Featured Poetry - July, 2025

SILENCE TO ME

By Serafima Tucker


a shriveled heart

slipping away 

from the body. 

Renouncing life,

abandoning hope,

it’s lost and stranded at sea. 


Night call upon nature,

the whispers of the breeze—

fairies sing! 

They steady the home

of the troubled mind,

replacing dark with dreams. 

Mystery and revival 

fill the soul,

replenishing it with laughter 

and repairing its holes;

reminding it of its own

urge to live,

to grow. 


ABOUT THE POEM:  "To me, this poem is a battle cry. It is my inner soul screaming out, telling my mind the words that it needs to hear. Life is a struggle. And sometimes it’s easy to want to give up. But somewhere deep inside everyone, there is a soul that wants to experience life. So we have to keep living to satisfy our inner soul."

Instagram: @lotusbloom007


TODAY IS GOING TO BE A GOOD DAY

By Jason Kirk Bartley


Today is going to be a good day,

show someone that you're blessed.

Be a shoulder they can cry on,

when they're feeling stressed.

Everyone goes through battles,

it pays to just be kind.

Everyone is going through something,

If they're not, just give them time.

Show your beautiful smile, 

greet them in the street,

love your fellow man, and make them feel complete.

Lift up one another,

help each other along.

We'll find we need each other,

and we really weren't that strong.

Try and bless another instead of spreading so much hate,

Many problems are occurring,

that keep each other up late.

"Today is going to be a good day."

Program this into your head.

So much better than the alternative that wants control instead.

You'll feel so much better,

than you would by spreading hurt.

Dig up the gold in someone's life, rather than digging up the dirt.


HOPE OF A DIAMOND

By Jashmitha


Eyes like a Colored Diamond

Became like a Stone.

She wanted to Runaway—

Not from Life,

But from the Present.


Her thoughts becoming deeper than Galaxy,

Hiding an Ocean behind her eyes.

She Prayed every day—

Not for a Miracle,

But for a Change.


She wants to Shine—

Not for herself,

But for the Lost ones.


She realized she was the Change

And started her Journey again,

This time with a

Beautiful Heart like a Colored Diamond.


ABOUT JASHMITHA: Jashmitha is a 17-year-old student and young poet from India. Her poem reflects a personal journey of emotional resilience and hope through pain.



UNTITLED

By Lee Horsfall


Nothing but darkness 

With a deep core of fear 

Always underestimating 

Wot could be near 

Inhaling the light 

As my chest feels tight 

Breathing out sadness 

Addicted to the taste 

Why is it always my home 

We're the devil gets placed 

Feelings of horror

Steal beg and borrow 

Soo many things 

That life always brings 

I have a clock 

With locks and chains 

Negative energy 

Forcing bad lanes 

With all I suffer 

And endure 

I'm really not sure 

I can take much more 

Karma comes round 

Bigger and bolder 

Taking my pride 

Letting things slide 

on the loo 

Or in the bath 

It's like my whole entire life 

Is one big laugh 

Whilst water is rising 

And the devil is disguising 

All my troubles kept concealed 

Wishing things get better 

My mind will be healed 

I've finally realised now that I'm older 

Karma always comes back round 

Bigger and bolder


ABOUT THE POEM: "This poem about struggling with paranoid schizophrenia and going threw traumatic times. Whenever I felt like my mind was going, or I was really stressed out and struggling to cope with all the madness around me, I started writing poetry, and I can honestly say it has helped me get through some of the most terrible times."


SO TIRED

By Michael H. Brownstein


I'm tired past tired,

angrier than anger,

upset and more upset,

I do not have a safety net,

and, yes, I wrote

a long suicide note.


Then

my friend

came to me

with a piece of poetry:


Write with all your heart,

Finish what you couldn't start,

Create a work of art,

Design a life plan chart

And always, always, forever always

Remember the language of fart.


His pom hit me with a jolt.

I tore up my suicide note

and then and there 

I started trying--

because not trying--

and I was not trying--

is dying.

I AM MUCH MORE

By Annie Walsh


A lovely conversation

Someone who can hear

The pain is just constant

Nearly two long years

A sympathetic doctor

Makes a lovely change

Some that I have seen

Rude or bloody strange

Slowly as she listens

I tell her all my woes

I’m wiping away tears

Loudly blow my nose

Then my heart sinks

Here’s that look again

As she reads my history

Forgotten is my pain

She’s looking anywhere

Apart from right at me

Distant and unhelpful

Is the doctor, I now see

It’s the same old story

I wouldn’t think it true

Not friendly anymore

Or looking right at you 

An addict in recovery

I know I’ll always be

But I am much more

If only they could see

Yes I’m an alcoholic

It’s a horrible disease

And at its very worse

I was on my knees

But I am much more

I’ve come a long way 

So please look at me 

As who I am today 

Some days aren’t great

But one day at a time

Been to hell and back

On this journey of mine

So just a friendly word

I hope you do not mind

We’re not just an addict

So remember to be kind

Cause you might just be

A smile for that someone

Giving them the power

The strength to carry on


MONDAY MORNING

By Tim Boardman


It’s Monday morning

and I’m driving to work,

mindsomewhere else.

The windscreen’s sticky—

sap from the trees above the car at home—

I should clean it

but it just smears,

and I haven’t slept.


It’s 7:10.


I can still see

the ghost of my dad

walking

at the bottom

of Breary Lane.


Old song on the radio—

I know it,

it seeps into the quiet.


I wonder if that student would like

to work at…


On the way

to buy a Yorkshire Post,

cloth cap

slightly askew.

Always that cap.


Old man, take a look at my life

I’m a lot like you were.


I catch him

in the wing mirror—

shirt and tie,

that familiar waddle.

Strange—

I never wear a tie.

Never have.

Not out of principle,

just sheer bloody mindlessness.


I need someone to love me

the whole day through


Head down,

determined

to beat the newsagent,

never had it delivered,

not until the end of Bramhope.


He’d try to slip away

and wander,

always trying to get back

to a house

from years ago—

some version of home.


I’ve been first and last

Look at how the time goes past


And I drive on,

leaving him

in the rearview blur.


HOLD ON

By Anonymous


hold on

i promise not all hope is gone

even though it feels that way

even though it feels like you will never be okay

and maybe you feel guilty when u pray

maybe you feel so very dirty

but i promise you are worthy


worthy of kindness worthy of love 

you are adored by the One Above

and your mind

is such a liar

causing u to burn

from the fire

that’s always spreading in ur head

to the point you wish u were someone else instead

to the point you wonder if you were better of dead


but i promise things will get better

so put down the pen before you write the letters

because i don’t know what i’d do without you

i wouldn’t be able to keep going

keep operating

and every second i talk to you

i’m appreciating who you are

and it breaks my heart when you listen to “your gonna go far”


i promise you are seen

in a world so terrible and mean

and though you feel isolated

there’s a reason you were created

there’s a purpose you are fulfilling

you don’t need to bottle it inside

it’s better when it’s spilling

because you already drowning in self hate

you wonder if death is just your fate

but i promise you there is more

so get up off your bathroom floor

unlock your door

before you do something so defeating

before your heart stops beating


and i promise you can always share

i promise you i care

and others do as well

i’ll try to help u navigate through this hell

because eventually you will see Heaven

but you need to keep trying

even though you feel like dying

and it’s okay that your crying

but i promise i see the part of you still fighting

the part that won’t let go

because part of you knows

even if it’s small

it remembers your glow

but candles can be relit

please don’t quit


and it may feel so unbearable

so painfully heavy

to the point it’s hard to just be steady

to the point you wish you were dead already

because you already feel empty

but you will feel full

even if now your bright light is dull

maybe the batteries just need to be changed

they were prematurely drained

but they can be recharged

and life is hard

but you are strong

and it may feel like life is doing you wrong

but i promise hope is still existent

and i see the part of you that’s resistant

to the thoughts that are so persistent

but please don’t let go

your loved and so very worth it

your not a burden 

but you bring an irreplaceable light to a dark world 

you are warmth when all is cold

and i promise you are more than enough

and you deserve rest

your wearing yourself out taking tests

by those who have no authorization to grade

but i promise there’s a reason you were made

and you are more than your past

you have no reason to be ashamed

no reason for any self blame

because u are beautiful

and making such an impact

but it’s okay to breathe

to need help

it doesn’t make you weak acknowledging your mental health 

but i promise people will read the books on your shelf

even the ones you pushed aside

you don’t need to hide

so please be open

and keep hoping

i’ll help you find new ways of coping

instead of making urself bleed

because your hanging on to a thread holding too many beads

and it’s wearing down everyday

but i promise all will be okay

please please don’t go away

we will find a way

and life will improve

but i don’t know what i’d do

if it’s you i lose.


ABOUT THE POEM: "I wrote this poem late at night when I was reflecting upon the hopelessness many feel. I was thinking about how the mind is such a liar and how many people sit in self hatred daily without anyone ever reaching out or simply listening to them. This poem would be something I’d send to someone on the brink of suicide. I wrote it as a final plea for someone hoping they will give life another chance. Often, people battling depression feel very empty, isolated, and hopeless. Hope becomes a mere myth to some, so this poem is a reminder to all that hope is still very real and existent even through the darkness and most isolating of times. This poem also touches on themes of codependency and having your worth tied into someone’s else’s existence. Even though this is unhealthy, it’s out of deep love and care for someone else. This poem showcases that no matter how dark and lonely things are you are still loved and seen."


JUST THINKING BACK

By Mark Katrinak


Just thinking back can give the nightmare charge

as chill would charge the stallion’s chilling stare, 

wild horses’ gallop after rising heat.

Terror’s uninsulated wires spark,

that any therapy dare not come near,

let alone broach the torment born of dream,

for fear another fire start, leave soot

sootier than chimneys, Satanic sash.

That going back in time can detonate 

the calm you cultivated for so long, 

ignite the heavy draperies you drew 

to keep the past from ever peering in.

Not thinking back will set things off as well;

you need to pull the plug on this machine



ABOUT MARK: Originally from Cleveland, Ohio, Mark is now a resident of Golden Valley, AZ. He has had poems published in Bayou, Southwestern American Literature, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Pinyon, The Opiate Magazine and other literary publications. He enjoys birds, felines, and spending time with his wife and son.

UNTITLED

By Caligo Cai Amber


When every second of every day my poor wired brain loudly wails and my soul wildly howls,

when peace and contentment seem in my life seems mostly extinct because of the power of mere memories, 

and my mind does loop-de-loops in a circular pain cycle,

and the bottle that once numbed but broke me calls again,

but the answer is not in flavors that are sweet and strong,

and so I fall back other bad habits like caffeine to resist the totaling temptation,

and try to fall back to reading and poetry to once again become level and resilient.



STONE

By Shinsaku Ashida


before the stone

hardens completely

before it can no longer

absorb water

before words

still reach it


before it is

cut and polished

by human hands

before it is placed

in a line and gains

unearned confidence

under the light

of the world


before it shines

without understanding words

before it makes “righteousness”

a weapon

and goes on winning

without pause


though there are many things

fragile yet precious

before it is called

a jewel

and comes to believe

that being unbreakable

is the only value

and ends up

living only

in such a narrow world


ABOUT SHINSAKU: Shinsaku is a Japanese poet whose work spans poetry, short stories, tanka, haiku, and haiga. His writing has been published or awarded in 188 literary venues worldwide, he has published three books in Japan, and is currently preparing his first international collection.



MONOTONOUS PIANOS THAT PLAY IN MY GRAY MATTER

By Mira Fox


A straightener bites its hot tongue on my hair, cackling 

And crackling like the thunder in the clouded heavens above;

trudging to school, I inhale the smoky sky like it’s a cigar,

the same grayish white shade as a dusty dove;


my ears ring metallically with instruments like sirens, pianos

that repeat in monotone and abrupt crescendos like a careless cat

stepping on the toes of the keys, I visualize crouching to pet

the cinereous, disruptive feline as I dissociate in class;


the windows are blemished with bumps of rain, obstructive 

of my desperate fantasies to dissipate into the haze of the atmosphere;

my limbs feel the weight of wool, and my mind obscures serious 

thoughts like an oblivious lamb unshaded by shadowy fear;


the final bell hollers and students leak out of school, berserk 

as the clouds rupture open and bleed water on scalps in a pelting patter,

making my straight hair frizz into curls, I seek refuge in the only place

I feel sheltered inside, my skull that cradles my gray matter.


ABOUT THE POEM: "This poem is about being stuck in the confines of my brain. Depressed with the dullness of life."

~

Poem taken from ANXIETY & DEPRESSION.



RHYMES ARE EASY. IMPARTING WISDOM — NOT SO MUCH

By Riley M. Frank


Trying to find a reason for existing,

Tho’ my eyes are no longer misting

From my soul’s endless insisting;

Such reason left me long ago.


For I’ve seen horrendous misery

Inflicted on my siblings and me,

All for a lack of parental energy

To insure us a future to know.


But perhaps one decade remains

For me to make any great gains

Or to take any substantial pains

To reinvent my sorry life, just so.


Therefore, today I feel despair

That I can’t even try to repair

A legacy, a step up that Stair,

Another, final chance to grow.


So I try to write these poems,

Hoping they find their homes

In people’s hearts or in tomes;

Such is my never ceasing ego.


So thank you for reading this.

I hope it’s not time you’d miss

Creating your deserved bliss;

This you should never forgo.


NINE TO FIVE IN THE MIND OF BORDERLINE

By Pandora Horvath


eight a.m.

the day is fresh

a clean slate

i feel confident

bubbly even

nine a.m.

my computer loads up

the same ritual

sadness enters my brain

repeating this mundane pattern

a past memory arrives

my sadness turning to suicide

and i break into a sweat

holding back a tear

that sadness dissipates

nine fifteen a.m.

sadness feels like an old friend

as we are now cheeky

nine thirty a.m.

anxiety rushes my bones

unable to function

i pace in my cubical

anxiety flips to sadness

and i apologize to my family

as they would be best

without me around

ten a.m.

my coffee is sweet

and so is my life

ten twenty five a.m.

i think my boss hates me

i hate me

everyone hates me

eleven a.m.

numbness and calm

i've stressed myself to ease

the work day continues

email after email

noon arrives

imploded with anger

because anxiety and sadness

are too heavy to handle

two p.m.

tapping my feet aggressively

holding back sweat and tears

as my body aches to not exist

two thirty p.m.

i am numb again

a moment of glee shines through

how beautiful is this life

two forty five p.m.

why do i exist?

i would be best extinct

four p.m.

the drive home brings me joy

a tear falls from my cheek

if i am so glee

why does that ditch

seem like a nice place to park


- nine to five in the mind of borderline


ABOUT THE POEM: "I wrote this piece as an expression of awareness and acknowledgment for those with Borderline Personality Disorder and the intensity it holds."


BELTANE RIGHTS

By Kelly Maida


I stand in the spiritual garden with a heavenly knot

The ethereal thread

Candles glowing

The spiritual priest is all knowing

Healing karma from all lifetimes

Reading the holy rights

Placing flowers all around

While heavenly blessings fall to the ground


ABOUT KELLY: Kelly is an independently published writer of poetry, non-fiction and children's books. She likes to speak out about how she turns her struggles into opportunities.

FB: @Kelly Maida


EVENTUALLY ...

By James Aitchison


Do rainbows weep?

It were as though

the dark spirit blooms

its brightest when happiness

should prevail.

Fears slant opaquely

in the shadowed mind,

haunting the corners,

each fresh shoot of hope 

condemned to wither.

The tears of an old life

gather on stones of regret.

But they will evaporate,

in spaces of clean dry air,

eventually,

eventually.



THE WAYS WE INVENT TO HURT OURSELVES 

By Martina Collender


The ways we invent to hurt ourselves

form a long, monotonous list:

methods to soothe or inflict pain,

poisons chosen for each day's twist. 


Our bodies, remarkable in their design,

can harbor infections deep within,

manifest rashes that decay the skin,

endure bruises, cuts, and self-imposed decline. 


They crave sustenance, yet punish when we eat,

and retaliate when we abstain.

We purchase harm, both sanctioned and illicit,

pleasures veiled, yet laced with disdain. 


We lie beneath strangers to forget familiar faces,

paint smiles that never reach our eyes,

run until we purge,

or purge to feel control's guise. 


We peak with choices we label as mistakes,

then cut, bruise, break, and abuse.

We harbor hate, disgrace our forms,

believing our bodies are of no use. 


Sleep becomes elusive,

food turns to rot,

silence deafens,

noise strikes like a shot. 


Skin rubbed raw from relentless strife—

the ways we invent to hurt ourselves

compose a list that mirrors life,

a list that never ends.


ABOUT MARTINA: Martina is a Queer, Disabled, award-winning playwright, poet, and writer based in Waterford City and County, Ireland. Her work delves into themes of identity, resilience, and social justice, often spotlighting marginalized voices.

Martina has been commissioned by a diverse array of organizations including: Loose Screw Theatre Company, Red Kettle Theatre Company, RigOut Productions, Trinity Players, Comeragh Wilds Festival, Imagine Arts Festival, The Drama Circle, Brothers Of Charity, Rehab Care, Waterford Youth Arts, and Garter Lane Arts Centre. Her plays have been recognized for their compelling narratives and authentic representation. Her published works include Crotty The Highway Man and Petticoat Loose (Suirdzign), as well as Still, We Sing (Beir Bua Press). Martina continues to inspire through her storytelling, advocating for inclusivity and representation in the arts.

FB: @Martinacollenderplaywrightandwriter

X: @PlaywrightColl

Instagram: @Martina Collender Playwright

Tumblr: @Martina Collender Playwright Blog

Pinterest: @MartinaTeenyCollender

LinkedIn: Martina Teeny Collender


IT TRULY TAKES VERY LITTLE ENERGY

By Gary Shulman, MS. Ed.


It truly takes very little energy to be a candle in someone’s darkness

When the bright radiance of joy and optimism seem all but extinguished from their lives

It truly takes very little energy to reach out your hand 

And pull another up from the chasm enveloping their soul

It truly takes very little energy to motivate another to put one foot in front of the other

And morph someone’s sadness into joyous hope

Be that energy in someone else’s life

Be the reason a smile graces their face

Be the reason hope grows in their heart

Choose to be the reason they relish another season


UNTITLED

By Christie Quinn


People are always looking—

It’s like a dream,

Like someone’s spying,

Watching over me.

At home, on the streets,

It feels like all eyes

Are always on me.

Up, down, left, right—

Stares and glares

Are all I get.

People look,

People judge,

As if I don’t already know

I’m not good enough.


I’m just a girl

With scars on her skin,

Wishing someone

Could look within—

See the pain I carry

Day by day,

And somehow still

Find the strength

To stay.


I’m not broken

Beyond repair,

But I haven’t yet found

The part of me

That wants to build

My life back up

Again.



TWISTED SISTERS

By Susan Evans


There is no use barring the windows and doors 

and staying up all night with a shot gun 

across my lap to keep out 

the veiled, long-faced, Blue Miseries -- 

sobbing into tear-stained hankies and carrying doomsday calendars,

or the squat, white-gloved Small Petties, squinting through 

magnifying glasses and gripping score cards and tweezers; 

or even the ragged, hand-wringing, Desperate Needies, clutching 

donation requests and begging bowls;

and ditto the quill-coated, helmeted, Battle-Ax Harpies, 

snarling over bitter chocolate and dill spears;

and utterly impossible to stop the wide-bottomed Death Worriers 

clad in hoodies and compression socks, biting fingernails 

and rolling beads over their palms.


My house stands riddled with holes 

and the unwelcome seep inward with relish,

waving mockingly,

letting me know what a fool I am to allow entrance.


I rise reluctantly from a sleepless night 

with my chain of heavy keys

and unlock doors, surrendering to all the miscreant

sisters, agitators, complainers, and droopy drawers.

I feed them occasionally, strewing crumbs of regret,

express slight sympathy, pat their knees 

murmuring, “There, there;”

and try civilizing and integrating them into polite society,

letting them stay -- too long -- dining on my better nature


Finally, patience wears thin and drama exhausts, so I 

glance at my wrist, look pointedly at the door, 

and say, “My. Look at the time! Off you go!”


They sigh. I avert my eyes. 

They pack up their dribbles of things, 

take some of my baggage,

and wistfully scuttle out, looking back longingly 

even as I slam the door in their smudgy, baneful, graceless faces. 

Eyeing the mess they’ve made,

I vacuum


ABOUT THE POEM: "I believe the stress is palpable these days, and it is difficult to even sleep at night. My poem addresses my own insomnia and how I cope (eventually)."


ABOUT SUSAN: Susan lives in Baltimore, Maryland, and enjoys writing poetry, memoir, and creative nonfiction. Humor seems to help her make the world a little less scary, so she writes that, too.



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