I. The Mirror Isn’t Me (Philosophical — AABB) . I look into the mirror’s face, A quiet, silver, borrowed space. It copies me without a sound,
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcast12 months ago in Poets
I keep you in a bowl I made one late November night. With thumbs that didn’t trust themselves and wrists that held on tight.
By Milan Milic12 months ago in Poets
I found the Spirit not only in shouting or trembling hands, but in thought and the turning of pages thin as belief. Professors with eyes
By SUEDE the poet12 months ago in Poets
The crisp crunch of a different kind. Everything brown and dead has left. Ethereal and surreal, for sure— but the warning call,
By Paul Stewart12 months ago in Poets
Apogee - The farthest reach of the moon's orbit. Dear Moon, How does it feel to spend your life chasing after the Sun?
By Aura Starling12 months ago in Poets
The dusk drips gold on furrowed ground, I walk where laughter used to bloom; the ghosts of seasons gather ‘round, their murmurs rise, then fade too soon,
It begins as a whisper— not from the trees, but from the air itself. The last leaves tremble like paper secrets, their edges crisp, gold fading to ghost.
By Erick Galaviz12 months ago in Poets
Dear Moon, The night she left, the house forgot how to breathe. Even the clocks slowed, as if time itself refused to move on.
I wonder, oh how I wonder — not about your ability or your presence, though in truth, they do elicit reverence and admiration.
Selene my lady fair and full of grace, Listen to my prayer when you see my face. My love has gone to distant, far off soil.
By Margaret Draper12 months ago in Poets
Dear Moon, I’m writing from the edge of another sleepless evening. The city hums like a tired machine, and yet you rise — slow, patient,
We were told, as our high-flying flag unfurled, "The glow from that fire can truly light the world." Robert Frost foretold, in the high, morning hour,
By Will Ruha12 months ago in Poets
