One Poem Only

Morning Magic Maggie DeversA princess sits at the edge of my bedTelling 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 togetherHer dreams, desires, realities.It’s all the same,She speaks her life.

The Grief that Grips Our WorldRaquel Dionísio AbrantesSilver waters whisperamidst slender brancheswhere sisters bathe. My twinof bone and moss whose woeI fold like my grandmother foldedher husband’s pants —carefully, and in silence. Come,feral storm. Let usbe washed from the griefthat grips our world tonight.More from Raquel Dionísio Abrantes ↓@poets_desk on InstagramMentioned in this episode:Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️

Cheap Therapy Cheat SheetTanja LauThis poem was originally published by Part-Time Poets. Issue 29.No excuses. Pick your next move:Some people scream into pillows, others nametheir grief Steve and set a place for him at dinner.Mine is called Ernesto, he’s Swedish and he’s a strangerto daylight, so I forgive him. Naturally, he likes to quoteKierkegaard. That guy knew a thing or two aboutconnecting the dots backwards. But it’s the partabout living fast-forward Ernie conveniently swallows.It still gets me every time. You know,Ernesto can be a bit dramatic. He always wants meto dress for my own funeral. But I pick the red backlessdress instead and microwave my lunch at 4 p.m. like Lady Madrid.Yes, it’s good china Wednesday. Everyday. Time to crackopen that bottle of champagne I’ve been savingfor a special occasion. What’s more specialthan being alive? After dinner, I serve two Oreoslike communion. (Take three, if you’re religious.)For dessert there’s nothing better than writingmy name on the mirror. Kissing it. (With tonguefor advanced patients). And then the grand finale:smashing the handmade mug from third gradepottery class and spending two hours reassembling it.Same same, but different. Just like me. In bed,I make a vow to never again miss a chanceto dance it out in an elevator. Ernesto wouldn’t approve.Who cares? He’s asleep by now.More from Tanja Lau ↓@tanias.butterflies on InstagramTania's Butterflies on SubstackListen to me read Rumors by Tanja on Instagram @rembrandts.cureMentioned in this episode:Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️

The Mythical Hero of Legend has Clinical Depression Oscar W Isaacs The prophecy breathed of him cleaving through demons. Reaping through legions of unspeakable evil. Reaming to pieces their grievous leaders. Then of the deceased, he’d retrieve them from Elysium by redeeming their lethal lesions. A kill he’s healed… But in reality, the Hero just sleeps in. His steed, he forgot to feed it. Lives off cheap mead, cheap weed, gets a quest- he doesn’t even read it. His sword forged by dwarves in the depths of a Fjord is buried under heaps of laundry increasing week by week because folding his jeans is as steep an Odyssey as deceiving Polyphemus. Forget polishing those greaves when Aeneids could be written from him polishing his teeth. The Mythical Hero of Legend is Atlas bearing the weight of the heavens Even when he’s rotting in his bedroom. He’s reeling from a lifetime of people demeaning and lessening his presence, first bullies, then professors, with lessons in quelling his legend, and then in the present he’s putting in effort impressing incessant investors. It bends him. Rends him. Condemned like a Trojan no Hector defending. And while kingdoms immolate in dragon’s flames, he’s sat at home playing video games because he comprehends himself as Untermenschen. There’s no Nemean beast, no mares of Diomedes, the apples of Hesperides still chill among the trees, the labours would seem unachievabletoo if Heracles was Gen Z. And though the world needs him, he can’t quite believe it. A party made up of a priest and a thief like in an RPG awaits him. He doesn’t know that those are his mates who stayed with him. Who he’s airing because replying to their message feels like writing an Epic. But the world cannot be rescued by scrolling through Reddit. Upheaval cannot be bested by a festering prisoner of terror. The Mythical Hero of Legend must be his own medic. Like Gilgamesh he must face the grotesque and behead it, transform like an Ovid retelling. Not dread the unsettling, accept it. The voice in his head will always be frenetic. Let it. It won’t always be poetic. Even if he manages to build Rome from wreckage, he is stuck behind a desk. Shiva works for Unilever. Beowulf claims benefits. The Mythical Hero of Legend is being suppressed and you, no less oppressed. You get dressed, get stressed, do your best for a profession that does not honour the hopes you’re repressing. I am Tiresias the Prophet proclaiming a presage, you my friend are not pathetic. Even if apathetic, even if dead, your life was a saga you scribed into cells. The Mythical Hero works in sales. Works retail. Waits tables. The Mythical Hero frees himself from Hades since maybe to be is worthy of fables. And even though sometimes he dreams of the cleanest means to leave, and there may come a day where that urge may defeat him....

Born of Ashes Goldilocks We were born of ashes and blood, In a shattered past stained with death. Each word hurt like a knife stabbing,Each day felt closer to the end. The pain did not stop for a second,It grew bigger with rage. Despite it all, survival was my saviour.Living got me into the arms of a soul like mine.A soul that needed mine, a soul that found me too.A soul that needed saving and soothing, just like I did. The world got colors, and the heart filled with light. Today, I live the dream I had when I cried myself to sleep. All the times I begged in desperation,Prayed for hope, prayed for a hero. All the tears that wetted my pillow,All the silent screams the walls held, All the beatings the bed took. So it all had meaning, it all led me here. More from Goldilocks ↓@goldenprisonpoetry on InstagramMentioned in this episode:Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead.Jan 19 - Chasing the Light by Old Fart with a Guitar @old_fart_with_a_guitar on Instagram. Stream his music: OFWAG LinkTree.Jan 20 - A Merciless Winter by Farida Shamim Jan 21 - Don't call it hope or you'll scare it away by Candace Kronen rom Candace Kronen @candacekronenpoetry on Instagram. Her Substack: Stories I'll Tell My Daughter. She is co-editor and publisher of If You Ever: Poems Inspired by Kim Addonizio. Listen to me read, When I can’t sleep, I Google how the world ends. by Candace on Instagram at @rembrandts.cure.Jan 22 - Shimmer by Jessie Marie @Jessie.Kaiser on Instagram and Threads.Jan 23 - “Hope isn't a shy thing” by Eileen Strawberry @Soulsounds20 on Instagram. Wayward Traveller on Substack. Her poetry appears in Beautiful Ways to Say edited by Katie Elizabeth.Jan 24 - Same Old Story by Amelia Cabantog @meels_the_poet on Instagram.Jan 25Burn the FlagMaggie DeversBurn all the flagsStrew the tea in the harborFill the kettle or the potPour it out, drink it downDivine the futureFree from false idolsFree from men who sayThere is no future in the leaves,That all we can hope for in the saucerIs bitter grit in our teethBut they don't know that ash is softBetween our...

Same Old Story Amelia Cabantog Everyday the news replays the same old stories. So, and so, diedSo, and, so was deported So, and, so's rights are being taken away. Meanwhile a mother is crying because her baby is slowly dying And a brother is screaming because he doesn't know how to cope with all of his feelings And a girl is lying broken, in a bed she did not make. The people outside are screaming and shouting, and crying and bleeding on the streets, But they remain unseen, and unheard. They're fighting for rights that we've already had to fight for before And history is repeating itself in the ugliest way. Somehow, the sun is still shining even on the darkest days, And the girl is still smiling, even on her darkest nights. She goes out and protests,And screams “No kings,” But within she's screaming so much more. “Get rid of ICE!”“Hands off of women's bodies and reproductive systems.” “LGBTQIA people exist and always will.” She wishes she could change the world, She wishes that someone could hear her voice. But she is always drowned out by the crowd. So, she holds her breath, listening to the mother crying over her baby who's bleeding out on the streets. And the brother screaming about all of his pent up feelings, And the protesters yelling, And the news playing over and over again. And at the end of the day she is still lying broken, in a bed she never wanted anyway. She's hoping one day someone will listen to her, And one day she will have changed the world. She's hoping one day she won't have to fight for her rights, And that the rest of the world will wake up and see the damage that is being done, And the people who are being killed, And all of the rights being taken away, not just their own. She wants the world to love each other and be kinder to each other, So, no one else has to listen to a mother crying because her baby was killed by a cop, Or a brother screaming because people keep invalidating his feelings of hatred towards himself, She doesn't want any other girl, or guy, or nonbinary, or genderfluid, to be lying in the same bed. That none of them made or even wanted to sleep in.More from Amelia Cabantog ↓@meels_the_poet on InstagramMentioned in this episode:Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️

“Hope isn't a shy thing”Eileen StrawberryHope isn't a shy thingShe has white knucklesand spits gritWhen oppressors beat down on her shouldersShe draws her sword swiftlyNo hesitationNo deliberationShe will slay dragonsfor her kinHope isn't a pretty thingScars mar her complexionShe's missing some teethDirt crusts under her nailsCalluses roughen her feetYet her vision is clearHer heartbeat steadyCourage courses her veinsConviction deepens her voicein times of chaos and confusionHer truth shears through the noiseMore from Eileen Strawberry ↓@Soulsounds20 on InstagramWayward Traveller on SubstackHer poetry appears in Beautiful Ways to Say edited by Katie ElizabethMentioned in this episode:Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️

Shimmer Jessie Marie my shimmering heart draped in tearsdrums a song behind a thorny cageghosts dressed in moonlight wail against the inky black of nightsorrow is stitched into their eyes an echo of dreams heard on the windI restore myself in the light of the starsa spotlight of hope drinks me upsuch a dream of being whole againMore from Jessie Marie ↓@Jessie.Kaiser on Instagram and Threads Mentioned in this episode:Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️

Don't call it hope or you'll scare it awayCandace KronenCall it window or thread or undone button, call it plump lipsand the slip of a sound, open palm with a single split seedwhispers of paw prints in a blanket of snow, baby hairsand broccoli sprouts, call it half hug of a parenthesis,handprint in the cave, defiant little fiddleheadpushing through the dirt, call it a clearingof the throat, first stroke of a bow, call itAsha call it Violet call it Chekhov’ssmoking gun, call it Holmesianpipe with a fresh tobacco tin,pink streak of aurorasquinting through theclouds, call it leavingspace for a casualcosmic mystery,call it, just call itand don’t closethe door.More from Candace Kronen ↓@candacekronenpoetry on InstagramHer Substack: Stories I'll Tell My DaughterShe is co-editor and publisher of If You Ever: Poems Inspired by Kim AddonizioListen to me read, When I can’t sleep, I Google how the world ends. by Candace on Instagram at @rembrandts.cureMentioned in this episode:Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️

A Merciless Winter Farida Shamim How cruel you are, Winter —couldn’t you wait a little longer?Why didn’t you waituntil the children fell asleep,their dreams unbroken,their bellies not empty?My little ones lie down hungry,and now —how could I cover them,how could I protect themfrom your harsh, merciless air?Can’t you see —we can no longer see tomorrowwe can’t even weep.Our tears have turned to salt,our hearts to smoke.Can’t you feelthe pain we endure?Couldn’t you waituntil the sun of faith rose againto touch the facesthat still believe in warmth?How cruel you are, Winter —to come when we are already cold.Mentioned in this episode:Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️

Chasing the Light Old Fart with a Guitar With all the bad news and all the bad vibes And the battle lines drawn between the tribes, I was lathered up, hosed down, spun around and hung out to dry. Still, life goes on at 60 years an hour And I wondered if I’d wasted my time, Cause there was so much sorrow I was running out of tears to cry… Til one day a small stone thrown by a small fry Up n hit a giant right between the eyes, He was too tall, the big fall cut him down to regular size And when he hit the ground the whole world was lifted by The vision he was blocking from sight It was a double barreled rainbow Following an angel in flight And there’s big yellow sunrise spreading out across the horizon, I’m gonna try and hitch a ride when that heavenly engine ignites So if you see me on the roadside please don’t worry If I’m standing with my thumb to the sky I’m not running from the darkness, I’m just chasing the light. I’m done pouring time into a bucket of holes I’m done casting shadows of doubt on my soul Gotta change my position, start fishing with a different pole Cause life keeps going at 60 years an hour But if I catch it by the end of the road I’ll find that double barreled rainbow Shining on a mountain of gold And there’s a big red sunset spreading out across the horizon I’m gonna follow it and see if it really is a sailor’s delight So if you see me from shoreline please don’t worry If I’m waving as I sink out of sight I’m not falling over the edge I’m just chasing the light I’m not falling over the edge I’m just chasing the light…More from Old Fart with a Guitar ↓@old_fart_with_a_guitar on InstagramStream his music: OFWAG LinkTreeMentioned in this episode:Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead.Jan 12 - Happiness by Navya Chaudhary @chaoticconfessor on Instagram. Her book, Unfinished Letters, is out now.Jan 13 - I Promise by Riley Hope McPheters @rileyhmcpheters on Instagram. She is a member of @PoetzPortalFW, that exists to awaken consciousness and cultivate liberated creative practice through the transformative power of poetry, sound, and communal dialogue.Jan 14 - Aloof by Luwa @luwawrites on Instagram. You can listen and watch me read Beauty Allures by Luwa on Instagram @rembrandts.cure.Jan 15 - Rooted by Shaq Mendes @shackahh_wackahh on Instagram.Jan 16 - The Season of Returning by Lara @itslarawrites on Instagram.Jan 17 - The Anatomy of Dawn by Saleha Najeeb @gotta_slayyyy on Instagram. Her book, Whispers Unveiled, is available now.Jan 18One More StepMaggie DeversI’m worried you might be missing itI’m worried you might be living through it all and not really living itI’m worried you can’t smell itI’m worried you don’t pull it close and smother yourselfWill you remember how she always smelled of milk?And the way her cry would squeak early in the morning?Or how she first said daddyAnd then her own nameHow she needed us for everything and then one dayDidn’t.I thought I’d be better prepared,That we could mark it on the calendar and celebrateBut it snuck up on me—She learned to dress herself,Feed herself,Pick up after herselfAnd I forgot what I was...

The Anatomy of Dawn Saleha Najeeb Do not mistake the smile for light.It is merely how we hide the mourningof what never had a funeral.Grief, it does not arrive or leave,it resides,like a second pulse beneath the one we claim to feel.I have carried it, you know the quiet dissonance of appearing alivewhile the soul rehearses its own absence.There are days I speak,but every word drips through a sieve of silence,and you, perhaps,know this kind of breathing too.Yet, even stillness grows restless.Even darkness remembers the shape of dawn.So I begannot running,but returning to the small certainties I once abandoned,a breath that does not tremble,a thought that does not ache to end.Freedom did not come in thunder.It arrived like forgiveness a slow unburdening,a light learning the contours of my name again.And in that moment, I was not the same.I was the echo remade into a voice,the ashes remembering they were once flame.Now, when I speak,my words are not a sieve but a garden.The air hums with what I chose to reclaim.I have returnednot unscarred,but luminous from within the wounds.This, dear reader,is not survival it is the anatomy of dawn. More from Saleha Najeeb ↓@gotta_slayyyy on InstagramHer book, Whispers Unveiled, is available nowMentioned in this episode:Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️

The Season of Returning Lara I fell into winter,a quiet collapse of light.Bare branches above me,and silence heavy as snow.The frost took my laughter,the wind took my name,and I drifted through the cold,like breath caught between worlds.But the earth-she never forgot me.She hummed beneath the ice,a low song,ancient and patient:even the seed must sleep before it blooms.And I listened,still and small,to her steady heartbeat below.The rain returned,soft as mercy,washing sorrow from my hands.The wind tangled in my hairand whispered, home,as the ground beneath mestirred with life-shivering, stretching, reaching for the sun.Moss clothed my sorrow,petals crowned my scars.I did not burst into life;I unfolded.I became.Rebirth is not thunder.It’s rhythm,a heartbeat beneath soft soil,a river remembering its song.It’s the body learning warmth again,the soul relearning grace.Now I move with the earth’s own music.I am green where I was gray,river where I was stone,light where I was pain.I have returned,not as who I was,but as everything I was meant to become.And when the dawn brushes my skin,I do not hide.I open wide, like the first flower of springsinging softly to the sun:I am here.I am whole.I am light again.More from Lara ↓@itslarawrites on InstagramMentioned in this episode:Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️

Rooted Shaq Mendes Women are Queens, Men are Kings well -Along w/ the throne, you needah';_ Have that Crown _Take a journey down a path where,the end'll have you feeling like Gold;Gold - ha_ha I know being rich is the goal,this type of Rich, is gonna come from your Soul;So... the Gold _ won't be shinny, nor rectangular shaped,It's gonna weigh the same as you nothing more;There's a Pulse...Take your hand place on your chest,do yah feel that?Close your eyes, take a breath,ha_ha , still not there yet;Breathe as if you're a vehicle - approaching,them yellow flashing lights;A little bit slower...In through the nose,from gut to chest it rose;Out the mouth it goes, a breath so - Powerful... Meditation - Breath control,Anger, Hurt, & Pain _ The body'll let go,it's on you _ to stay in the zone;Clear the mind - the thoughts,should stop, as if time froze;Go on - give it a try -let your body take a ride,on this road - Personal Growth... Get Rooted...More from Shaq Mendes ↓@shackahh_wackahh on InstagramMentioned in this episode:Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️

AloofLuwaAloof poof, jump off the roof as proofThey use the news to deduce and reduce the abuseThrown and blown our way while we moan and groanUnable to table the insatiable desire for the fableThat makes us weaker, bleaker yet we are eagerFor we have aligned, misaligned our brains to malignImages that damages, and abscond our privileges.More from Luwa ↓@luwawrites on InstagramYou can listen and watch me read Beauty Allures by Luwa on Instagram @rembrandts.cureMentioned in this episode:Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️

I Promise Riley Hope McPheters When you are sad-It feels that is who you are.You are not the sad of a hard day,Nor the sad of a loved one gone too soon,You are a sad that is in your blood,Cold and slow.A depression deeper than the depths of rock bottom.Rock bottom becomes your safety net-And when it is not deep enough to relate to the pain within your own walls,You scrape with your nails to get even deeper into the depths of your own sorrow.Days are warped- time is too fast yet manages to be miserably slow.The perfunctory lives of those around you drive you into an underworld of isolation that youfeel as if you don’t want to come up from.And not all do.We lose many from sadness. Inner war that comes with no peace treaty. Anger andtraumas many grow so numb to.An inner frustration with no exit point.Sadness is us. And we are sadness.However, some of us get cold to the darkness- or curious of the light up above. Some of usstart climbing,Knowing that no fall could be as damaging as the darkness below we once knew so so well.The lives of routine we once feared became the lives of ambition,Prosperity,Resilience,And strength we learned to admire the most.To feel the warmth of the light and know it was never too far. To feel the sadness seep outof the very veins that once held it.To be full of so much brightness- no darkness could outweigh what is within.To be ok with the darkness and look forward to the light.To be so whole. To be so happy.It is possible.Find your light. And accept your darkness.Growth happens there.I promise.More from Riley Hope McPheters ↓@rileyhmcpheters on InstagramShe is a member of @PoetzPortalFW, that exists to awaken consciousness and cultivate liberated creative practice through the transformative power of poetry, sound, and communal dialogue.Mentioned in this episode:Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️

Happiness Navya Chaudhary If you are out there chasing happiness,Then I want you to remember this.If you're chasing it,It's definitely not yours.Happiness is not somewhere out there,It's hidden in those small moments around you.The one you don't notice very often.And sometimes,You don't even have to find it.You can create it.Why wait for someone else to bring you happiness?When you can be that person for yourself.Do the things you've wanted to do for so long.Try that new drink before it's off the menu.Watch that movie before it leaves the theatre.Buy yourself the flowers you always wanted.Go.Now.Why are you still here?More from Navya Chaudhary ↓@chaoticconfessor on InstagramHer book, Unfinished Letters, is out now.Mentioned in this episode:Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead.On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs by Renée Nicole Good. She was murdered by ICE on January 7, 2026. In 2020, she won the undergraduate Academy of American Poets Prize in 2020 for this poem.Jan 5 - Becoming Again by Reya @moodmakerperson on Instagram. Her book, Teenage Tide, is available now.Jan 6 - To Fall Is to Begin by Irina Vérène @queen_of_gore on Instagram. They are featured in Haunted Words Press’ anthology, Our Dearest Devotions, which contains their flash fiction piece about friendship, fae magic, and gender transition.Jan 7 - Transmorphing by Özge Lena @lenaozge on Instagram. You can find her on Substack @lenaozge where she presents her new approach to poetry, Catapoetry. It is a poetic framework about the interwoven and inseparable catastrophes of our age. You can listen to me read luminous girl lullaby by Özge Lena on Instagram @rembrandts.cure.Jan 8 - Genesis of Her by Kiran Ashraf @kiran_ashraf on Instagram and @kiranashraf7 on Substack.Jan 9 - Part Oracle, Part Warrior by Aslam @smmaslam on Instagram and @aslammohammed on Substack. His book, Paper Boat in Rumi’s Garden, is available now.Jan 10 - The Tender Descending by Ellie A