Eclipse of the Self Ruvaani I dissolved in the shadow of my own becoming,where every heartbeat was an echo of absence,and every breath a question unspoken.
The world pressed against my ribs,but in the hollow between despair and forgetting,a seed trembled—ancient, patient, luminous.
From it rose fire unbidden,not to burn what remained,but to weave the fragments of meinto a new geometry of being.
I walked through the ruins of yesterday,not seeking light, but becoming it,each step an unmaking and a return,each scar a hymn,each tear a river that bore me home.
And when dawn finally leaned into my chest,I did not rise as I was—I rose as I had always been:a soul forged in shadow,tempered in loss,and rebornin the quiet, unrelenting brilliance of myself.

More from Ruvaani ↓

• @ruvaani.unclaimed on Instagram
• Her book, The Sunken Daffodil, is out now

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

Dec 22 - From a Home, to a House by Gunneet Kaur Bhamra @wordsmith._.witxh on Instagram. She's founder of a creative club for teenage writers, called The Pioneering Pens. Members learn new forms and styles of poetry, have monthly theme based challenges, edit weekly newsletter and make every voice heard. If you're interested in joining, DM Gunneet @wordsmith._.witxh.

Dec 23 - For the Pines by Amanda Galeotti @amandagaleotti on Instagram.

Dec 24 - The Miseducation (How the Sugarcane Remembers Us) by Lia D. Elen Listen to me read another poem by Lia on Instagram @rembrandts.cure.

Dec 25 - “little tree” by E.E. Cummings

Dec 26 - Silent Echoes by Zahra @zaarraaaa__ on Instagram.

Dec 27 - Return to Light by Gordan Struić @gstruic on Instagram, @gordanstruic on Substack.

Dec 28Her Name Maggie DeversHer name is not the Venus of Willendorf,But she will answer to it.Her name exists in another tongue We no longer knowA language that came before Venus.
I imagine her name meant bounty,Her name meant overflow,Her name meant life.
Scholars say she shows us the ideal of ancient beauty,But I see woman.
And the weight she holds in her hips Outlives her carver,Outlives the rock,Outlives mountainsTo find us and fill us with her form.

More from Maggie Devers ↓

• My debut poetry collection, For My Daughter, available as an audiobook.
• Purchase a signed copy of For My Daughter or get one free by subscribing to the podcast: One Poem Only on Patreon
• Follow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cure

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Return to Light Gordan Struić The longest night exhales,and somewhere beneath the frosta seed remembers warmth.
I walk through fieldswhere shadows thin like old thoughts,each breath a small sunrise.
Inside me,the dark softens —becomes room for light again.

More from Gordan Struić ↓

1. @gstruic on Instagram
2. @gordanstruic on Substack

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Silent Echoes Zahra In the quiet descent of twilight's curtain, I stand, a solitary figure, uncertain.Lost within the shifting hues of fading light, I navigate the spaces where solitude takes flight.Threads of connection, delicate and fine, A tapestry woven with the hands of time.Moments form a mosaic, a complex array, Each fragment a story, in shadows they sway.Silent whispers linger in the vast expanse, Shadows dance in a ghostly, transient trance.Invisible threads weave a spectral embrace, A tapestry of solitude, woven with grace.Longing for touch in the silence profound, Exploring realms where solitude is found.Laughter, a distant echo in the quiet air, Navigating the chambers of introspective lair.A dance with sorrow, an intimate ballet, In the moonlit theater where emotions play.Yearning for pain, an unconventional plea, To delve into depths, to just be free.No rhythmic pulse guides this introspective stroll, Just the current of feelings, an unfolding scroll.In the canvas where shadows gently persist, I paint my essence, an unspoken twist.

More from Zahra ↓

• @zaarraaaa__ on Instagram

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“little tree” E.E. Cummings little treelittle silent Christmas treeyou are so littleyou are more like a flower
who found you in the green forestand were you very sorry to come away?see i will comfort youbecause you smell so sweetly
i will kiss your cool barkand hug you safe and tightjust as your mother would,only don't be afraid
look the spanglesthat sleep all the year in a dark boxdreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,
put up your little armsand i'll give them all to you to holdevery finger shall have its ringand there won't be a single place dark or unhappy
then when you're quite dressedyou'll stand in the window for everyone to seeand how they'll stare!oh but you'll be very proud
and my little sister and i will take handsand looking up at our beautiful treewe'll dance and sing"Noel Noel"

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The Miseducation (How the Sugarcane Remembers Us)Lia D. ElenThey told us the cane was sweet,that sugar was a gift-never whispering of century-long bonesground into their stalks.
My great-grandmothers spoke truth in drum and smoke,their hands weaving rivers of power,the earth crowning them healers.
Still, the priests named them devils.Still, their altars were burned.
Yet Atabey whispers now,mother of waters, womb of hurricanes-even though classrooms replaced her with Eve,teaching us paradise was theirs to grant.
And the textbooks?They too crowned Columbus, King,while Taino caciques were reduced to whispers bent beneath English mouths-
Though I hear them thunder in the veins of the mountains.
They branded Nanny a "rebel,"never queen, never general.Her rifle smoke the incense of our freedom,her blood still a covenant in the hills.
We recited Wordsworth and Shakespeare,while my forbears' chantswere sealed beneath the tongue of shame.
The cane-field was painted as industry,never cemetery.Each stalk a headstone that remembers,each sweetness a silence imposed.
The memories in the sugar cuts-in the tea, in the trade, in the wages.
The miseducation echoes on-in every Xamaycan child who does not knowAtabey's name, Nanny's fire,the caciques' crowns, my great-grandmothers' drums.
But
The cane still hides fire in its stalk.
We chew,
we who SEE,we who feel,KNOWthe sweetness burns.
So now we'll spit, and make the silence end.
For this-this poem-is a revolt,on Blue Mountain tops where ancestors still drum in trade winds.
May the wind carry this chant.May we taste our truth in sugar cubes and remember our names.
I offer it to their fire.

More from Lia D. Elen ↓

• @lia.d.elen on Instagram

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For the PinesAmanda GaleottiI’ve known the paralyzing anguishOf the dark nights of soulWhen the gleaming edge of a bladeGlints like a glittering saviorI’ve been in cave pitch blindnessI’ve wondered in a world of 8 billionHow loneliness could ever put down rootsIn despair, I’ve found communionwith mosquitoes and loonsblack bears and ravensAnd every phase of the moonWith sparkling stars, acting a sceneAnd treesAll of themEspecially the pineWith drooping boughsAnd bleeding sapSomehow when even the ash and sycamore have sunken to winter desolationBowed low by loads of winter snowThe pine holds the hope, keeps the needlesTo weave a haven for winter wayfarersHow much grief have they swallowed for usJust by being with us in winter

More from Amanda Galeotti ↓

1. @amandagaleotti on Instagram
2. @amandanichole on Substack

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From a Home, to a HouseGunneet Kaur BhamraFrom the place, where comfort was found,And people meant happiness and laughter.From the lazy and cozy mornings,And chattering and cheery evenings.From those late-night family games and gossips,Because “tomorrow's a holiday... what a bliss!”
To the place where comfort is only sought,Where people mean suffocation.To busy and chilly dawns,And gloomy and exhausting dusks.To these late-night family dramas and decisions,Because “tomorrow's a holiday… what the hell?”
Yeah, I wanted to grow, and so I have!But I didn't want to travel,from a carefree, loud childhood,To a responsible, silent adolescence;from a home, to a house!
Take me back to the delightful hours in the sunlit veranda.Take me back to the chaos of the crowded kitchen.Take me back, for once - just once - to my home...

More from Gunneet Kaur Bhamra ↓

1. @wordsmith._.witxh on Instagram
2. She's founder of a creative club for teenage writers, called The Pioneering Pens. Members learn new forms and styles of poetry, have monthly theme based challenges, edit weekly newsletter and make every voice heard. If you're interested in joining, DM Gunneet @wordsmith._.witxh.

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Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️

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

Dec 15 - The Keeper’s Dream by Kiki Johnson @kiki_poetry on Instagram

Dec 16 - The Belle Of Yule by Melani Udaeta @melrose_poetry18 on Instagram. Her book, Of Love and Music, is out now.

Dec 17 - Clava Cairns by Jessica Aure Pratt @jessaure.poetry on Instagram. @jessaurepoetry on Substack. You can listen to me read Into the Abyss by Jessica on Instagram @rembrandts.cure.

Dec 18 - The Art of Returning by Dr. Deepak Dev @deeepak.devv on Instagram. @drdeepakdev on Substack. His book, Symphony of the Erased - Verses Resurged & Reclaimed, is out now.

Dec 19 - Angels In Our Mouths by Sandra Beth Levy @slevy43 on Instagram. Her first poetry book, Unfurling The Scroll Of Seven Decades, will be out in 2026.. Sandra has had recent poems published in the Roots and Ruins: Poetry Anthology published by Arcana Poetry Press. And Issue 1 of A Curious Moon, an online literary magazine. As well as The Vagabond’s Verse-Weekly Verses on December 5th. And three poems in a SHINE Poetry Series spotlight on December 10th.

Dec 20 - Still Light Unveils by Marissa M. Zhu @marissazhu on Instagram. @marissamzhu on Substack where she publishes The Wanting: A literary exploration of desire as generative force—neither absence to cure nor state to transcend. Love notes to the hunger that never resolves, only transforms. Her debut poetry manuscript, Memories We’ve Never Made, blends cinematic lyricism with psychological precision. In this 30-piece collection, Marissa examines how even unrealized loves can leave indelible imprints.

Dec 21

But For A Sacred DeerMaggie DeversThey come like rabid dogsBaying for blood And fling tired tropesInto the airLike drums beating A dead horse
And it’s simpleHow we tear ourselves to piecesFor the sake of a few bad apples,How we let the loudest voices take holdTo find a scapegoatAnd spill,and spill,and spill the blood
In hope for winds to comeAnd free us from this horrid placeNever questioning where the gale leadsOr what we’ll find when we get there.

More from Maggie Devers ↓

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

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Still Light Unveils Marissa M. ZhuMoonrise drapes her muslin throat across the room. Everything hushes. Desire folds itself into brocade: my letter pressed beneath perfume bottles, your name stitched inside a pillow's seam.
The sky forgets its vowels. Fingers braid the air with rumor. Windows withhold our reflections.
Your face is washed in cathedral glass. We soak harsh truths in amber-dipped tongues. Even our silences blush.
—
Daybreak has no patience for embroidery.
Sunlight burns what night obscured. It peels back the curtain, unveiling half-corked truths.
So now— tell me what you meant last night. Not in riddles, not in wine. Tell me why your hand trembled toward mine, then away.
Why you said nothing when I leaned close enough to hear your breath catch on my name.
—
Say it plain.
Say you wanted to stay. Say you didn’t. Say you meant to kiss me. Say you still do.
Or say nothing. Again.
Watch how morning holds even silence to the window.
How shadows lean toward noon, how yesterday's wine stain becomes today's open door.  

More from Marissa M. Zhu ↓

• @marissazhu on Instagram
• @marissamzhu on Substack where she publishes The Wanting: A literary exploration of desire as generative force—neither absence to cure nor state to transcend. Love notes to the hunger that never resolves, only transforms.
• Her debut poetry manuscript, Memories We’ve Never Made, blends cinematic lyricism with psychological precision. In this 30-piece collection, Marissa examines how even unrealized loves can leave indelible imprints.

Mentioned in this episode:

Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️

🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️