnight on 𝟯𝟭𝘀𝘁 𝗠𝗮𝘆 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟲 — this Sunday night!

Rules and formatting requirements for each can be found at the respective links.

Each volume in the 𝗦𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗹𝗲 𝗣𝗼𝗲𝘁 series publishes a full-length collection of poems from a poet who has not yet published such a collection. Find out more and enter here: https://friendlystreetpoets.org.au/2026/04/01/single-poet-2026-submissions-now-open/

Each volume in the 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗣𝗼𝗲𝘁𝘀 series publishes short collections of poems from three poets who have not yet published a collection of poetry. Find out more and enter here: https://friendlystreetpoets.org.au/2026/04/01/new-poets-27-submissions-now-open/

read poetry

May 26

Deep Dive into Beat Poetry

Introducing the Beat Generation & Writing Poetry Freely

Dear read poetry friends,

read poetry ∙ 30 LIKES ∙ 2 RESTACKS

poetry and musings by JC

•

Thank you for introducing me to this type of poetry.

I read First Snow, Kerhonkson

By Diane di Prima.

Love it. Left me wanting more, thinking intrigued

teatablepoet

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Okay, so I wasn't prepared for bear poetry. I think I will return it 😄

VERVE Poetry Festival

May 18

Poetry fits so neatly into a morning or a spare hour, and it brings such freedom into that time.

Suzannah Evans Furnass on poetry, green spaces, and never getting schticky. She takes the helm as Writing Hour host from June 1st, the first Monday of each month 5:30 - 6:30pm!

In her own words

VERVE Poetry ∙ 16 LIKES ∙ 1 RESTACKS

Jaiden Hordosillo

•

May 20

Great read.

Adam Cairns

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May 18

I really like the what feels urgent in poetry piece. So true.

Poetry Unbound

May 3

A recollection of a kind thing said

And the making of a map of memory

Dear friends,

Pádraig Ó Tuama ∙ 354 LIKES ∙ 33 RESTACKS

Anne Pender

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May 3

I have been working on a poem for a while now, trying to articulate to myself what had moved me so intensely about a comment made at the end of a 30-year college reunion not so long ago. Your prompt this week suddenly clicked it into place, Pádraig – thank you…

"Seen"

I lower my head,

lessen the distance

between your mouth and my ear

to catch your words in the noisy bar:

“You were the one I really wanted to see tonight.”

It has been a long time since the anticipation of me

has lingered in a man’s thoughts.

No matter if just platonic,

a delicious friction

flickers between us.

And I feel a sudden alive lightness at being seen

again; me, here, worth something to someone,

after years of invisible unexistence,

a future now beckoning

unexpectedly on the horizon.

David Levy

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May 3

High school was a disaster,

Not that anything happened there,

Life was too dangerous

To be visible, so I wasn’t.

Until one day, driving a green VW bug

Through my hometown’s “inner city”,

John Henry sat on a corner playing

The blues guitar. Blues harp in hand,

I asked him “May I join you?”

Sitting eyeball to eyeball, smile to smile,

We played those blues. John Henry

Paused, said “this boy’s got a bit of Soul”. Anointed, baptised, that’s what I was.

Poetry Unbound

May 17

Upon this rock

“the rock is here, is extremely visible and extremely, oh, eloquent”

Dear friends,

Pádraig Ó Tuama ∙ 286 LIKES ∙ 15 RESTACKS

Jo Mosser

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May 17

I live in some of the oldest mountains, where mind-bogglingly ancient peaks have been rounded by so much time and weather. I have always felt it is the deep bedrock here that helps write the story of our lives… it sends me to other places to meet other rocks.. and pulls me back again to tell about it. Ken Wilber once used a rock as an example of something that will not respond to you if you speak to it and I felt so unimpressed by his inability to relate. I agree with Don McKay about the eloquence of rocks. I’ve never once addressed a rock that did not address me back.

I’ve heard that if you really want to commit to something, tell a rock about it. I once told a pleasingly smooth chunk of sooty basalt that I wanted to be free from the chokehold of my father’s abuses, and we are still in this good conversation.

I once carried seven large stones in the back of my pick up truck--it was like divination, to see their configurations after each drive. I had a mysterious incident in that truck, in which I did not die, and not long after that, I carried these stones on a canoe, with my beloved, and dropped them near the center of an 800ft-deep lake. I return to them in my mind often, to learn about those deep, impossibly deep places.

When I am in need of grounding, I find some exposed bedrock and sit with my back to it. I imagine my bones are remembering something from the stone, or that the stone is listening to me through my bones.

I can’t wait to hear everyone’s stone stories here!

Lisa Marie Simmons

•

May 17

Hello Pádraig and friends,

Thank you all for another week of generous, thoughtful writing. Thank you, Pádraig, for this prompt and for Don McKay's voice in my ears. His description of rocks as "extremely visible, extremely eloquent” and the way they give us access to deep time struck a chord with me.

The first thing that came to mind from your prompt is a memory from an essay I wrote for Family Stories a few years back about meeting my brother Miles. My brother Miles was adopted before me, though he's younger, as an infant. I arrived on the scene years later at the age of 8.

Here's the extract:

My adoptive parents brought me into the house before the placement was even finalized. During that first full day and night with them, I was certain that this would only be trouble. I didn't trust a soul and had seen from experience that adults were not to be trusted.

Miles took me by the hand and showed me the house. Then the two of us slipped out the front door, sat on the cracked front stoop for a minute, where I stayed silent, pouting. After a few minutes of side-eying me, he pulled me over to the side of the house, where he showed me some rocks.

"This is mica, and they call this 'fool's gold,' and this is my favorite sandstone," he said.

"What's so great about sandstone?" I asked, kicking at the grass.

He took a pale red piece of sandstone, picked up another larger rock and broke the soft red rock into pieces, crushing it with the harder rock. He ground it down as if he were using a mortar and pestle.

Then he picked up the hose, filled a plastic bucket with water, and returned to me. He cupped some water in his hand and let a few drops fall onto our mound of red rock dust. Then, he rubbed it between his fingers to form a kind of paste. He then — very seriously — drew lines on my cheeks and forehead, after his own, and said: "Now we're ready for anything. War paint!"

That red sandstone held everything Miles was trying to tell me. You belong here. I've got you. We're in this together. He called it "war paint”, borrowing language from childhood imagination, not understanding its weight, but what he meant was simpler and deep. We're a team now, we're protected, we're ready. The rock became a bridge between two kids who didn't know how to trust anyone yet, and somehow, through dust and water and ritual, we began. Don McKay was right, rocks are eloquent. That pale red sandstone spoke for my brother when he couldn’t find words himself.

Poetry Unbound

Apr 26

A question that’s guided me ...

... for 30 years

Dear friends,

Pádraig Ó Tuama ∙ 443 LIKES ∙ 32 RESTACKS

Deb Bonham

•

Apr 26

When I’ve been in a Sydney ocean pool and I get out all tingley with my back to the sun. Watching other water addicts doing their thing! People are alive and informal at the oceans edge! I also like a full moon rise over the horizon.

Dipti Vyas

•

Apr 26

When do I feel most alive?

Not in becoming

but in the soft undoing

of the one who becomes

when effort loosens

its grip on meaning

and nothing is being held

not even “I”

not even “alive”

just this

without centre

without second

breathing itself

as what it is

Poetry Outdoors

May 14

The World That is Ours

Your weekly Mary Oliver poem and prompt.

Welcome to Dream Work: A Year-Long Writing Journey with Mary Oliver

Poetry Outdoors ∙ 102 LIKES ∙ 9 RESTACKS

Chris Madden

•

May 16

I love the poems! Here is mine: Mid-day Mountain Porch: https://substack.com/profile/117040827-chris-madden-md/note/c-260250554

Amy Turner

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May 16

Here is mine: https://amyturner971599.substack.com/p/in-the-field-at-7pm?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=1eavkj

Poetry Unbound

May 10

The Time underneath Time

and what gives life

Dear friends,

Pádraig Ó Tuama ∙ 349 LIKES ∙ 27 RESTACKS

Emily Bruno

•

May 10

When I was a litigator, I had a little ritual around my rage for when opposing counsel or the judge made me really angry. I would slick my hair back into a bun and put on bright red lipstick and then get to work on whatever email, reply, motion, brief, etc. the moment called for. It started as a kind of joke (a signal to others to leave me the hell alone if you don't want your head bitten off), but I soon found this literal "marking" of the emotion actually did help me get into a sort of flow state where some of my best, even creative, legal work was done. I would venture to say it was something of a sacred time. So I think there's something to the way we acknowledge and honor our rage, which can so often feel out of control, that helps us wrangle its wildness just a bit, to where we can work with it. Even if it's just with a coat of red lipstick.

Lisa Marie Simmons

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May 10

Hello Pádraig and all of you lovely poets. Happy Mother's Day to those who celebrate, and for those for whom this day is fraught, I am sending you extra special juju.

Pádraig, your poem "Makebelieve" is stunning (as usual), especially "all our songs and stories; our songs about the stories we've forgotten; and all that we've forgotten we've forgotten." That waterfall of forgetting, and the songs that somehow survive it. That feels like the heart of why we keep making things at all.

This question about rage and creativity sent me back to a piece I wrote years ago for HuffPost about being the Black adopted daughter of a woman whose father was in the KKK. I used my fury as fuel, but an important part was making sure the rage didn't corrode the work itself. Rage alone can be corrosive, destructive. We must do no harm, even when we're blazing.

That said, as a micro-to-macro writer, I have so often used my own rage to speak to larger issues, to turn private pain into something that might be useful, that might help someone else see more clearly. The trick, I think, is to let the rage propel you toward the page, then step back and let craft, precision, and empathy take over. The poem (or essay, or protest, or policy, or painting, or song, etc.) becomes the container that holds the heat without letting it burn everything down. (This idea of words as containers that hold meaning is inspired by the splendid Metaphors We Live By (1980) by George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, which I've been fascinated by this last week and highly recommend.) Thank you as ever, community and fosterer of the same!!

Poetry Unbound

May 24

What time is it?

(it’s pantoum time)

Dear friends,

Pádraig Ó Tuama ∙ 304 LIKES ∙ 46 RESTACKS

Michael T Smith

•

The day my wife and son go to church

And I stay behind

Although yesterday I spoke something

As I write, I become unraveled

And I stay behind

When I was younger I would draw pictures

As I write, I become unraveled

I couldn’t have known how fast it would go

When I was younger I would draw pictures

And anyway I still draw, well paint

I couldn’t have known how fast it would go

I had a dream that God told me to stop

And anyway I still draw, well paint

Although yesterday I spoke something

I had a dream that God told me to stop

The day my wife and son go to church

Adam Lauver

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Today is the day my friends leave

and I think I'll miss them when they're gone

although yesterday I wasn't so sure.

As I write, I wonder about friends

and I think I'll miss them when they're gone.

When I was younger I wanted them to miss me.

As I wrote, I'd wonder about friends:

I couldn’t have known how much I'd miss

when I was younger. I wanted to be missed,

and anyway, is every missing a lack?

I couldn’t have known how much I'd miss.

I had a dream I was stuck, waving at the gate

and anyway, is every missing a lack?

Tomorrow I may not be so sure.

In this one I'm stuck again, waving at the gate.

Today is the day I leave.

Poetry Outdoors

May 19

We Will Be Known as a Culture That Feared Death and Adored Power

Your weekly Mary Oliver poem and prompt.

Welcome to Dream Work: A Year-Long Writing Journey with Mary Oliver

Poetry Outdoors ∙ 68 LIKES ∙ 13 RESTACKS

Jeanie Shrode

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Here is my response to "Of the Empire". I'm so grateful to have found this safe place to share poetry!

https://substack.com/@jeanieshrode/note/c-264079054?r=c3042

Chris Madden

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Many of my poems are brighter than this one, but I often sadly see darkness when I look at what much of humanity is becoming - here is my response:

Truth

No escape from pings, rings, screens

the messiness of ourselves

noise everywhere, especially inside

seducing attention, diluting awareness

constricting, suffocating, blinding, killing

smearing and erasing truth so many times

we can't find our way back from chaos

as we consume the dying earth

humankind scrambling, ever urgent

but where is the kind in our stories and dramas

mindless and disconnected, discarding the miracle of ordinary

seeking pleasure at the expense of ALL

afflicted affluence, maligned intentions

voting with our scornful actions

vomiting false words, taking the gift for granted

rotten honey dribbling from the spectre's grin

lemmings marching in trance over the cliff of promise and prison

as we seek false ground chasing selfish illusions

grasping for a mirage of certainty and security in polluted air

we will be known as a culture of waste, division, destruction, death

the ignorant pandemic consuming our world

justifying the wasteland we leave behind

while the lotus blooms alone, unobserved, silent

and the loon cries into the barely moonlit night

begging us to notice the only truth left

-Chris Madden 5/22/26

Poetry Outdoors

May 25

The Insensible Light

Your weekly Mary Oliver poem and prompt.

Welcome to Dream Work: A Year-Long Writing Journey with Mary Oliver

Poetry Outdoors ∙ 47 LIKES ∙ 6 RESTACKS

Jessie May

•

Here is my poem!

What did you think when you

stood in that wheat field

did you see it all

the beauty of life the darkness

it brings

did you startle with the

crows

did you long to fly

away

away from this place

away from its pain

did their exit settle like

lead into your lonely

bones

Where do they go

the crows when they fly

away

and where did you go

so far into the despair of your mind that you could not be

reached

I want to tell you look

down from the crows and

their pesky omens

run your hand through the golden

wheat and know what it is

to live to shine

in light of the moon to

push up from the darkness of the

ground and live a second life

on and on and on

Off Ramp to Brave Spaces

•

Salvation

By @offramptobravespaces

How many paths before you cut

hopeful green swaths

through this golden field, aiming

at a horizon where

baby blue clouds tried

to hide a too-large storm

Why you

Why anyone

should seek this harsh

salvation

among the sharp, cutting blades

when the light goes out

What called you to the wheat fields

when the sun had gone out?

Etching your paths through

fighting grass, the effort evident,

each stroke heavy

like footsteps, dragging

even as you lifted your brushes

in one last reprisal

Conflicted by memories of

starry nights whose comfort

never carried past morning

This time something stopped

The wheat fields lost their hue

The paths cease mid-field

Why this field, Why this time?

Your brush strokes,

bold as ever,

belied the tortuous journey

too far for any man

to travel alone

-Written in response to the prompt about Vincent Van Gogh's Wheat Fields

VERVE Poetry Festival

May 26

These poems place what's going on in the world as background noise to relational encounters.

May 26 VERVE Poem of the Month winning and shortlisted poems.

This article features the winning and shortlisted poems from May’s Poem of the Month.

VERVE Poetry ∙ 13 LIKES ∙ 1 RESTACKS

Jaiden Hordosillo

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“Daughter” reminded me a lot of how parents help their children after bouts with addiction. I am going to be thinking about that all day now.

Awanto Magaret

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Loved reading all the poems

Poetry, YES!

May 28

yES, poEtRY, YeS!

May 30--Richard Silberg Poems

Yes, there will be a Zoom poetry reading and discussion this Saturday. To join, simply click on the underlined link below at the appointed time.

Bruce Isaacson ∙ 5 LIKES ∙ 1 RESTACKS

Rabbit Room Poetry

May 4

The Prism of Poetry: A Rabbit Room Poetry Roundup—Ashlyn McKayla Ohm

By Ashlyn McKayla Ohm

The Rabbit Room and Ashlyn McKayla Ohm ∙ 128 LIKES ∙ 49 RESTACKS

Rachel S. Donahue

•

May 4

I should probably be emptying my inbox instead of adding new subscriptions, but there are so many good poets here! 🙈 Keep up the good work, friends!

j j b r i n s k i

•

May 4

FRIENDS! So happy to say I personally read and know 3/4 of this amazing list. Such wonderful poetry and poets.

Rabbit Room Poetry

May 8

Poetry Prompts #1—May 2026

Part of the purpose of Rabbit Room Poetry is to not only nourish your creativity with excellent featured work but also give you actionable steps for moving forward with your own poetic projects. At the beginning of every month, we’ll be sharing a roundup of poetry prompts created by our Director of Content, Andy Patton, to whet your imagination and laun…

The Rabbit Room ∙ 62 LIKES ∙ 7 RESTACKS

Heggel Rafaelano

•

May 8

Prompt #1 Place:

Toil of Tantalus

Furthest of my heights, can’t reach.

Depths of my bends, can’t taste.

Under the homage shade of fig and olive trees,

light rests on craggy branches and green leaves.

I came to realize eternity over dreams.

Even upon relief from my torment,

still asking when this time ends?

Here, the fruits are eaten by winds,

and the water is parched by lands.

I too, always set up tents in extreme,

when there is wilderness in-between.

The ground evolutionarily sips:

“Neither bow: might makes right,

and right that makes its own light”.

The wind ideologically keens:

“You want to keep wanting,

the bonds of old aren’t the promises of now”.

Both are the tortuous spirits of the

philosophy of push and pull. O how

love makes life as sweet as figs,

making it edible, with no vow.

So perched is the Owl of Minerva on

starlit branches. Silent flight, coming

back from dusk with deferred messages.

Turned heads forced by boredom, anguish

or salience? Still the rock is overhead.

To see my neighbors Tityos and Sisyphus.

Whose imagined happiness was handed by

one in Tartarus, gathering with constellations.

As if the stars had any concern for us.

Being ignorant on the origins of beauty,

and hubristic to the origins of ugliness.

My hands toiled not, greed comforted me.

Spoiled by comforts, attaining desires.

I lived as death, gorging on goodness.

Expedience came, as it left:

covering my nakedness.

Still, I hunger and thirst,

there must be such a thing

as drink and food first;

that fill, quench and spring.

as sure as the dawn poetry

•

May 9

Sheila Bair

Prompt #3 Refrain:

Yet you are always with me

you are anchor spinal cord breathing beating chest on whom I rest lean

Yet you are always with

you surround embrace me reclaim me never abandoned never orphaned alone

Yet you are always

you scoop me up receive me into love endless bottomless first gasp to last unfailing

Yet you are

you never change never vacillate hesitate I cling to your solid rockness sureness

Yet you

infiltrate me contain me the air surrounding me breath inhaled life held

Yet

there is nothing I can do to drive you away

nothing I can do to make you stay

you are yesterday tomorrow today

you are always

you are with

you are

you

The Poetry Room

May 28

Season 8 is a Wrap! Thank you x 32849032

A Note from Masaki

Season 8 is done. We have been doing this for 9 years.

The Poetry Room ∙ 2 LIKES ∙ 1 RESTACKS

Plein Air Poetry

May 28

Explaining Déjà Vu

Old Flames, Old Trucks, Old Songs

Explaining Déjà Vu

Plein Air Poetry, Alexandra McIntosh, and Brad Davis ∙ 19 LIKES ∙ 4 RESTACKS

Abigail

•

13h

Loved spending time with your poem, your painting, and your thoughts about the power of memory.

Gabriel B.

•

19h

Déjà vu is a good subject for a poem to circle.

Of Trees & Poetry

May 22

Friday & Favourites Vol. 62

Homestead in the apocalypse

In the terrain of birch barks and dead leaves, the parasites have flowered. They leech nutrients off the fungi near the base of rotten trees, where they grow into translucent flowers, devoid of leaves. As I walk through the woods, giving my attention to every birdsong and branch that grazes my skin, I realize I’m an alien to the poems I’ve written in th…

Of Trees & Poetry, E R Skulmoski, and Julia McMullen ∙ 49 LIKES ∙ 3 RESTACKS

Martin Mc Carthy's Poetry Substack

May 24

Ghost-Note & Other Poetry

A Tribute to Bob Dylan on His 85th Birthday

Martin Mc Carthy ∙ 49 LIKES ∙ 28 RESTACKS

Rolando Andrade

•

This tribute to Bob Dylan is fantastic because it lets us read the poem while hearing Bob’s voice in our heads. It’s very evocative, a bit in the style of Bob Dylan, and it’s, as always, Martin’s excellent poetry .

Grace Drigo

•

This poem and tribute to Bob Dylan hit like a ray of sunshine through a gloomy day. The beautiful power of music and poetry, their ability to transcend time and last through generations has always amazed me. Happy Birthday Bob, what an incredible force of nature you are. Gorgeous trubute, Martin.🩵🎼🩵

Messy Ink Poetry

May 24

fleeting moment

A collaborative poem

attend to the heart hold it dearly its flickering light but a flash fading too easily

Messy Ink Poetry ∙ 25 LIKES ∙ 6 RESTACKS

Amrita Skye Blaine

•

Powerful, Messy. Thanks for finding a way to include me even though I was late. I'll try to be more timely.

Rolando Andrade

•

So beautiful. Thank you

Poetry's Substack

10:30 AM

The Most Satisfying Way of Embracing Contradictions

Rebecca Watts and Graeme Richardson on poetry, life, and criticism

Graeme Richardson: Rebecca, thanks for agreeing to chat like this. We’re both poets and critics – so maybe a starting-point for this conversation would be talking about poems we admire. I was just re-reading ‘Bournemouth’ by Kathryn Gray. Kathryn’s a poet I really rate: she began with a T.S. Eliot Prize shortlisted debut, but then took almost 20 years t…

Poetry London ∙ 4 LIKES ∙ 1 RESTACKS

Flash Poetry

7:53 AM

Flash Poetry @ Evoke Sounds Lounge Room Sessions

The next evolution of the Flash Poetry experience

I’m not into the idea that you can ‘make it’ as an artist. I believe in ‘making it’. The verb, the process, the lifestyle, the journey of devoting yourself to the thing you love and then actually doing the thing. By ‘making it’, it really does feel like I’ve already ‘made it’ — getting to hone and share my artistic practice on a daily basis to people wh…

Flash Poetry

Nina Lior Poetry

May 28

Publishing updates, poetry salons in Kansas City, and musings on becoming a snake

One foot in reality, one foot still in the mansion

I’m writing to you today from the comforts of my couch and a cozy blanket. I woke up at 2 am with the ‘rrhea…thankfully it stopped by around 10 am and you’re probably wondering, jeez, Nina, why the hell are we talking about your butt so early on into this newsletter?! I promise I have a point so stick around and you’ll know why soon :)

Nina Lior Poetry ∙ 5 LIKES ∙ 2 RESTACKS

Poetry and Gahwa

May 17

“Do a good deed and throw it in the river. One day it will come back to you in the desert”

Never regret the love or kindness you give. It returns to you in another time, in another person, in other circumstances. But it always comes back to you

When did we begin to believe that loving less is safer than loving well?

Poetry and Gahwa ∙ 483 LIKES ∙ 161 RESTACKS

Thoughts of a Nomad

•

May 17

I wish I could like this a million times

Shafa Yahya

•

May 17

Just what I needed to read. JazakAllah khair 🤲🏼 May our hearts soften even in times of distress and not lose hope

Poetry and Gahwa

May 3

Overthinking وسوسة: Why You Must Protect Your Thoughts

Most suffering is memory or imagination. Who will you become when you stop letting fear decide?

Nothing kills you faster than your own thoughts.

Poetry and Gahwa ∙ 1257 LIKES ∙ 477 RESTACKS

Ohanabanana

•

May 3

“Dhikr interrupts the cycle of overthinking” 🙌 accurate

kabdo

•

May 3

Such a great post! It's always good to remind ourselves of Allah, especially during times when so many thoughts are consuming our minds. I think the Dhikr of Allah, and the Qur'an, also known as Al-Dhikr, is something we can sometimes forget, but we always have the ability to be reminded of it. The more we remind ourselves of Allah and His message, the more we will be able to remember Him. I believe it all goes back to this: We don't control the thoughts that come to our mind, but we can control what we think about. Thanks for writing this, it was much needed.

Top 25 Poetry Articles on Substack

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Upcoming Poetry Events

Deep Dive into Beat Poetry

Poetry fits so neatly into a morning or a spare hour, and it brings such freedom into that time.

A recollection of a kind thing said

Upon this rock

A question that’s guided me ...

The World That is Ours

The Time underneath Time

What time is it?

We Will Be Known as a Culture That Feared Death and Adored Power

The Insensible Light

These poems place what's going on in the world as background noise to relational encounters.

yES, poEtRY, YeS!

The Prism of Poetry: A Rabbit Room Poetry Roundup—Ashlyn McKayla Ohm

Poetry Prompts #1—May 2026

Season 8 is a Wrap! Thank you x 32849032

Explaining Déjà Vu

Friday & Favourites Vol. 62

Ghost-Note & Other Poetry

fleeting moment

The Most Satisfying Way of Embracing Contradictions

Flash Poetry @ Evoke Sounds Lounge Room Sessions

Publishing updates, poetry salons in Kansas City, and musings on becoming a snake

“Do a good deed and throw it in the river. One day it will come back to you in the desert”

Overthinking وسوسة: Why You Must Protect Your Thoughts

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