#poemoftheday — Public Fediverse posts

HAPPY WIFE #husband #wife #marriedlife #marriage #happy #bookrecommendations #POEMS #poetrycommunity #poetry #funny #jokes #poet #poem #poemoftheday

HAPPY WIFE #husband #wife #marriedlife #marriage #happy #bookrecommendations #POEMS #poetrycommunity #poetry #funny #jokes #poet #poem #poemoftheday

@PaulaToThePeople

#poemoftheday 🤓 :mastodon:

The Warehouse Window

For my sunlight,
its glass cut through a concrete wall
the edges crumbled and rocky,
like an unfinished birthday cake.
No place for symmetry or neatness
when testing and receiving
networking equipment with a candelabra of cords.
The whir of fans, hard drives,
circuit boards, modules, and power supplies
are their own orchestra.

I’m their repeating crowd for this ensemble
I have memorized all their
performances, crescendos, movements,
choruses, and solos.
The yoked fluorescent lights,
stallion forklift, or gluttonous cardboard compactor
endlessly feasting in the corner
by the loading dock where
an occasional wasp wanders inside this mirage
to die in a papery sleep.

That sunshine above’s the same
as in my son’s elementary school window
sloping through the courtyard where ferns
and flowerpots hide a dry duck nest.
The kids named her Simone.
She has three eggs
an opaque olive, pearl, and coral.
They’re blurbs of shell and membrane.
They wanted to name them too,
but those dreams weren’t real yet.
You have to know they’ll live.

I knew my classroom wall
beside our courtyard door
where we pasted, crinkled, and scribbled
dinosaurs, sloths, and squids
against paper sorceries of
marine life, prehistoric countrysides,
and endless amazon jungles.
We had our own momma duck too,
her name long empty amongst almost everything
I remembered, wondered,
and dreamed

in fourth grade.

#author #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

The Warehouse Window

For my sunlight,
its glass cut through a concrete wall
the edges crumbled and rocky,
like an unfinished birthday cake.
No place for symmetry or neatness
when testing and receiving
networking equipment with a candelabra of cords.
The whir of fans, hard drives,
circuit boards, modules, and power supplies
are their own orchestra.

I’m their repeating crowd for this ensemble
I have memorized all their
performances, crescendos, movements,
choruses, and solos.
The yoked fluorescent lights,
stallion forklift, or gluttonous cardboard compactor
endlessly feasting in the corner
by the loading dock where
an occasional wasp wanders inside this mirage
to die in a papery sleep.

That sunshine above’s the same
as in my son’s elementary school window
sloping through the courtyard where ferns
and flowerpots hide a dry duck nest.
The kids named her Simone.
She has three eggs
an opaque olive, pearl, and coral.
They’re blurbs of shell and membrane.
They wanted to name them too,
but those dreams weren’t real yet.
You have to know they’ll live.

I knew my classroom wall
beside our courtyard door
where we pasted, crinkled, and scribbled
dinosaurs, sloths, and squids
against paper sorceries of
marine life, prehistoric countrysides,
and endless amazon jungles.
We had our own momma duck too,
her name long empty amongst almost everything
I remembered, wondered,
and dreamed

in fourth grade.

#author #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

The Warehouse Window

For my sunlight,
its glass cut through a concrete wall
the edges crumbled and rocky,
like an unfinished birthday cake.
No place for symmetry or neatness
when testing and receiving
networking equipment with a candelabra of cords.
The whir of fans, hard drives,
circuit boards, modules, and power supplies
are their own orchestra.

I’m their repeating crowd for this ensemble
I have memorized all their
performances, crescendos, movements,
choruses, and solos.
The yoked fluorescent lights,
stallion forklift, or gluttonous cardboard compactor
endlessly feasting in the corner
by the loading dock where
an occasional wasp wanders inside this mirage
to die in a papery sleep.

That sunshine above’s the same
as in my son’s elementary school window
sloping through the courtyard where ferns
and flowerpots hide a dry duck nest.
The kids named her Simone.
She has three eggs
an opaque olive, pearl, and coral.
They’re blurbs of shell and membrane.
They wanted to name them too,
but those dreams weren’t real yet.
You have to know they’ll live.

I knew my classroom wall
beside our courtyard door
where we pasted, crinkled, and scribbled
dinosaurs, sloths, and squids
against paper sorceries of
marine life, prehistoric countrysides,
and endless amazon jungles.
We had our own momma duck too,
her name long empty amongst almost everything
I remembered, wondered,
and dreamed

in fourth grade.

#author #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

The Warehouse Window

For my sunlight,
its glass cut through a concrete wall
the edges crumbled and rocky,
like an unfinished birthday cake.
No place for symmetry or neatness
when testing and receiving
networking equipment with a candelabra of cords.
The whir of fans, hard drives,
circuit boards, modules, and power supplies
are their own orchestra.

I’m their repeating crowd for this ensemble
I have memorized all their
performances, crescendos, movements,
choruses, and solos.
The yoked fluorescent lights,
stallion forklift, or gluttonous cardboard compactor
endlessly feasting in the corner
by the loading dock where
an occasional wasp wanders inside this mirage
to die in a papery sleep.

That sunshine above’s the same
as in my son’s elementary school window
sloping through the courtyard where ferns
and flowerpots hide a dry duck nest.
The kids named her Simone.
She has three eggs
an opaque olive, pearl, and coral.
They’re blurbs of shell and membrane.
They wanted to name them too,
but those dreams weren’t real yet.
You have to know they’ll live.

I knew my classroom wall
beside our courtyard door
where we pasted, crinkled, and scribbled
dinosaurs, sloths, and squids
against paper sorceries of
marine life, prehistoric countrysides,
and endless amazon jungles.
We had our own momma duck too,
her name long empty amongst almost everything
I remembered, wondered,
and dreamed

in fourth grade.

#author #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

The Warehouse Window

For my sunlight,
its glass cut through a concrete wall
the edges crumbled and rocky,
like an unfinished birthday cake.
No place for symmetry or neatness
when testing and receiving
networking equipment with a candelabra of cords.
The whir of fans, hard drives,
circuit boards, modules, and power supplies
are their own orchestra.

I’m their repeating crowd for this ensemble
I have memorized all their
performances, crescendos, movements,
choruses, and solos.
The yoked fluorescent lights,
stallion forklift, or gluttonous cardboard compactor
endlessly feasting in the corner
by the loading dock where
an occasional wasp wanders inside this mirage
to die in a papery sleep.

That sunshine above’s the same
as in my son’s elementary school window
sloping through the courtyard where ferns
and flowerpots hide a dry duck nest.
The kids named her Simone.
She has three eggs
an opaque olive, pearl, and coral.
They’re blurbs of shell and membrane.
They wanted to name them too,
but those dreams weren’t real yet.
You have to know they’ll live.

I knew my classroom wall
beside our courtyard door
where we pasted, crinkled, and scribbled
dinosaurs, sloths, and squids
against paper sorceries of
marine life, prehistoric countrysides,
and endless amazon jungles.
We had our own momma duck too,
her name long empty amongst almost everything
I remembered, wondered,
and dreamed

in fourth grade.

#author #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

#poemoftheday Lucille Clifton

RE: https://bsky.app/profile/did:plc:6ahomt455dmshbflc64jfwgg/post/3mbp66pagb22o

Poem of the Day: "Twilight of Wisdom" #poetry #poem #poemoftheday

The Anonymous User

Relatable for every ghost account grinding in silence... #Anonymous #PoertyCommunity #AnonymousUser #Poetry #Philosophy #MorcuxWrites #VerseVibes #ThoughtProvoking #WriterCommunity #MindfulMoments #Art #InstaWrite #SelfDiscovery #PoemOfTheDay #anonymousUser87 🖤🖤🖤

15 years ago I was living in my grandma's old house, and my dad ended up selling it because of life and such. This poem is about what I found carved on a pillar by my uncle and him when they were children. Enjoy!

#poem #poetry #reading #poetrycommunity #poems #writing #poetrylover #poemoftheday

https://patrickwmarshauthor.wordpress.com/2025/12/10/you-are-the-king-and-i-am-your-star/

“You are the King, and I am your Star”

It was etched, carved, and bled there
by you and my uncle.
A lost language scribbled
upon your trauma Rosetta Stone.
Years after you’d moved off
the street, shack, slum
and into this real home,
devoid of rats, rags,
and abusive fathers.

It was on a beam in the basement,
behind an old TV box,
with dead earwigs in its folds.
The house once had a garden
from your mother, my grandmother.
And those bugs, the clawed ink-drops
were living everywhere
their husks, fossil-songs
to her stalks of cherry tomatoes.

The wood was creased, parted,
and curled, as if the vignette had just happened.
You were still the two little boys
marking it yours, with the sunlight
tracing through a ground-level window,
growing life in a non-chlorophyll pattern
from 94 million miles away
a natural spotlight on hope between past and future.

We found it when I was moving out.
Another bout of depression, failed
relationship, and unpaid rent
for your childhood home
you bought when grandma died.
It was a piece of you; something you wanted
for memory, family, a forever symbol of safety.
A limb of hope after
so many emotional dismemberments.

I could not hold onto it,
It was slippery, slimy, a dream that didn’t want
to be held, an eel lurking in the quagmire,
eternally wriggling away
beneath the subtlest grasp.
Your sanctuary was another rubble-sunk Atlantis,
so now, years after it was sold and lost
your first glimmer amongst the poverty

I can at least remember what it said.

#blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

“You are the King, and I am your Star”

It was etched, carved, and bled there
by you and my uncle.
A lost language scribbled
upon your trauma Rosetta Stone.
Years after you’d moved off
the street, shack, slum
and into this real home,
devoid of rats, rags,
and abusive fathers.

It was on a beam in the basement,
behind an old TV box,
with dead earwigs in its folds.
The house once had a garden
from your mother, my grandmother.
And those bugs, the clawed ink-drops
were living everywhere
their husks, fossil-songs
to her stalks of cherry tomatoes.

The wood was creased, parted,
and curled, as if the vignette had just happened.
You were still the two little boys
marking it yours, with the sunlight
tracing through a ground-level window,
growing life in a non-chlorophyll pattern
from 94 million miles away
a natural spotlight on hope between past and future.

We found it when I was moving out.
Another bout of depression, failed
relationship, and unpaid rent
for your childhood home
you bought when grandma died.
It was a piece of you; something you wanted
for memory, family, a forever symbol of safety.
A limb of hope after
so many emotional dismemberments.

I could not hold onto it,
It was slippery, slimy, a dream that didn’t want
to be held, an eel lurking in the quagmire,
eternally wriggling away
beneath the subtlest grasp.
Your sanctuary was another rubble-sunk Atlantis,
so now, years after it was sold and lost
your first glimmer amongst the poverty

I can at least remember what it said.

#blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

“You are the King, and I am your Star”

It was etched, carved, and bled there
by you and my uncle.
A lost language scribbled
upon your trauma Rosetta Stone.
Years after you’d moved off
the street, shack, slum
and into this real home,
devoid of rats, rags,
and abusive fathers.

It was on a beam in the basement,
behind an old TV box,
with dead earwigs in its folds.
The house once had a garden
from your mother, my grandmother.
And those bugs, the clawed ink-drops
were living everywhere
their husks, fossil-songs
to her stalks of cherry tomatoes.

The wood was creased, parted,
and curled, as if the vignette had just happened.
You were still the two little boys
marking it yours, with the sunlight
tracing through a ground-level window,
growing life in a non-chlorophyll pattern
from 94 million miles away
a natural spotlight on hope between past and future.

We found it when I was moving out.
Another bout of depression, failed
relationship, and unpaid rent
for your childhood home
you bought when grandma died.
It was a piece of you; something you wanted
for memory, family, a forever symbol of safety.
A limb of hope after
so many emotional dismemberments.

I could not hold onto it,
It was slippery, slimy, a dream that didn’t want
to be held, an eel lurking in the quagmire,
eternally wriggling away
beneath the subtlest grasp.
Your sanctuary was another rubble-sunk Atlantis,
so now, years after it was sold and lost
your first glimmer amongst the poverty

I can at least remember what it said.

#blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

“You are the King, and I am your Star”

It was etched, carved, and bled there
by you and my uncle.
A lost language scribbled
upon your trauma Rosetta Stone.
Years after you’d moved off
the street, shack, slum
and into this real home,
devoid of rats, rags,
and abusive fathers.

It was on a beam in the basement,
behind an old TV box,
with dead earwigs in its folds.
The house once had a garden
from your mother, my grandmother.
And those bugs, the clawed ink-drops
were living everywhere
their husks, fossil-songs
to her stalks of cherry tomatoes.

The wood was creased, parted,
and curled, as if the vignette had just happened.
You were still the two little boys
marking it yours, with the sunlight
tracing through a ground-level window,
growing life in a non-chlorophyll pattern
from 94 million miles away
a natural spotlight on hope between past and future.

We found it when I was moving out.
Another bout of depression, failed
relationship, and unpaid rent
for your childhood home
you bought when grandma died.
It was a piece of you; something you wanted
for memory, family, a forever symbol of safety.
A limb of hope after
so many emotional dismemberments.

I could not hold onto it,
It was slippery, slimy, a dream that didn’t want
to be held, an eel lurking in the quagmire,
eternally wriggling away
beneath the subtlest grasp.
Your sanctuary was another rubble-sunk Atlantis,
so now, years after it was sold and lost
your first glimmer amongst the poverty

I can at least remember what it said.

#blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

“You are the King, and I am your Star”

It was etched, carved, and bled there
by you and my uncle.
A lost language scribbled
upon your trauma Rosetta Stone.
Years after you’d moved off
the street, shack, slum
and into this real home,
devoid of rats, rags,
and abusive fathers.

It was on a beam in the basement,
behind an old TV box,
with dead earwigs in its folds.
The house once had a garden
from your mother, my grandmother.
And those bugs, the clawed ink-drops
were living everywhere
their husks, fossil-songs
to her stalks of cherry tomatoes.

The wood was creased, parted,
and curled, as if the vignette had just happened.
You were still the two little boys
marking it yours, with the sunlight
tracing through a ground-level window,
growing life in a non-chlorophyll pattern
from 94 million miles away
a natural spotlight on hope between past and future.

We found it when I was moving out.
Another bout of depression, failed
relationship, and unpaid rent
for your childhood home
you bought when grandma died.
It was a piece of you; something you wanted
for memory, family, a forever symbol of safety.
A limb of hope after
so many emotional dismemberments.

I could not hold onto it,
It was slippery, slimy, a dream that didn’t want
to be held, an eel lurking in the quagmire,
eternally wriggling away
beneath the subtlest grasp.
Your sanctuary was another rubble-sunk Atlantis,
so now, years after it was sold and lost
your first glimmer amongst the poverty

I can at least remember what it said.

#blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

Triggers with depression and trauma are everywhere. Accepting them into your daily life is tricky. Sunlight marks my memory thoroughly. Just another journey to be one.

#poetry #poem #writing #reading #poems #poetrylovers #poemoftheday #poetrycommunity #ampoetry #trauma #depression #mentalillness

https://patrickwmarshauthor.wordpress.com/2025/12/03/i-cant-change-the-sunlight-2/

I Can’t Change the Sunlight

First, it was the beams between dust,
highlighting particles dancing
in my parent’s basement
with chocolate carpet and an eyebrow window.
Where we, old friends and lovers,
would swap dreams and desires
until you tearfully realized I couldn’t do anything
but wrestle with my depression.

Then, rays of it glittering in jeweled reflections
during our honeymoon
on an emerald lagoon, with tropic tips, and
bows of sand being plucked by Key Largo waves.
That sediment could never be a keep or castle,
it was too broken, fragmented,
and fragile to form any support.
Just like us.

Next was the morning slanting through
the bay window over the couch of our old house.
A theater seat for our fights, screaming, throwing, thrashing,
and every detail of my unending depression.
You, my son, are on my lap, asleep, an infant.
I’m crying, and the tears sting your forehead.
I wipe them away, my trauma baptism,
I have an endless supply.

This stardust anchor falling through time
and space, cracking the earth’s atmosphere,
honing our existence, growing our cells,
is a cosmic stake piercing my heart.
It will not end me. I’m always undead.
Worse, it reminds me honestly
that this daylight trigger
will always be there

as long as I am.

#ampoetry #author #blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poetry #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

I Can’t Change the Sunlight

First, it was the beams between dust,
highlighting particles dancing
in my parent’s basement
with chocolate carpet and an eyebrow window.
Where we, old friends and lovers,
would swap dreams and desires
until you tearfully realized I couldn’t do anything
but wrestle with my depression.

Then, rays of it glittering in jeweled reflections
during our honeymoon
on an emerald lagoon, with tropic tips, and
bows of sand being plucked by Key Largo waves.
That sediment could never be a keep or castle,
it was too broken, fragmented,
and fragile to form any support.
Just like us.

Next was the morning slanting through
the bay window over the couch of our old house.
A theater seat for our fights, screaming, throwing, thrashing,
and every detail of my unending depression.
You, my son, are on my lap, asleep, an infant.
I’m crying, and the tears sting your forehead.
I wipe them away, my trauma baptism,
I have an endless supply.

This stardust anchor falling through time
and space, cracking the earth’s atmosphere,
honing our existence, growing our cells,
is a cosmic stake piercing my heart.
It will not end me. I’m always undead.
Worse, it reminds me honestly
that this daylight trigger
will always be there

as long as I am.

#ampoetry #author #blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poetry #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

I Can’t Change the Sunlight

First, it was the beams between dust,
highlighting particles dancing
in my parent’s basement
with chocolate carpet and an eyebrow window.
Where we, old friends and lovers,
would swap dreams and desires
until you tearfully realized I couldn’t do anything
but wrestle with my depression.

Then, rays of it glittering in jeweled reflections
during our honeymoon
on an emerald lagoon, with tropic tips, and
bows of sand being plucked by Key Largo waves.
That sediment could never be a keep or castle,
it was too broken, fragmented,
and fragile to form any support.
Just like us.

Next was the morning slanting through
the bay window over the couch of our old house.
A theater seat for our fights, screaming, throwing, thrashing,
and every detail of my unending depression.
You, my son, are on my lap, asleep, an infant.
I’m crying, and the tears sting your forehead.
I wipe them away, my trauma baptism,
I have an endless supply.

This stardust anchor falling through time
and space, cracking the earth’s atmosphere,
honing our existence, growing our cells,
is a cosmic stake piercing my heart.
It will not end me. I’m always undead.
Worse, it reminds me honestly
that this daylight trigger
will always be there

as long as I am.

#ampoetry #author #blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poetry #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

I Can’t Change the Sunlight

First, it was the beams between dust,
highlighting particles dancing
in my parent’s basement
with chocolate carpet and an eyebrow window.
Where we, old friends and lovers,
would swap dreams and desires
until you tearfully realized I couldn’t do anything
but wrestle with my depression.

Then, rays of it glittering in jeweled reflections
during our honeymoon
on an emerald lagoon, with tropic tips, and
bows of sand being plucked by Key Largo waves.
That sediment could never be a keep or castle,
it was too broken, fragmented,
and fragile to form any support.
Just like us.

Next was the morning slanting through
the bay window over the couch of our old house.
A theater seat for our fights, screaming, throwing, thrashing,
and every detail of my unending depression.
You, my son, are on my lap, asleep, an infant.
I’m crying, and the tears sting your forehead.
I wipe them away, my trauma baptism,
I have an endless supply.

This stardust anchor falling through time
and space, cracking the earth’s atmosphere,
honing our existence, growing our cells,
is a cosmic stake piercing my heart.
It will not end me. I’m always undead.
Worse, it reminds me honestly
that this daylight trigger
will always be there

as long as I am.

#ampoetry #author #blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poetry #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

I Can’t Change the Sunlight

First, it was the beams between dust,
highlighting particles dancing
in my parent’s basement
with chocolate carpet and an eyebrow window.
Where we, old friends and lovers,
would swap dreams and desires
until you tearfully realized I couldn’t do anything
but wrestle with my depression.

Then, rays of it glittering in jeweled reflections
during our honeymoon
on an emerald lagoon, with tropic tips, and
bows of sand being plucked by Key Largo waves.
That sediment could never be a keep or castle,
it was too broken, fragmented,
and fragile to form any support.
Just like us.

Next was the morning slanting through
the bay window over the couch of our old house.
A theater seat for our fights, screaming, throwing, thrashing,
and every detail of my unending depression.
You, my son, are on my lap, asleep, an infant.
I’m crying, and the tears sting your forehead.
I wipe them away, my trauma baptism,
I have an endless supply.

This stardust anchor falling through time
and space, cracking the earth’s atmosphere,
honing our existence, growing our cells,
is a cosmic stake piercing my heart.
It will not end me. I’m always undead.
Worse, it reminds me honestly
that this daylight trigger
will always be there

as long as I am.

#ampoetry #author #blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poetry #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

I wrote this poem about my father's struggles with hoarding throughout his life. It comes and goes, and the more I learn about my own trauma, the more I see his hoarding reflected in his. Enjoy.

#poem #poetry #writing #reading #hoarding #family #poet #ampoetry #poemoftheday

https://patrickwmarshauthor.wordpress.com/2025/11/26/the-cast-iron-star-2/

The Cast Iron Star

My father’s hoarding heart
is bending bricks in his garage
creasing the foundation, turning
his house downward,
closer to the pit
he clawed out from.

At first, just artifacts
bits of his past lives
recovered from dead family.
Immortalized in tins, boxes,
bins, stacks, and piles in his office,
study, backroom, and garages.

My mother would whisper
that he’d always be this way
perpetually holding, gathering, keeping
things for the future, or to anchor the past
a ship adrift in trauma and loss,
without a compass or map.

I stare at that cast-iron bathtub,
the 600 pound invertebrate
bulging out of this house’s spine.
Another shadow added to his grief silhouette
a mixed-media of material requiems
to his past and present.

I know that when he dies
it’ll still be here.
I don’t have the strength to move it.
How could I pluck his favorite constellation
of its most beloved star?
For him,

it’ll always lead home.

#ampoetry #amwriting #books #family #hoarding #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetry #reading #writing

Poem of the Day: "Rainbird" #poetry #poem #poemoftheday

Poem of the Day: "Mindful Note" #poetry #poem #poemoftheday

Poem of the Day: "Auburn Beast" #poetry #poem #poemoftheday

Poem of the Day: "Ode to Caffeine" #poetry #poem #poemoftheday

Read my poem “Kindness”

Give me trauma on a blackboard
I’ll glitter all its owls and tentacles
encircling and stamping the
freakish and rancid record we
have etched on the atoms of our reality.

Afterall, we all shatter, hurt, and harm.
Life is an appalling confectioner of pain.
We do it minutely and majorly
tying these cruel ribbons
together over our own coffin.

When the good and kind happens,
those cerulean clouds hanging
on the smeared edge of a Bob Ross painting
we wonder how to feel, breathe, and act,
as if happiness were the vaguest whisper.

We’re always nurturing doubt,
a mandrake necktie perpetually tightened
by anyone at any moment of any time.
It isn’t nemesis specific
but a negative, shapeshifting terrain.

I’m so proficient at the dark
it’s my tallest city, a hades overpopulated.
The rain-colored afternoon is always preferred
and when the system splits and
the jailed trees bloom

I don’t know what to do.

#creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #poem #poemOfTheDay #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

Read my poem “Kindness”

Give me trauma on a blackboard
I’ll glitter all its owls and tentacles
encircling and stamping the
freakish and rancid record we
have etched on the atoms of our reality.

Afterall, we all shatter, hurt, and harm.
Life is an appalling confectioner of pain.
We do it minutely and majorly
tying these cruel ribbons
together over our own coffin.

When the good and kind happens,
those cerulean clouds hanging
on the smeared edge of a Bob Ross painting
we wonder how to feel, breathe, and act,
as if happiness were the vaguest whisper.

We’re always nurturing doubt,
a mandrake necktie perpetually tightened
by anyone at any moment of any time.
It isn’t nemesis specific
but a negative, shapeshifting terrain.

I’m so proficient at the dark
it’s my tallest city, a hades overpopulated.
The rain-colored afternoon is always preferred
and when the system splits and
the jailed trees bloom

I don’t know what to do.

#creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #poem #poemOfTheDay #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

Read my poem “Kindness”

Give me trauma on a blackboard
I’ll glitter all its owls and tentacles
encircling and stamping the
freakish and rancid record we
have etched on the atoms of our reality.

Afterall, we all shatter, hurt, and harm.
Life is an appalling confectioner of pain.
We do it minutely and majorly
tying these cruel ribbons
together over our own coffin.

When the good and kind happens,
those cerulean clouds hanging
on the smeared edge of a Bob Ross painting
we wonder how to feel, breathe, and act,
as if happiness were the vaguest whisper.

We’re always nurturing doubt,
a mandrake necktie perpetually tightened
by anyone at any moment of any time.
It isn’t nemesis specific
but a negative, shapeshifting terrain.

I’m so proficient at the dark
it’s my tallest city, a hades overpopulated.
The rain-colored afternoon is always preferred
and when the system splits and
the jailed trees bloom

I don’t know what to do.

#creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #poem #poemOfTheDay #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

Read my poem “Kindness”

Give me trauma on a blackboard
I’ll glitter all its owls and tentacles
encircling and stamping the
freakish and rancid record we
have etched on the atoms of our reality.

Afterall, we all shatter, hurt, and harm.
Life is an appalling confectioner of pain.
We do it minutely and majorly
tying these cruel ribbons
together over our own coffin.

When the good and kind happens,
those cerulean clouds hanging
on the smeared edge of a Bob Ross painting
we wonder how to feel, breathe, and act,
as if happiness were the vaguest whisper.

We’re always nurturing doubt,
a mandrake necktie perpetually tightened
by anyone at any moment of any time.
It isn’t nemesis specific
but a negative, shapeshifting terrain.

I’m so proficient at the dark
it’s my tallest city, a hades overpopulated.
The rain-colored afternoon is always preferred
and when the system splits and
the jailed trees bloom

I don’t know what to do.

#creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #poem #poemOfTheDay #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

Read my poem “Kindness”

Give me trauma on a blackboard
I’ll glitter all its owls and tentacles
encircling and stamping the
freakish and rancid record we
have etched on the atoms of our reality.

Afterall, we all shatter, hurt, and harm.
Life is an appalling confectioner of pain.
We do it minutely and majorly
tying these cruel ribbons
together over our own coffin.

When the good and kind happens,
those cerulean clouds hanging
on the smeared edge of a Bob Ross painting
we wonder how to feel, breathe, and act,
as if happiness were the vaguest whisper.

We’re always nurturing doubt,
a mandrake necktie perpetually tightened
by anyone at any moment of any time.
It isn’t nemesis specific
but a negative, shapeshifting terrain.

I’m so proficient at the dark
it’s my tallest city, a hades overpopulated.
The rain-colored afternoon is always preferred
and when the system splits and
the jailed trees bloom

I don’t know what to do.

#creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #poem #poemOfTheDay #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing

England is a cup of tea. France, a wheel of ripened brie. Greece, a short, squat olive tree. America is a gun. Japan is a thermal spring. Scotland is a highland fling. Oh, better to be anything than America as a gun. //Brian Bilston #poemoftheday

The poetry foundation’s poem of the day is a good one today for practitioners of tsundoku like me:
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52108/of-modern-books
#PoemOfTheDay #Poem #Poetry

#poetry #love #poemoftheday #literature #photography

Of blooming flowers
I love the path
Towards the horizon
And the end
Of this day
Of May.

-Debora Radice

@poetry

#poetry #poem #poems #poesia #poesie #thoughts #pensieri #thought #pensiero #poemoftheday #thoughtoftheday #poesiadelgiorno #pensierodelgiorno

Oh, true love,
You heal pains
Both unbearable
And terrifying.
Your touch is gentle
But also strong.
You are powerful
But also wise.
I can't remember
How many times
You told me
That I can find you
Not only outside myself
But also inside my mind:
I can love myself.

-Debora Radice

🌹

@poetry

#readersdon #writersdon #poetry #poem #poesia #poems #poesie #thoughts #pensieri #thought #pensiero #poemoftheday #thoughtoftheday #poesiadelgiorno #pensierodelgiorno #love #lovelines #wordsoflove

It's raining today.
On the roofs
And on the streets,
On the fields
And on the trees,
The drops sing an ancient song,
Always rhythmic,
Never wrong.

-Debora Radice

💧

@poetry

#readersdon #writersdon #poetry #poem #poesia #poems #poesie #thoughts #pensieri #thought #pensiero #poemoftheday #thoughtoftheday #poesiadelgiorno #pensierodelgiorno #nature #natura #naturelovers #naturelover #natureart #poets #poeti #poet #poeta

I'd like to tell you
What I really think
And in my mind
What lives.
Flows the water
Of the river restless
And on the bank
I sit counting the drops
Like tears pouring.
And whisper I
Your name.
Because you are
The inhabitant
Of the land
That I call
My own heart.

-Debora Radice

🥀

@poetry

#readersdon #writersdon #poetry #poem #poesia #poems #poesie #thoughts #pensieri #thought #pensiero #poemoftheday #thoughtoftheday #poesiadelgiorno #pensierodelgiorno #love #lovelines #wordsoflove

I finally took the time to present my favourite poem ever, the achingly beautiful *Night chant of a travelling shepherd of Asia*, by Leopardi.
It's longish, and cosmically sad, but so worth it. Do read.

https://italianpoetry.it/poems/canto-notturno-di-un-pastore-errante-dellasia/

#poetry #poemoftheday #poem #poems #italian #literature

Very disappointing is
Of the people the change
In behavior and manners
Just because of
Their envy.
Very disappointing...
Expecially when
You believe
And empathetic and good-hearted
Someone is.
A possible friendship fails
Talking about the void.
Nevertheless,
The Sun will shine
Every day.

-Debora Radice

@poetry

#readersdon #writersdon #bookstodon #poetry #poem #poesia #poems #poesie #thoughts #pensieri #thought #pensiero #poemoftheday #thoughtoftheday #poesiadelgiorno #pensierodelgiorno

Rare, oh it's so rare
To meet somebody
Able to understand you
So deeply that
You never feel alone.

-Debora Radice

❤️

@poetry

#readersdon #writersdon #bookstodon #poetry #poem #poesia #poems #poesie #thoughts #pensieri #thought #pensiero #poemoftheday #thoughtoftheday #poesiadelgiorno #pensierodelgiorno

The wind sings the breeze
Of ancient places.
The best perfumes of all...
Freedom among the Roses,
Justice among the Sunflowers,
Courage among the Tulips,
Goodness among the Snowdrops.
I'll live forever
In that field of wonders.
My eternal Spring.

-Debora Radice

#poetry #poem #poesia #poems #poesie #thoughts #pensieri #thought #pensiero #poemoftheday #thoughtoftheday #poesiadelgiorno #pensierodelgiorno

Soft spines in rows
Tussled about by air currents
Take me to new heights

Poem:
https://elameadows.wordpress.com/2023/11/12/plumage/
Podcast
https://app.aureal.one/episode/2088954

#poem #poetry #poemoftheday #photography #cwh #writing #napodpomo #podcast #napodpomo2023 #haiku #remicrapids

Shiver in cold boots
Commemorating the lost
Unnamed grave markings

Link to Poem:
https://elameadows.wordpress.com/2023/11/06/nameless-deeds
Link to Podcast:
https://app.aureal.one/episode/2088883

#poem #poetry #poemoftheday #photography #cwh #writing #napodpomo #podcast #napodpomo2023 #remembrance #remembranceday #veteransday #veteran #grief #mourning #veteran #haiku #shortpoem #haikupoetry

This month I'll be reading and discussing each poem in a bonus podcast as part of NaPodPoMo (National Podcast Post Month)

Today's podcast is here:
https://app.aureal.one/episode/2088819

Winter is coming
No need to fear
Song birds fly south
I watch with a tear

Poetry Post here:
https://elameadows.wordpress.com/2023/11/01/winter-is-coming

#winter #writingcommunity #october #autumn #fall #napodpomo #podcast #fireplace #christmas #cozy #cozycore #poetrycommunity #poem #poetry #poemoftheday #photography #cwh #writing

Fallen on hard times
A thousand tiny wrinkles
Prematurely grey

https://elameadows.wordpress.com/2023/10/27/weekly-haiku-october-21-27

#poem #poetry #poemoftheday #photography #cwh #writing #spookyseason #spooky #halloween #spookymonth #writingcommunity #october #autumn #fall #weeklyhaiku #dailyprompt #haiku #DailyHaikuPrompt @dailyhaikuprompt