One Poem Only

To take death Maggie Devers Chin hairs, on my grandma when she died.My mother sick with regret. We are all exposed in deathAnd she took it on
The chinHairs of my friend’s grandmother when she died.A decade later and half a world awayAnd her mother’s similar despair.
Why didn’t I warn her?How could I forget?

More from Maggie Devers ↓

• Read my debut poetry book, For My Daughter
• Follow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cure

Mentioned in this episode:

One Poem Only submissions are open.

This round, I’m looking for poems about what remains. What stays with us when we experience change? What survives? What do we yearn to carry forward? Send me the poem you wrote and want the world to hear. Also, if you’d like to read your own poem on the podcast, you can. Submit a clear audio file recorded in a quiet space—no perfect studio recording required. And yes, your poem can have been previously published in a literary magazine, in print, or on social media. Submissions close Thursday, October 29. I’ll respond by Wednesday, November 11. Whether I read your poem or you read it yourself, I’d love to hear what you have to share.

One Poem Only Submissions Form

The Eagle with Blue Feathers Kimmery Moss He falls asleep connected to meHis little lips on my chestHours later he wakes again for more But I am no longer able Supplies are low, desires are low Mother is like an eagle who has been flying too long I must perch upon my own soul and rest I sing you to sleep this time You claw at me and I am wounded I read somewhere that OM calms babiesIt was the first sound of the universe anyhowHow we know something that seems unknowable is irrelevant at four thirty four amI OM something like twenty seven times before I lay you back downMy shoulder aches from my own doingMy stomach growls even though I filled it just hours before My heart feels something akin to filling a bucket and simultaneously dumping it on frozen dirt I will still be myself on the other side of this though I will be different: The eagle with blue feathers Still circling the skies Eyes on predators, eyes on the next meal Only he does not want me in the skiesHe wants me beside him, he wants me in his mouth, he wants me foreverThe comfort is enough to burst my seamsThe love is what I dreamt of when I set about creationI would do it all exactly the way I did if the etch-a-sketch had been erasedhad I the need to reckon and reassessI'd retrace every last line with deft fingersI'd stretch myself again for my own fleshI'd feed every feed again, every timeno matter the blur of the hourIt's a wonder if we, mothers, ever feel whole againour DNA walking the earth outside ourselvesnot needing milk any longerneeding their own sustenance now-the purpose driven gathering of informationevery experience sought for its own dopamine goldmine.Their own wings stretched wideTheir own eyes keen for what they needIt won't be mother soon.How do I ever look back without longing?It is true, it is TimeThe baby eagle has been sleeping for minutes already and I circle still,The skies are clear, but I circle still.

More from Kimmery Moss ↓

• @kimmerywrites on Instagram
• Her book Wolf Mother: A New Love Story is out now.
• Wolf Words: A Poetry Subscription for Women

You can listen to me read Kimmery Moss’, I collect first lines of poems, over on Instagram @rembrandts.cure

Fringford Brook Violet Jacob 1863 – 1946 The willows stand by Fringford brook, From Fringford up to Hethe, Sun on their cloudy silver heads, And shadow underneath.
They ripple to the silent airs That stir the lazy day, Now whitened by their passing hands, Now turned again to grey.
The slim marsh-thistle's purple plume Droops tasselled on the stem, The golden hawkweeds pierce like flame The grass that harbours them;
Long drowning tresses of the weeds Trail where the stream is slow, The vapoured mauves of water-mint Melt in the pools below;
Serenely soft September sheds On earth her slumberous look, The heartbreak of an anguished world Throbs not by Fringford brook.
All peace is here. Beyond our range, Yet 'neath the selfsame sky, The boys that knew these fields of home By Flemish willows lie.
They waded in the sun-shot flow, They loitered in the shade, Who trod the heavy road of death, Jesting and unafraid.
Peace! What of peace? This glimpse of peace Lies at the heart of pain, For respite, ere the spirit's load We stoop to lift again.
O load of grief, of faith, of wrath, Of patient, quenchless will, Till God shall ease us of your weight We'll bear you higher still!
O ghosts that walk by Fringford brook, 'Tis more than peace you give, For you, who knew so well to die, Shall teach us how to live.

Mentioned in this episode:

One Poem Only submissions are open.

This round, I’m looking for poems about what remains. What stays with us after we experience change? What survives? What do we yearn to carry forward? Send me the poem you wrote and want the world to hear. Also, if you’d like to read your own poem on the podcast, you can. Submit a clear audio file recorded in a quiet space—no perfect studio recording required. And yes, your poem can have been previously published in a literary magazine, a book, or on social media. Submissions close Thursday, October 29. I’ll respond by Wednesday, November 11. Whether I read your poem or you read it yourself, I’d love to hear what you have to share.

One Poem Only Submissions Form

worlds without blueprints Paper Trail Poetry Letter blocks, green, blue, and red,Are the only reading materialsFor a solitary teddy bearLodged between two toy tractorsCollecting dust in the old toy chest
A myriad of memories sit dormantIn this attic abode, awaitingA nostalgic itch to come searching
I know you remember those days where childlike wonder bloomedAs sun streamed through open windows,Laughter filled the room,And imaginations worked over timeTo construct worlds without blueprints
Let these relics of your past revealA thread you never tugged onTo rekindle that quiet spark of joy

More from Paper Trail Poetry ↓

• @paper_trail_poetry on Instagram

Mentioned in this episode:

One Poem Only submissions are open.

This round, I’m looking for poems about what remains. What stays with us after we experience change? What survives? What do we yearn to carry forward? Send me the poem you wrote and want the world to hear. Also, if you’d like to read your own poem on the podcast, you can. Submit a clear audio file recorded in a quiet space—no perfect studio recording required. And yes, your poem can have been previously published in a literary magazine, a book, or on social media. Submissions close Thursday, October 29. I’ll respond by Wednesday, November 11. Whether I read your poem or you read it yourself, I’d love to hear what you have to share.

One Poem Only Submissions Form

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead.

Jun 30 - Someone, open me up by Lindsey @writing.by.lindsey on Instagram. She is currently working on a poetry book.

Jul 1 - Sonnet: To The Poppy by Anna Seward

Jul 2 - No one needs to invent time travel by Christiana Doucette. Her website: Christiana Doucette. @doucette515 on BlueSky, Instagram, Threads, and TikTok. Her haiku “sudden downpour” appears in Where the Mountains Were: A Helene Disaster Relief Haiku/Senryu Anthology. All the profits go to The Foundation for Lake Lure & Chimney Rock Area Businesses.

Jul 3 - She’s got a handle on it by Maggie Devers: @rembrandts.cure on Instagram. Her book, For My Daughter, is out now.

Jul 4 - The American by Connie Helena @journalof1000days on Instagram.

Jul 5 - Look it in the Mouth by Katie Gilmour @katie_jean_gilmour on Instagram.

June 29 -

Found Art Maggie Devers A stack of celluloid prints strewn in the streetSlowly coming undoneThe top naked woman in an earthen room with a skylightThe roundness she mimics with her handsAnd again with her breastsIn black and white
How tasteful it all was until she found her way to the streetRecently, since there were no tire marksAnd I had to consider if it was intentional or chance that she was there
A careless photographer?Or jilted lover exiting the contents from their home?I took her with meI wonder if she’ll be missed

More from Maggie Devers ↓

• Read my debut poetry book, For My Daughter
• Follow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cure

Look it in the Mouth Katie Gilmour all I really want is for you to make me something only you can make let it be a chore let it take hours let your back give out later because of the way you had to stand learn a craft for years or even as a child and then when I ask you for it give it to me carve the wax pour the gold pull the trigger cut around those little feet and peel the skin pick up that pencil and draw and write me words that are true give me the stories you have kept from me before you die and take them all with you

More from Katie Gilmour ↓

• @katie_jean_gilmour on Instagram

Mentioned in this episode:

One Poem Only submissions are open.

This round, I’m looking for poems about what remains. What stays with us when we experience change? What survives? What do we yearn to carry forward? Send me the poem you wrote and want the world to hear. Also, if you’d like to read your own poem on the podcast, you can. Submit a clear audio file recorded in a quiet space—no perfect studio recording required. And yes, your poem can have been previously published in a literary magazine, in print, or on social media. Submissions close Thursday, October 29. I’ll respond by Wednesday, November 11. Whether I read your poem or you read it yourself, I’d love to hear what you have to share.

One Poem Only Submissions Form

The AmericanConnie Helenain reposeI chosea bit of small white coralhidden in my pocketso as not to get caughtcollecting at the beachhas gone out of favormy rebellionit is so tinyget me off this rockI like the rainbowsbut something is not right heresomething is dead herein my pocketand now I am carrying it home

More from Connie Helena ↓

• @journalof1000days on Instagram
• Her book Journal of 1000 Days is available now

Mentioned in this episode:

One Poem Only submissions are open.

This round, I’m looking for poems about what remains. What stays with us after we experience change? What survives? What do we yearn to carry forward? Send me the poem you wrote and want the world to hear. Also, if you’d like to read your own poem on the podcast, you can. Submit a clear audio file recorded in a quiet space—no perfect studio recording required. And yes, your poem can have been previously published in a literary magazine, a book, or on social media. Submissions close Thursday, October 29. I’ll respond by Wednesday, November 11. Whether I read your poem or you read it yourself, I’d love to hear what you have to share.

One Poem Only Submissions Form

She’s got a handle on it Maggie Devers She won’t let me clean the dirt from under her nails She holds onto it as a matter of distinction,An indication of her interests.
The grey, opaque polish covers it completely But not the pink sparkles.Both will degrade equallyTo reveal the dark line still in place,But this will take a day or two.
Now it’s time for bedSleep well, I tell herHer response,I will!Rings of with the certaintyOf fresh nails.

More from Maggie Devers ↓

• Read my debut poetry book, For My Daughter
• Follow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cure

Mentioned in this episode:

One Poem Only submissions are open.

This round, I’m looking for poems about what remains. What stays with us when we experience change? What survives? What do we yearn to carry forward? Send me the poem you wrote and want the world to hear. Also, if you’d like to read your own poem on the podcast, you can. Submit a clear audio file recorded in a quiet space—no perfect studio recording required. And yes, your poem can have been previously published in a literary magazine, in print, or on social media. Submissions close Thursday, October 29. I’ll respond by Wednesday, November 11. Whether I read your poem or you read it yourself, I’d love to hear what you have to share.

One Poem Only Submissions Form

First published in The Thieving Magpie
No one needs to invent time travelIt’s already here. We’re already traveling.The slam of a door layers then with now.Raised voices split screen brains
send us back to prisms of pain.The moment of terror as the airplane turns just so.Oh, sky that certain clear cold blue, we go
back. We are washing dishes heresuds between our fingers. Indoor. But fearplaces us in the car. Plays the announcers
voice crumbling like block towers. Fall.Time travel exists inside us all. Thinning reality.What we need to invent is a way away from time’s debris.
A failsafe to replace ache, mistake, heartbreakwith joy. With birds singing clear and sweet, laughterechoing down the street. Ice pops running down chins,
grins between grandparents. Transparent momentswhen the sun shone through the clouds. Just. That. Way.Golden molasses dough rolled in sugar. Crinkled cookies
cooling on the counter. The need is plain.We just need time travel that isn’t to pain.
- Christiana Doucette

More from Christiana Doucette ↓

• Her website: Christiana Doucette
• @doucette515 on BlueSky, Instagram, Threads, and TikTok
• Her haiku “sudden downpour” appears in Where the Mountains Were: A Helene Disaster Relief Haiku/Senryu Anthology. All the profits go to The Foundation for Lake Lure & Chimney Rock Area Businesses.

You can listen to me read Christiana Doucette’s, Lifting Weight, over on Instagram @rembrandts.cure

Sonnet: To the Poppy Anna Seward 1742 – 1809 While summer roses all their glory yield To crown the votary of love and joy, Misfortune’s victim hails, with many a sigh, Thee, scarlet Poppy of the pathless field,Gaudy, yet wild and lone; no leaf to shield Thy flaccid vest that, as the gale blows high, Flaps, and alternate folds around thy head. So stands in the long grass a love-crazed maid,Smiling aghast; while stream to every wind Her garish ribbons, smeared with dust and rain; But brain-sick visions cheat her tortured mind,And bring false peace. Thus, lulling grief and pain, Kind dreams oblivious from thy juice proceed, Thou flimsy, showy, melancholy weed.

Mentioned in this episode:

One Poem Only submissions are open.

This round, I’m looking for poems about what remains. What stays with us after we experience change? What survives? What do we yearn to carry forward? Send me the poem you wrote and want the world to hear. Also, if you’d like to read your own poem on the podcast, you can. Submit a clear audio file recorded in a quiet space—no perfect studio recording required. And yes, your poem can have been previously published in a literary magazine, a book, or on social media. Submissions close Thursday, October 29. I’ll respond by Wednesday, November 11. Whether I read your poem or you read it yourself, I’d love to hear what you have to share.

One Poem Only Submissions Form