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shamanfox

Not the Way

He stood at the pulpit,

words heavy as stone:

“I hate my opponent,

I don’t want the best for them.”

But hate is no torch,

it is a shadow,

a fracture

that splits the bridge we stand upon.

To choose hate

is to salt the soil—

no harvest will rise,

only weeds of anger.

Division builds walls

that silence laughter,

that bury compassion,

that tear at the fabric of us.

But love—

even love for the one

we do not understand,

even love for the one

we do not agree with—

is the only way

to mend the tear.

We are not meant to be enemies.

We are threads in the same cloth,

waves on the same sea.

And if we stop to listen,

we might remember:

it is not hate that lifts us,

but the stubborn, quiet power

of seeing one another

as whole.

cherokeeghostwriter

love is a window in time- the briefest of forevers

like the kitchen window of my childhood home, when the evening sun fell sideways landing through the glass turning dust to fire.

i remember standing there- barefoot on cool linoleum, the backyard stretching out past the fig trees, and the cinder-block fence that held in nothing but our small idea of the world.

we were laughing at something- i don’t remember what -and that’s how it is. the words go first -while the light stays.

for a moment everything was suspended- the hum of cicadas, the slow drift of smoke from a neighbor’s burn pile, my father’s voice somewhere behind me singing to no one in particular.

and within that square of gold i believed- without effort, without question that this was it. this warmth that could not possibly end. this sky beyond the fence had chosen us for its forever.

but the light shifted, as it always does. the sun slipped lower. the room cooled- and the laughter quietly moved into memory.

love is not the years that follow. It is the way the air felt in that narrow band of evening- how your face held the sun, how my chest ached with something too large to name.

love is a window in time. -we do not live there.

we pass it, touch the glass, and carry the warmth long after the light has gone.

mikefrawley

Innocence

Traipsing delicately into forever she leaves footprints upon an empty stretch of beach counting each star that lights the heavens framed in her hands yet just beyond reach Gliding over hilltops and painting rainbows finding lost pebbles in crystalline streams still smiling brightly she tarries with sorrow asking why so many let go of their dreams Seeing the grandeur of life in this moment kissing away angel tears whenever it rains may she be unbounded and free, for she’s one of the few in whom innocence remains

aubriestar

a moment just for us a special love blossoms through the years i will always pause and thank you for the kindness nestled in each heart

©️-Aubrie-2025

quaintobsessions

how it’s supposed to be

The slantlight gentleness creeping into your voice mustn't mean too much to me –

that woodgrain path will take me down with it if I’m not careful

and it’s not even freezing yet.

I hear you, is the thing. I hear you too clearly, in that way that makes divides meaningless,

and these days anything but honesty is beyond me, so stirring my soul with melancholy

is going to do for me –

I may as well sign the death certificate of respectability right now if this story carries on

told in that haunting tone of longing, while the world turns with too many cares

and all I want to do is pull the curtains on propriety

drop a few octaves and whisper sweet everything.

cherokeeghostwriter

where the days have gone

I’m not sure where my days have gone, they casually slip past unnoticed. I feel them tugging at me, as they vanish in the distance -like an afterthought.

so I do -what I always do, I drift back to my childhood. the slow unwavering hum of summer afternoons, where all time stood still, and every day was undiscovered.

now, it’s all rush and blur. these days move past me like strangers. I can't help myself from searching their faces, hoping one of them might bring me something I've not seen before.

cherokeeghostwriter

november

my heart races at the thought of it.

i can’t see my own face without a mirror- why should a poem of mine look back at me with any hint of grace?

the words once came like whispers- a ghost leaning close as i walked through my day. now the voice is faint, an echo from a hallway i can no longer quite discern.

age has thinned the distance between silence and despair. i fumble for meaning, for the leap my younger self once made without thinking.

now i write to make space- to push these borrowed thoughts an arm’s length away, watching them settle into shapes i might recognize, even if only in this muted light- hoping some part of me still remembers how to speak.

an-unlikely-poet

If you dare to be happy

only God's in the forest

the path lined in sutra

a place of becoming

an-unlikely-poet

No shadows cast in Grey November

No breath taken lightly

The first layers after sun down

Relative warmth found

i-am-a-hopeless-case

to my unrequited lover,

To my unrequited lover of eight years,

It’s been eight years, love–

eight long years of wonder

of whether we could somehow

be something more than

this platonic relationship we have.

It’s been eight Novembers, and

I hope you are aware, love–

of how weary I am of the what ifs,

the maybes and the if only’s–

of how much this love took a toll on me.

Love, I dreamt away of the fantasies–

where you would hold my body close,

and you would nuzzle your nose with mine–

where you would brush my lips with yours.

With these, I wasted away with time.

Yet unknowingly, I kept counting eves–

one, two, five and eight Novembers went,

but this love couldn’t seem to leave.

And I couldn’t bear to stay indifferent.

My love, this is where I end this.

- im.a.hopeless.case

remanence-of-love

brotherorpheus

5:43 a.m.

eyes blurring, conjuring prismatic shapes

where predawn seeps, pallid blue,

a lazy flood creeping over the bank

of drywall that borders the

curtained window. still writhing

within the dark current, sleep,

the beckoning voice of ghosts

and memory, crooking fingers

from the mouth of a well, the pulling

grip of an event horizon.

still shrouded, half-unfurled,

by the tatters of dreamsilk,

where i had swum in mind rivers,

a moon-soaked wash, refilled of dusk,

until your even breath,

your own night-crafted aria, fills me,

draws me like the sounds

of a loving siren

to crash on your shore, clothed in sunrise

and alight within the glitter of tide pools

lifeseenbyme

Bravery cannot exist without fear

And oh god am I afraid

Anxiety pulses through my blood stream

Warning me

Telling me to retreat into myself

Urging me to escape

But here I stay

Open and vulnerable

Facing the world

One day at a time

sanders1665

How did we become prisoners

in these glossy little cells we call phones,

glowing like miniature suns

we orbit around

as if warmth still comes from pixels

instead of people.

We scroll like monks

performing a ritual of nothingness—

seeking a fleeting spark,

a tickle behind the eyes,

a jolt of borrowed laughter

before the emptiness slides back in.

My observation?

We’re all starving for connection,

yet terrified of being known.

So we hide in the feed,

hoping someone might find us

without ever stepping out of the shadows.

Words now sting our skin

because we’ve grown soft—

thin as rice paper,

ready to tear at the first disagreement.

Our spines bend to opinions

the same way trees bend to storms—

but with less grace

and more whining.

A thousand swipes left,

searching for “the one,”

though half the time

we don’t even know what we’d do

with real love if it walked up

and slapped the phone

out of our hands.

Outrage has replaced purpose.

I’ve noticed people yell now

because they don’t know

how to whisper their pain.

And victims—

god, everyone’s a victim—

blaming the world

for bruises they gave themselves

by walking into the same wall

again and again.

Truth used to be solid.

Now it’s liquid,

poured into the shape

of whatever container

gets the most likes.

We summon wishes

from glowing rectangles

and call it “manifestation,”

as though a genie coded in Java

could save us from ourselves.

Reality’s not broken—

it’s exhausted.

It’s been overwritten

by ten thousand recycled messages

until even the lies

sound tired.

We let ads slice into our songs,

interrupting the only sacred thing

we had left—

and somehow,

we just sigh

and skip

and continue the ritual.

We face the walls of our glowing cells,

backs to the world,

heads bowed

not in reverence

but in resignation.

Eye contact has become

a form of intimacy

some people can’t afford anymore.

It requires presence—

and presence hurts.

Everyone clings to their “truth,”

like it’s a warm blanket

in a cold room.

But most truths I see now

are stitched from fear,

loneliness,

and hand-me-down opinions

nobody bothered to examine.

So let me ask—

in this bright little prison

where you and I pretend

to be connected:

What color are my eyes

when you talk to me?

Do you even look up?

Do any of us?

Or have we traded the living world

for the comfort

of watching life

from inside our self-made cages—

thumbs busy,

hearts idle,

souls buffering

indefinitely?

apoemaday

Reply to the Question “How Can You Become a Poet?”

by Eve Merriam

take the leaf of a tree trace its exact shape the outside edges and inner lines memorize the way it is fastened to the twig (and how the twig arches from the branch) how it springs forth in April how it is panoplied in July by late August crumple it in your hand so that you smell its end-of-summer sadness chew its woody stem listen to its autumn rattle watch it as it atomizes in the November air then in winter when there is no leaf left invent one