One Poem Only

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. Today's poem is: Dear Unknown Ancestor Naked in the Woods by Danielle Eleanor La Valle after Chris Kads -I haven't gone back far enough,keep going, keep going,back, back, back,farther still......ah, there, there you are, sitting on a log.Waiting maybe.You are wind-thickened skin, tattoos madeof soot and saliva,scars I didn't know a body could hold.I look at you and see an early death,abscess teeth, parasites, tuberculosis.You smile with the half teeth you have remaining.You look at me as I am, confused and wrapped in many layers of highly profitable fear.You are deaf in one ear and you limp,rheumatoid is already curling your fingers,but you're alive, gloriously and nakedly in this wood.We are I think the same age, though that means something different here.Then asking with your eyes -neither of us have any language that will mean anything to the other- you want to know why am I so sad, why am I so afraid?You put your hand on the scar that missed my eye,you hold up the face I fear is sagging too soon,you slid your arms around my soft, asymmetrical body.More from Danielle Eleanor Lavalle ↓@danielleeleanorlavalle on InstagramAnd now for the poem this was written after. Dear Personal Care Department God by Chris Kads after Lancee Whetman -God of the Personal Care Department,please grant me musk. Grant methe strength of “Steel Courage” -buffness in a bottle. Let mybody be a vessel of “dragon’s breath”and “warrior’s blood”. Allow me,like men, to be baptizedin wet swagger, to have mypreconceived softnesswash away with the scentof toughness.Bless me,with blindness in the faceof razors. Grant methe normalizationof forest-y armpitsto pair with the scent of“Sasquatch Foot”.And, please, oh holyPersonal Care Department God,revoke your commandmentsand let the avoidance of “Secret”and smoothnessnot be a sin.Amen.More from Chris Kads ↓@chris_kads on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and <a href="https://www.patreon.com/c/OnePoemOnly" rel="noo

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.BonesToni Youngafter Ella B. Wintersit doesn’t take much to see through skin, through blood, through bones i’ve etched poems in each rib this cage can only hold so many stories see how this poem is stuck in the marrow see how this poem is caught in the hollow do i have to break these bones for you to read meMore from Toni Young ↓ @toniyoungpoems on Instagram@toniyoungpoems on SubstackAnd now for the poem this was written after. Ugly Bones by Ella B. WintersElla B. WintersBehind the dusty radiator, green splashed like blood spray in a B-film, from that time when you decided to paint our bedroom in the middle of the night,I keep my poems hidden in a puce manila file so unremarkable, it chameleons into the background, pink tongue unfurling to swallow my words into the shadowy crevice. Mostly, I don’t want you to see them, as though, in the starkness of the early hours, when our walls demand another change, they might reveal my ugly bones through the translucent skin. But sometimes, I forget they’re there, as well. Imagine leaving them behind when we move on. Who will I be when unsuspecting tenants pull me out word after word like a magician’s string of endless gauzy scarves? How will they piece my naked bones together? What colour will they paint the room?More from Ella B. Winters ↓@ella.b.winters on Instagram@ellabwinters on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Feed yourself poetry every day.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. Taco Bell under a Full Moon /Kris Aziz after GiGi /Dedicated to Beca /We are looking at the moonThrough the delicate linesof a spider's webDutifully spun in thebranches of a treeShe takes a sip of her Baja Blastand says "You're right,Maybe we shouldn't kill ourselvesToday."I bite into a cinnabon delightcrunch the sugar between my teeth.because I know what the moonhas told her.I can still hear my own messagefrom that night when the sky was blackwith despairand the full moon was red fromscreamingThere is no need to reply.More from Kris Aziz ↓@tacobellkris on Instagram@tacobellkris on SubstackAnd now for the poem this was written after.When the Moon is fullGiGiWhen the Moon is Full,She never holds Me by the hand.She grabs right behind thegape of My neck anddrags me to all I've been avoiding.When the Moon is Full,She never whispers in My ear.She screams at the top of Her lungs,so loud, that her rasping voice awakensthe aliens in outer space; now peering fromtheir spaceships.When the Moon is Full,She never glides across the sky.She anchors through the cloudsbeaming directly foreveryone and everything in Her path.When the Moon is Full,She is never dainty but always true.She smiles from above,sneering at everything You thought You knew about Her,and reminding you of exactly who You areMore from GiGi ↓@thegigirising on Threads@thematriarchyrising on SubstackHer books, The Scorpio Rising and The Marilyn Rising: Letters to MarilynShe has a new book coming soon The California Rising: Poems from San Francisco to LASupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, <a href="https://rembrandtscure.substack.com/" rel="noopener norefer

One Poem More gathers all of this week’s poems from One Poem Only—an unhurried chance to listen again, or catch what you missed.This week’s poemsLife Is The Backside of Embroidery by Aasfa SiddiquiUnnamed Season by Jules Travers“Hija de tu madre.” by Elisha FernandezLilies by Madilyn LopezRash by Viviana AbnurSparrowfall by Arch BudzarPlus one new one to carry us into the week aheadYOLOMaggie DeversThank god I’m a millennial and learnedYOLOAt a pivotal period in my life.Who thought I’d pull her out again forWWIII,But there you are—There we are:OnlyLivingOnceUnless we’re considering reincarnation—Which I do most days—Even those I only live once.But I think it meansWe only get this moment once(That we conceptually understand—)We probably live many moments at onceAnd maybe that’s why WWIII feels familiarAnd why grass smells like homeAnd getting smacked in the face by a wave feels like a baptismWaves YOLO—They live and dieWith the tug of the moon.Icarus YOLOed the sunrise,And I feel like he really got it.So I sit in the sun and feel waxMelting down my shoulder bladesAs I stare at the oceanAnd tell my daughter the history of YOLO.</blockqu

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.SparrowfallArch BudzarWhile maybe I wasn’t the smartestOr the strongestI never thought unkindly of youAnd Ialways sang my songAnd ISaw you as an angelUp until the very end.More from Arch Budzar ↓@archbudzar on InstagramYou can find more information about their life and work, as well as prints of their art at www.archbudzar.comSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.RashViviana AbnurEverything I know about deathI learned the hard waywhen I saw you go by on the stretcherto intensive therapyI was an atheist like you and I only sawa slight and strange bodypass at the speed of lightis it that perhaps we live confusedor we are just light and nothing elsebecause I suddenly knew in an instantthat you were notin that bodythey took you to the Emergency roomlike a war trophythere was a rush for the doctors to arrivethere was a rush to deathfor fleeing the territoryminutes beforeyou asked for a bookminutes before I hugged you and you told meyou are so goodthen the power outage in the hospitalthe door half openand I was spying on you and could seehow they surrounded you with candlesstill alivelike in a Poe storysomeone hugged me and I criedwe lost said the doctorand I knew deathis in a rush dadand in the rush it's sloppybecause something was taken foreverI knew itbut something notin that defeated bodyyou were not in.More from Viviana Abnur ↓@cruda.luz on InstagramHer book, Rash, is available nowSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with e

A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud.LiliesMadilyn Lopezblood gushes from underneath my index fingersunderneath my thumbsmy eyes go white and pin-point blackbloodshot— my artery.my throat seals itself shut like a wooden door stuck in humidity’s clutchi tilt my chin to the popcorn ceilinggasping for air that’s already escapedLilies are my favorite flower by the way.it is late.12:15am exactly.my neck starts to itch where brittle bone holds nostalgic flesh imprintsthe coffee on my wooden-chipped scarred nightstand has gone tepidthen frigidit is late.12:17am exactly.congealed blood gushes from my nose where I have never been hit only walked into steel andconcrete wallsmy tear ducts know no repentance stuck in confession my chest feels liketenmilliontrapdoorsleftunsealedi scratch at the duct tape fastened around my goosebumped body clawing like a ravedrabid wretched animal wretched thingsalivatingfoamingachingteeth baringLilies are my favorite flower by the way.it is late.12:21 exactly.Lilies.Lilies. Lilies. Lilies.Lilies.More from Madilyn Lopez ↓@v0guerat on Instagram@maryshelleysmymother on TikTok@madilynlo on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry reminds us what matters. Thank you for listening.

Wednesdays on One Poem Only are Handpicked, a new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me.“Hija de tu madre.”Elisha Fernandez“Eres hija de tu madre.”“You are your mother’s daughter,” is a phrase I heard growing up,from strangers,family members,friends,most repeated by my own mother.I wanted to claw myself out of my skinPanicked by the implicationThat I did not belong to myselfI could not crawl above my stationLimited to the constraints and expectations people thrust on me,Like a hermit crab forced to stay in a shell too-small,No room to grow or become my own personKeeping me trapped against the wall, a doll stuck between pavement,yearning to bloomMy achievements, struggles, and experiencesNo longer my doing, the credit stripped awayLoneliness taking over as I stay, rewatching the events of the past twenty-some yearsThrough the lens of someone else’s existenceIt was so unbearableI eventually avoided the topic altogetherIt felt easier to snip the thread we twined, connecting us,so that I could cement my own self, my own roleIn your mind, in mineThe separation frayed us both,But I learned that it was healthier for us to co-existSide by side, free from the harm we imposed on each otherThan to be attached at the hipAnd that time apartGave me the space to see you, truly,To take you down from the pedestal,To get to know you fullyI think I’ve accepted that I am my mother’s daughter,In the sense that it’s true,I inherited her stubbornness and pride,Her love for words and witty sayings,Her craving to be important, the hunger to be accepted,I inherited her precision and wide-eyed curiosityBeyond the superficial, it’s hard to admit that while she birthed me and learned me,she also weaved her own insecurities a

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.Unnamed SeasonJules TraversHe lives in a peaceful territoryof his own,relatively well-defined.In conversation with his selves,he navigates daily weather,rainbows,mirages,sinkholes.Now,can he still live with himself,with you?Your eyes align,two shapes of water join, sun-lit,know themselves reflected.He feels your arms.He broadens,flattensand retreats,enters spaces filled by airand phantom.He waits, he listens.Voices surface.He slips into marrowlit by the gasping mouthsof scattered self-sustaining fires.He fractures.He falls.He pools heavy,turns, raw, smolder.He scratches notesand demolishes boxes of tissues.While you drink your morningcoffee in the next room,he makes his blanketa mourning shroud,he hibernatesin jumps and starts.He heaves open jammed windows,specks of old white paint confetti his hair.Curtains bloom.Now,he perches on the roof.Now,he shows you proudly,with some astonishment,there’s a new row of feathersin his wingspan --pocked with blushesand frowns of color,asymmetrical, but his,a wave of growth unique to your shared ecosystem,brought forthby an unnamed season.More from Jules Travers ↓<a href="https://www.instagram.com/jules_wordspics/" rel="noopene

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. Life Is the Backside Of Embroidery by Aasfa SiddiquiAasfa SiddiquiI’ve been thinking about it latelylife feels like the backside of embroidery.All I see are the knots,threads pulling in opposite directions,lines crossing with no pattern,like someone stitched it blindfolded.But thenflip it.Turn it over.And there it is.The picture you never thought was formingflowers blooming where only knots existed,Maybe that’s just my side of the cloth.Maybe God sees the other.The one I’m not allowed to touch yet.The side where these very knotshold the picture together.Maybe heartbreak is just a red threadmeant to shape the outline of something larger.Maybe loneliness is a dark patchthat gives contrast to all the light.Maybe even the useless stitches,the ones we regret,add texture,depth,weight.When the fabric is turned,perhaps at the very end,we’ll see itevery knot holding the shape,every crooked linepart of the symmetry.The mess will finally look like meaning,and the backside will make senseeverything we called chaoswill glow with perfect order.Faithisn’t about seeing the image at all,but walking through the confusion,believing that nothing here is wasted.That even the ugliest loopsare part of a beautyI can’t see from this side.And soI stop trying to untangle everything.I let the threads dangle where they want.I trust that someone’s handsgentler than mineknow what they’re weaving.And if being lost in these tangle</blockquot

One Poem More gathers all of this week’s poems from One Poem Only—an unhurried chance to listen again, or catch what you missed.This week’s poems“Words don’t even flow to me anymore” by Lisa Le GuiaderThe Return of Titans by Kate M. SineSunday Ritual by Evyan RobertsPrince of Marble by Auri TunglsdottirIce Box Woes by JACK"E"Women of Stardust and Soil by Steph PattersonPlus one new one to carry us into the week aheadA BaptismMaggie DeversI’m terrified of having to burn it all down to start again.The way a fire eats a mountainComes rushing down a ridgeOut of controlLike when you ran down a hillAnd couldn’t slow your legsWithout tumbling over yourselfHead firstThe way you felt sublimely alive when you sat up, spitting grass, to pull that first clean breath,feel your heart beat out your ears and pulse to the strawberry on your knee.The realization that the moment you surrendered completely, you felt like you were flyingOn the way down soaring feelsThe same as fallingAnd ash cleanses like waterWhen you know how to use itMore 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: <a href="

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.Women of Stardust and SoilSteph PattersonWe start as stardustand then soil, we become,Underneath our feetthe bones sing of so manywomen before us,Their whispers form tendrilswinding up to tip into your ear,Their stories will not be forgottenas the earth holds their proof of life,When their voices rosein anger and defianceWomen labeled as witches,spinsters, other, lesser than,The control men forced upon us,and continue to resurrect,Born of fear, and carefully tilled hatred,The women of todayborn of stardust with the soilsinging under our feet,We will not be quiet,our voices will be a cacophony.More from Steph Patterson ↓@spookyspatters on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.Ice Box WoesJACK”E”This freezing and thawingdosey doethe outdoors has frosted overice falls often,putting the Ice Man of historyin balmy palmsthough I hear the sunshine is dimin the panhandle.A chuck roastwhose rump has frozenrock salt sprinklingif this is dinnerI will screech on pass.More from JACK”E” ↓@poetique_jacq on InstagramHer book, An Abbreviated Mass: A Collection of Poetry, is available nowSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud.Prince of MarbleAuri TunglsdottirI’ve put you on a pedestalFor some reason.One day it was there,And I put you up,It looked right.I’ve made you a statue of marble and gold,Shining in the dark – the moon looks dull compared to you;Glowing in the sun – that’s learning how to look golden from you.I’ve made you immortalBy creating an image that will live in my mind, in the universe.I’ve made you a thought that flies through galaxies,Like a beam of light, carrying a message.I’ve written poems,Dozens over dozens,One longer than the other,One saying less than the other,And all of them screaming to be heard,Doing their best to express my inner world.I’ve filled a whole book with you,So I can put it on the shelf with things dear to me.I could fill another hundred,But I would be repeating myself.And I wouldn’t get tired of it,Of reliving every moment, remembering every word,Feeling every glance of yours again.The glance I longed for that strongly,That I wished for a different version of our lives.One on the surface of this ocean of dreams,On the land that means certainty.But that would mean giving up myself.I almost sold my voice to be able to walk with you.But I knew you would never see meThe way I wished for for so long,And I wouldn’t want to kill your happinessBy wishing for mine to come true.What if I’m only in love with a statue,With an idea, with an illusion, with a dream?I will leave my ocean,But not to be with you.I will travel the world with the birds,And the waves of the sea,The dolphin will carry me to unknown shores,Until I’ve seen everything.Until the laughs of a child will make me immortal as we

Wednesdays on One Poem Only are Handpicked, a new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me.Sunday RitualEvyan RobertsResiding in her pink robe, the one with the acrylic zipper in the front and the unnecessary homemaker-like lace at the collar. She sets her matching orthopedic slippers, to the side,and kneels over the basin. Like praying to deities of Arm &; Hammer Baking Soda and HeinzVinegar, she bends and begins passionately scrubbing, invoking the tool of her gods – a hard bristle brush – in the aid of her task. Mumbling in tongues, over and over, watching all that build up, give way. Her muscles fight exhaustion and residue. The grout of the tiles keeping her in a tepid sweat. I faithfully observe this private Sunday performance. Now, watching her lean back, to rest on her heels, then stretch for her cigarette, it ashing down her front. The fault of ceaseless muscles, trembling from rest – inspiring her to never stop. Falling to the laced collar of her robe, an ember slowly burns. She is unmoved. Looking to the water damaged ceiling, her eyes close, smoke aims from her mouth to the broken exhaust fan. The full billow dissipates to a thinned fume as she pulls once more. And with the remainder of her smoke, kneels forward, blessing the dingy basin, enriching it in smokey prayer, alongside the delicate sacrifice of polyester burning steadily, wider and wider, against her bosom.More from Evyan Roberts ↓@writing.femme on InstagramWatch Handpicked WednesdayA new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me. Watch on Instagram at @rembrandts.cure.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Two poems. One poet. Let the words keep moving.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.The Return of TitansKate M. SineThe last leaf of autumn falls,striking the door like a match,lighting our world with the magic from a distant universe.We watch the spirits pass us by at the window,our breath fogging the glass as the archaic creaturespad past,shepherding their kind to safety while the world sleepsthrough December, January, and February.Karan, the goose, who slides through the air like a knife,blotting out the sky with a quilt of murmuration of different birdsas they migrate to warmer winds.Tubor, the bear, who buries beetles, boil-skinned frogs, and his brethren,ushering them to sleep.Psyche, the wolf, who suns in the graveyards,her golden eyes roll sleepily like the sun across the horizon as she watches the herds and flocks pass by.She and her kin practice mercy on these long nights,giving them a dignified death with their teeth instead of a demise in the shadow of their families.My favorite is Elpenor, the elk.The world heralds his return,the air filling with thunder as he uproots from his dimension to ours.His antlers rise over the withered woods like a crown,grazing the sky as he strides out into the open,with deer, quail, foxes, and other creatures in tow.The men scold the giant deer for taking not only the wildlife away,but women too.A symbol of the balance between fragility and strength,woeful women have asked Elpenor to take them on his odyssey by shearing off their hair until they are left with downy heads,like that of fawns.Elpenor whisks them away, taking them to cities, to towns,wherever happiness finds them.It was only this year that I learned that the lord gives his does, as they are called,a knife, hewn from an antler shed of his children.I saw it one day on my mother’s belt,and now,I have found a mysterywhere I used to be whole,<block

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. “Words don’t even flow to me anymore”Lisa Le GuiaderWords don’t even flow to me anymoreI think tiredness got meThe source has gotten stabbedStrangled I think I’m getting tiredhaving been let to stormand bleed it out, pouring this heart soft outIn your armsOn your chestNow to your touchI’ll much preferevaporate condense awayprecipitate a mile awayI’m already boiling insideWould not need much but meet the fire, your calming touchto light it all haze out of sighttear up and down burn it all outAll hot bloodedAnd cold as iceI’d float the air, everywhere you aren’tI’d rain on you I’d rain on you hotFlashes of light flooding you highBut this ardent sea, whole into mewould do no worse as warm you upO just enoughCuddle you up snuggle you inWish you sweet dreamsand ease you upRight into sleepKiss you good nightLull you gentlywhole against meMore from Lisa Le Guiader ↓@studio_escargot on Instagram@lisaleguiader on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

One Poem More gathers all of this week’s poems from One Poem Only—an unhurried chance to listen again, or catch what you missed.This week’s poemsWhat's Wrong with My Heart by Gillian ShielsA Few Weeks Into the Dreams by Jorge Lopez LlorenteBenedict Fruit by Yonsiri RojasDisjointed Conversations by Jean WathuguHuman-Nature by Katie-May FinchamIn the Hot Spring Locker Room by Haley DiRenzoPlus one new one to carry us into the week aheadShake It UpMaggie DeversI water my plants to feed myselfI feel my toes expandMy neck releaseMy lungs make room for airWe're not under the bootBut we feed itLeila Khalid said revolutionMust mean life in all formsSo I dream of life–In the plants I feed,In my daughter's wet hairI comb after she swims,In my mother's handsAs she towels off the dogWho shakes, covering usWith waterAnd we squeal in unisonAs we recall lifeAnd revoltMore 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 PatreonFollow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cureMore from this week’s poetsFind links to each poet’s work, books, and social accounts in the show notes for the individual episodes.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry is better when it’s lived with. T

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.In the Hot Spring Locker RoomHaley DiRenzoI saw naked women scrubbing saltedskin as my mother ushered mepast. Eyes lingered on bodies rawand round. Breasts dangling, belliesdrooping. Sketched scars and stretchmarks painted in different shades.Clay earth, bruised sky, blue vein.My own body was a girl’s then.Still, I’d graduated from runningnaked through my home to needingto hide myself. I barely rememberedthe bloom of my own mother’sbreast that fed me. She toonow dressed behind closed doorsunable to know or to teachbeing seen without sex or shameor desire. Even now in a locker roomI cover quickly, but long to bethese women. Limbs sloughedpink after sinking heavyinto a hot spring. I can heartheir breathy sighs as water carvesrivers over curves. Their soft whisperssaying simply—yes.More from Haley DiRenzo ↓@haleydirenzo on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.Human-NatureKatie-May FinchamIn the stillness of the awakening forest,where twilight dances with the dawn,human hearts pulse beneath the light rays,piercing the gloom like fragile promises.We wander, shadows flickering among blooms,breathing in the sweet scent of renewal,lost in the echo of stories yet to unfold.Together, we tread the sun-dappled paths,where branches stretch to embrace the light,and the wind carries whispers of ancient hope.Beneath the canopy, we are fleeting spirits,our laughter a fragile melody,swallowed by the weight of memories,as the darkness lingers,a haunting fragrance, blooming with spring.In this gentle light, we find our place,two beings woven with the wild,our dreams intertwined like ivy on the brink of life,yet always reminded of the fragile line,between warmth and the void,where every breath is a testament to our bond,illuminated by the rays that pierce the night,as spring unfurls, urging us to remember,that even in shadows, we are drawn together,bound by the cycle of light and dark.More from Katie-May Fincham ↓@katie_mayportfolio on Instagram@katiemayartist on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud.Disjointed ConversationsJean WathuguBecause I saw that obligatory smileI am dismembering the foot in my mouthYour eyes like to wander in the middle of my lame anecdoteSo here’s my prosthetic humourSo I can fake it enough to make itHow about you write me a technical manual on how to beSo in between the jargon I can mourn the parts of me that don't fit inYou took me in beforeSpitting me outI’m a mishmash of mismatched ingredientsPreheating the oven to bake foreign philosophies into my ownI hoped you'd see me but I guess now I'm in betweenCrystal glasses of wineSo I can see through thisDismembering of the foot in my mouthThe burning off of offensive quirksThe flogging of my delinquent idiosyncrasiesThe branding of new philosophiesMy drunk mind was always more imaginative. So I'm drinking 4% beerDreaming up a version of realityWhere your attention doesn't wander off-In the middle of my syllablesThe only visions that matter are the ones you have of meIn the right lens. Did you get my good side?I am dreaming up a version of realityWhere I am solid enough to be elusiveAnd you don't have to see through me and my bullshitI am mourning the parts of me that don't fit in - do you get it?More from Jean Wathugu ↓@jean.wathugu on [email protected] on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry reminds us what matters. Thank you for listening.

Wednesdays on One Poem Only are Handpicked, a new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me.Benedict FruitYonsiri Rojasthe goose hisses in its ivory crochet suit;sauntering the stoned road, a flinch of lightbathing the pigeon’s pearls, the town’s bruteanimal—its local needful, lazy pal mighthave carved off some of its benedict fruit.the goose grasps the pigeon’s winghums a ballad, makes a sorrowful scenedown the mountain, towards the spring“cut him some slack!”, swallows him clean;local conflict nicely solved, left neither a whing,nor the clumsy thief seen.More from Yonsiri Rojas ↓@lvrimar on InstagramWatch Handpicked WednesdayA new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me. Watch on Instagram at @rembrandts.cure.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Let the words keep moving.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.A Few Weeks Into the DreamsJorge Lopez LlorenteBack then, a few bodies ago, you knew how to get your dreams delivered. You would sleep in the shape of a question mark and the empty side of the bed would be the silent answer. Now the silence is broken by you answering the door late, groggy. Now dreams are strangers’ hands, with covered faces, leaving a parcel on the doorstep, untouched, which you find too late, with the doorbell’s ring muffled. You’re asking for more than you need. You lie that it’s broken and you’re reimbursed and keep these dreams. You lie to yourself: you don’t want them, you don’t know where to put them. Fragile, this way up, they are now half-used and tucked beneath your unmade bed. Now the dreamfulness wakes you up at odd hours of the night, with that shudder as if you’re dreaming that you’re falling or flying and then stop. Nothing is enough; the nothing is too much. You can’t say no to them, although you can’t say yes to them and follow them through; that would spoil these dreams. Besides, they’re not even yours. Kind of. Sleeping with outdoor clothes on has got you dreaming of the bubble wrap these dreams came in. You never finish bursting the bubbles; your room smells of plastic. In the next few sleeps, you want no more dreams, you want the sound of burst bubbles instead; not foam, but seconds of spindrift spittle. Throw it all out except the wrapping. A choking hazard. Only then can you wrap it all up, forget all the forgetting, stop feeling those dreams and that body as your own. Sleep on your back, straightened, correctly, staring at the ceiling. Sleep like a few bodies ago, some body on a commute, delivered, daydreaming of no longer dreaming, onwards, straight ahead, correctly. The bubbles don’t all burst.More from Jorge Lopez Llorente ↓@jorgelllorente on InstagramThis poem is from his recently published poetry Dreamescapes published by Alien Buddha Press, 2025Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Feed yourself poetry every day.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. What's Wrong with My HeartGillian ShielsMy heart is a little broken:Sometimes it does too much tickingAnd not enough tocking.It’s an electrical signal disruption,They tell me.I take my tablets every dayAnd they help.Most of the time.But I worry.I can’t help it.Over the years,This poor heart of mineHas been shattered so many times.It has been battered,Bruised,Ached so badlyI was sure I would die.It has expandedAnd contracted.Been scorched by flamesI mistook for lasting warmth.Still, I will continue to take my tablets.And whisper to my heart in the night,As if it were a fragile bird,Beat on,sweet heart,beat on.More from Gillian Shiels ↓@thoughts_finding_words on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

One Poem More gathers all of this week’s poems from One Poem Only—an unhurried chance to listen again, or catch what you missed.This week’s poemsAching by Brittany Searle KempaiahLa Mariposa de Fierro by Christiane Williams-VigilThey Built the Wall Themselves by M. A. DubbsNine Novembers Later by Erin ZarroShadow Infested Room by Himani GoelShow & Tell by Shahé MankerianPlus one new one to carry us into the week aheadTea PartyMaggie DeversThe hand of godSips with the divine pinky upHoly water servedIn antique china cupsFirst gently blowingNot for the heatBut to make ripplesStill, the liquid warms the sameEven for the dolls whoHave yet to taste a dropThe imaginary need not look realTo be feltCreation is not just what we seeMore 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 PatreonFollow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cureMore from this week’s poet

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.Show & TellShahé MankerianThis poem was first published in Contemporary Verse 2, Summer 2024 (Vol. 47, No. 1)To Lucille CliftonJosé lifted a rabbit from a corroded cageand said, “This is Jesús. We found himsleeping among the dead daffodils.”Elizabeth asked us to cover our ears“Because Beethoven was deaf,” she saidas “Ode to Joy” squeaked on her violin.I clapped the loudest because on the firstday of school Liz braided my shoelaceswith hers. Mrs. Honzay poked my forearmwith a pen, “Settle down,” she whispered.Sweaty Mika wore his father’s space suit.Selma uttered from her wobbly desk,“He even smells like an alien.” When I stoodin front of the blackboard, nauseous,with nothing fancy to share, I raisedmy trembling hands shoulder high.“I was born with twelve fingers,” I said,“and I have the scars to prove it.”More from Shahé Mankerian ↓@shahemankerian on InstagramHis book: History of Forgetfulness published by the Fly on the Wall PressSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.Shadow Infested RoomHimani GoelClosing the door on the shadow infested room?I say noI pull the curtains open.Shaky handsWindows stuckStrain harderpushed open with a rattleSudden breezehair swept awayCurtains blownThe wind takes the lead to start a dance with the mossy curtainsUp they flysaying hello to theparticlessparkling like pixie dusta magic in new ray of shineThe wind pulls back with a whisperthe curtains flow downcaughtin a thorn,grown unknownbetween the floorboardsthe dance turns into a tug of wartug tug, oh the strugglethe wind wins,thorn ripswind tries to dance againbut the mark left the curtains flutteringbroken, healingWind settles downthe curtains rest.Pitter patternear my toesup I lookthe ceiling leaksI let it pour.Wet floorHidden tearsTaken first steps to wash away the sorrows pastWish to forget the shadows castMore from Himani Goel ↓@heartovermind on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud.Nine Novembers LaterErin ZarroTW: ViolenceNine Novembers laterYou plucked flowers from my mouth andweaved them into a crownYou sang me into submission andwe made beautiful music togetherbut in the morning, you didn't remember my name.When I wanted to leave you, you gave me sunlight,promised me forever,slid a dagger through my spine.When you sucked the light from my bones,I cried, and you sewed my tears to my facein silence that burnsIn darkness, you fed me wildflowers and pain.I will gather my bones and I will riseI will shine heavenly light through my empty eye socketsYou will never touch my bones again.Originally written in Esperanto. More from Erin Zarro ↓@erinzpoetry on InstagramHer chapbooks, Life as a Moving Target, and Without Wings are available nowSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry reminds us what matters. Thank you for listening.

Wednesdays on One Poem Only are Handpicked, a new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me.They Built the Wall ThemselvesM. A. DubbsOn any given weekday on the east boardwalk of Port Washington,you’ll find fishermen of leisure.Long white beards, shirtless with an all over tan,crepey skin a canvas of tattoos;a visual storyboard of his trials.If you’d ask, you’d learn about the steady handsthat inked him as a kid drafted to ‘Nam.He won’t say much about the thick bordered oneshe did when he got back.Just shake his beard and tell you “mistakes.”Ashes from his cigarette will fallon familiar burn marks as his lips tremble.The lake clears the mind,dampening the sound of everything.Even the water crashes silently on the storm breaker,so it’s always still.A haze, not a fog, rests north of here.Resting on the horizon like an acoustic panel.It’s the silence that he seeksbut he’ll bring six fishing rods anyways.Strap them up in a row along the railing,all cast close, lines just four feet apart.If you’d ask, he’d say he’s trying to better his odds.Ask if he’s caught anything so far and he’d shrug,tell you nothing good yetbut he wants a big fish so he brought the big rods.But mostly, he’s quiet.He rests on a bench or sits on his hams and squints outwards.Solemn face, as couples hold hands and stroll by,as a mom pushes her child in a stroller,as a group of teen boys pause.They long to learn and touch fishing line,have an old hand guide their fingers through pretty little lures,each feathered and glittered with care.They long for tough stories that were untold until they lent an ear.There’s a pause for connectionbut it passes too quick.The boys don’t know much yet but they’ll carry this anger homeand it will stay in their chest for years to come.The old man watches through sleepy eyes,</b

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.La Mariposa de FierroChristiane Williams-VigilThe autumn leaves of American Beechflutter and cover her inquilt-like patches of many colors.To warm her through icy yearsand struggles of the 9 to 5.She sings not for those who are entangled in richesbut lullabies those who are suppressed,silenced,and overlooked.The ones who she wishes life willtreat them kind..Blessed is she who opens her heart,and pardons red-haired womenwho can’t help their siren-esque call.Out of a chrysalis of ash,her soul profound in its understanding ofphilanthropy and eternal love.She rises as an iron butterfly,armed with guitars and an endless stream of lyrics.And we will always love her.More from Christiane Williams-Vigil ↓@christyvigilwriter on InstagramYou can see her latest publications and workshops at her website: christianewilliams-vigil.comSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Feed yourself poetry every day.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. AchingBrittany Searle KempaiahUnexpectedly.There are moments I relish my arms being my arms again.And then,I ache for you.I ache for the way you once fit in the crux of themyour head on my bare chest.I ache for those moments I dreaded your screaming.and the way it seemed to echo with accusations of my failure.I ache for the days I wondered what I had done with my life.and sat by your cot.Begging you to forgive me for wanting to be me again.I ache for your tiny brace I hated.The thin clothes and baggy pantsthat always seemed to draw eyes to us,accusing me of not being enough to heal you.I ache for your bald spot I tried to coverand the tiny milk peoples I feared were a sign of sensitive skin.The fear that your easily marked brown skin would scarand you would blame me for allowing your perfection to be blemished.I ache for your fumbling steps, your bruised head and scraped kneesthat made me fear you were somehow becoming too much like me.I ache for the bottles you wanted late at night.To hold you in the rocking chair and sing you back to sleep,without wishing it away.I ache.because I don’t really remember them.They are fragments and illustrated by ideas of memories.Feelings.Senses.Exhaustion.ButI wasn’t really there.This is what I took from myself.Missing all our worst daysmeant missing all our best.And I will never be able to hold the tiny you again,and love you perfectly,I ache,and I ache.and I ache.More from Brittany Searle Kempaiah ↓<a href="https://www.instagram.com/brittanysea

Sundays on One Poem Only are reserved for the weekly recap, but since we were writing a poem a day with Write After in April, we haven’t had a break for a recap in a month. So today I’m reading a poem that perfectly encapsulates Write After. It is a cento and contains one line from each of the 30 poems shared on One Poem Only during April.April: A PoemElla B. WintersShe never whispers in my ear, unfurlingto swallow my words, abandon mewhen I most need her,while the past rides shotgunsilent.My mind is a black sand beach. My fingersstop tracing spines. I've stopped turningthe light on. I have climbed to the topof the very last tree, gawkingat the sky turning into a riot of gold.Sadness presses its thumbinto my chest - a cascadeof the most unruly waves,they sparkle in the morning sun.Delayed and denied a day's breath,drums prelude river current tears, drawtogether the wet ravines of skin like a zip.Observing life like Dali from below the waters,cracked asphalt flowers, reachingfor a Mediterranean sun, stand underthe downpour. If I couldunzip my heart from skin, unleashingperfection to fully know me, I'd chooseto embrace the perfect contradiction.My world would be trickling waterin this moss forest, while stars are singingto us from the cosmos - the masterpieceI've waited my life to see. How delicatelythe water ripples;I forgive the fluidity.Let my body be a vessel! I've got enoughwords to feed the both of us.This silence sets me free.Contains one line from each of the 30 poems shared on the One Poem Only podcast during the April 2026 'Write After' challenge.More from Ella B. Winters ↓@ella.b.winters on Instagram@ellabwinters on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf y

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.Square SocietyFaye SimpsonIn the land of square people,They live ridged lives,With right angled rooms made to fit their intended occupants only,And the ridged rules silently spoken by every straight line,Bent and broken are often indistinguishable,For the square mind,In this curveless space,Everybody fits into their place.Or so it’d seem,Between the boundaries of 2D,Live creatures like me.Natural plasticity has allowed me to form a false face,A more angular appealing shape,So, I can be a member of this strict society,Otherwise, no such thing is available to me.I bend but I am not broken,I attain and abandon all easily,Square society was not made for shapeless souls like me.My differences have been made disabling,My lack of a true shape is an “issue”Not inherently,No, I quite like me,But square society, has decidedly defined,That I don’t deserve a space.Because no matter how I change my face,My mind, isn’t the right shape.More from Faye Simpson ↓@faye.poetry.prose on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.Everlong/EvergreenDan WebberAfter an endless winterthe spring has finally come,a reminder,that all things will passeventually.In defiance, nature remainsguarded by tall treeand howling wind.The beauty of the forestis untarnished.Frostbitten or sun kissedupon doorstep, or far, far awaytravellers and explorersold and neware welcomed inin equal measure.These whispers from the woods call:Come.Sit a spell.Breathe in the good air.Calm mind and soothe body.It’s peaceful here,but never lonely,still but ever-changing,eternal yet new-born,respectful, if respected.It’s time to reconnect.Mother Earthhas waited long enough.She wonders when we will realisethat every day is differentwhen you stop and look up.So, look up.More from Dan Webber ↓@imgenrefluid on InstagramHis book, Whispers from the Woods, is available nowSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

I didn’t miss a day. Thank you for being here. For listening, for sharing, for writing, for championing poetry with me. There’s so much more to come.I dwell in Possibility –A fairer House than Prose –More numerous of Windows –Superior – for Doors –Of Chambers as the Cedars –Impregnable of eye –And for an everlasting RoofThe Gambrels of the Sky –Of Visitors – the fairest –For Occupation – This –The spreading wide my narrow HandsTo gather Paradise –By Emily DickinsonThere’s something poeticAbout a country eating itself aliveTo appease the gods of private equityWhile stars are singing to us from the cosmos.Children go hungryBut fear not,They trim the fat and the wasteAnd the bloated, seeping fools will realize too lateThat a country without its peopleIs no country at all.There’s something poeticAbout letting it all fall awayAnd giving up the fight,Not because we know we lostBut because the fight is not ours.It never has been.We are free now to create something newFor those who careWill we save the world?No. That is not our task.We will save ourselvesAs the world spins round the sun.By Maggie DeversSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry reminds us what matters. Thank you for listening. To 365 and counting.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.AbstractWC QuinnMy pieces appear askew, but I am no Picassojust a Girl Before a Mirror trying to love myselfdespite the flaws in my reflectionI keep counting my brush strokesgrooming tangles in penance.My tongue’s burden is languageThe She Wolf bellow calls to me; I don’t replymy words, sticky sweet honey,smacking heavy in the roof of my mouthsplatters canvas akin to Pollock.My nightmares covet realityso call me a dream walker; lucid surrealistobserving life like Dali from below the watersbearing witness to The Metamorphosis of Narcissusunsure if I am art or artist.My heart stenciled with purposein the face of perpetual loss; A Girl with Balloonblack and white statements strickenwith red accentsRecognizable / Unknown.More from WC Quinn ↓@astoldby.wcquinn on Instagram@wcquinn on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.Unlearning PerfectionMya NoelaniI took up the task of unlearning perfectionBecause what is perfect anyway?Besides of bunch of standards we try to maintain to impress other peopleI’m learning that it’s okay that the same pile of clothes has sat on my floor for three daysOr that I’m not always on my P’s and Q’sAnd that sometimes the most productive thing I can do is get in my bed and sleepI’m learning that perfection is a performance for which I don’t have time because I’m trying my hardest just to stay aliveI’m learning that life isn’t linear but bunch of highs and lows a bunch of day by days and lot of figuring it out as we goLet me ask you something…if Jesus got killed for being just that, then truly, what is the point of perfect anyways?It’s something I’ll never be no matter how much I tryAnd life is just not meant for constant strivingSo, I’m unleashing perfection to fully know meTo embrace opportunity and possibilityTo give myself some graceTo find courage and strength to complete the tasks I’ve been assignedSo tell me again…what is perfection besides a distraction that prevents you from experiencing the fullness of life?More from Mya Noelani ↓@noelanis_diary on InstagramHer book, The Dreamer’s Diary, is available nowSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Feed yourself poetry every day.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. You Are PoetryEmma-Jane BarlowI hope you know that you are poetry.Everything you do is artand you don't even know it.The way your eyes glistenand your whole face beamswith light when you're happy.The way you sink into the sofaand hum a little to yourself atthe end of a hard day.The way you hold the dooropen for a stranger and smile,or the way you speak to animalswhen you seem them pass by.The way you see gift givingas the most precious wayto know someone andthe time and care you put into it.The way you stand underthe downpour of waterat the end of your shower,to feel a rush of gratitudefor simply being alive.The way you watch the steamrise when you make a cup of teaand wonder where it disappears to.The way you love others witha fierce yet gentle loyalty,you always see the best in people,even when they don't deserve it.The way you push out yourtongue when you concentrateand how your fingers dance whenyou're nervous or excited.Even when the poems don't flow,I want you to know,that you are poetry.Never forgetthat everything you doand all that you areis pure magic.More from Emma-Jane Barlow ↓@emmajanepoetry on Instagram@emmajanebarlow on SubstackHer books, Darkness & Light & <a href="https://www.amaz

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.Only SleepingJo GuzmanThe flavor of “Fuck you” smacked across my lips when I wokeNot so much in angerMore like calm clarityI touched my heart with my right handThe one that used to pledge allegiance to many thingsI believed the stories for so longThe ones about love and heroes and goodUntil I realized the truth often died with those mortally silenced because the empire said soMy hand and my heart set about their workCounter clockwise circlesUnravelling layers of grief and shame and angerNo wonder there was so much pressureAnd then I felt the flickerThat little flameThe one that never extinguished no matter whatNo matter what form of fear held me by the throat until I almost stopped caring about my own breathAlmostAlmostLittle did I know that the dragon was only sleepingDeep in my heartThe nearly obscene pressure a message from my bodyWake upThere is no hidingNo more, noneIt’s fire season, you knowAriesRising, rising, risingBurn it downFire purifiesMy heart on my hand stoppedAs I realized the gift…RestDo it nowFor the battle is comingAnd God needs her best soldiers readyMore from Jo Guzman ↓@mjvcoast on Instagram@acuppajoguzman on SubstackHer books, Craving & 28, are out nowSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.10 Things to Say When Meeting a MiracleDana Kinsey~for Miraku Uwadiae1. I never knew a woman who skyscrapers a cornfield like you.2. Life plucks Hope’s feathers, but you sew them back. Never pierce my skin.3. Your “amen” translates into 500 languages, a Kapok tree teeming with animalsighs, a storm of Nigerian tears, a dog-earred book of psalms.4. I love how you allow dreams to rouse you from bed mornings when each bonewants to sink into sheets.5. You chase laughter down long dark hallways, even days with no pay and rent duesoon.6. A GED agreed that your mind opens wide for knowledge, even dead Americanpresidents who never spoke your name.7. The 3-year-old boy clinging to you hears Love whisper in his ear, tell him he’ssmart and strong, bold and funny, kind and gentle, even when he’s tangled innoise.8. Isn’t it wild how you traveled 5,499 miles to a new continent to teach meChristmas lights aren’t strung on fir trees?9. Your smile in scrubs on CNA pinning day was 8th Wonder-worthy, themasterpiece I’ve waited my life to see.10. You are my country; I pledge allegiance to you.More from Dana Kinsey ↓@dana.kinsey on InstagramDana is the founder and director of a project called The Lancaster Living Poetry Museum; 20 performers embody diverse poets throughout our city this May. It's an interactive community initiative. As Lancaster City Poet Laureate, she created the project as a way to edu-tain our city.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.Lot: Vacant, NotDanielle Eleanor LavalleLet me pick you a bouquet,cracked-asphalt-flowers — who do not know that they are garbage:Blue violet Chicory, straight, straight, straight,reaching for a Mediterranean sun that isn’t hereDaisies at last,in neat clumps — safe from the weedwhackerHawkweed splaying wildly — used to being called ‘skinny dandelion’Mischievous Asters (too early)awaiting autumn to explode between the fences and towers of Goldenrodpetals like fraying thread:deep purple,stained barely pink,yellow,whiteWild Bergamot, unexpected,daring you to call it ‘sparse thistle’,almost fuchsia frilled tendrils embracing thebouncing inand bouncing outof eager beesA single raspberry coloured Poppy, that planted itselfon the margins of cement border and sidewalkNo flower— that grows in a used-up-poisoned-discarded space —is garbageMore from Danielle Eleanor Lavalle ↓@danielleeleanorlavalle on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud.Then maybe it would mean somethingE E NisbetThen maybe it would mean something:If your sorry could un-scream,vacuum spit-sprayed particles,suck up fucks, threats and bullshit,Un-drink, choke it back into the glass,take back your money,If your sorry could drag updregs of saline from blotted paper,Sculpt it back into a tear or twoand roll them backwards up my face,If your sorry could un-scar my skin,build the sharpener back together,Draw together the wet ravines of skin like a zip,un-lift the flap of scab, un-openthe sealed-shut mouth of a silvering scar,un-lick the wounds,If my okay could un-crash those cars,fuse together splintered glass, pull spinesBack into alignment, un-slip discs,stitch back skin spread thin across tarmac,unblock the roads,More from E E Nisbet ↓@_.eva_.n on InstagramShe offers writing on commission. DM her for more info.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry reminds us what matters. Thank you for listening.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.Melancholy InkDita IndradiSadness learned my namebefore I learned how to answer.It waitsbehind my teethwhen I say I’m fine.I used to shakethe moment I knew.Hands too loud.Breath missing.My heart runninglike it heard somethingI couldn’t.Heat rushingthrough narrow places,every nerve lit uplooking for an exit.Now, when the same knowing comes,my body does something else.It goes quiet.No shaking.No warning.Just the sudden absenceof feeling.Like someonestepped out of the roomand left the lights on.I bleed without soundand call it ink.Silence presses its thumbinto my chest,not to hurt me—just checkingif I’m still here.Some poems begin as tearsI don’t feeluntil much later.Others are the wayI leave the momentwithout moving.I write from placesthat never healed right,only learnedhow to disappear.Melancholy isn’t how I feel.It’s how my hand moveswhen I stay.I mournwhat almost worked,what hurt enoughto teach my bodyhow to leave.I don’t write to be heard.I writeso the sadness knowssomeone stayedwhen I couldn’t.More from Dita Indradi ↓<a href="https://www.instagram.com/uninspiringalien/" rel="noopener no

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.UntamedToni YoungMy hair is a cascadeof the most unruly waves.I’ve flattened her with a straightener,but she identifies as unbridled.I’ve loaded her with productsto keep her calm,but she prefers to burst througheverything that weighs her down.I’ve since resigned myselfto her defiance.When my friend saidI reminded her of a lionbecause of my wild hair,I laughed.And then I roared.More from Toni Young ↓@toniyoungpoems on Instagram@toniyoungpoems on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Feed yourself poetry every day.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. What We Don’t Put AwayNicole ShepherdIt’s mid-April,and the Christmas tree is still up.I’ve stopped turning the lights on.The crinkled plastic branchesblock the window unit I’ll need next month.When I dragged the box out in November,the lights warmed the icy air—made me believein peace on earth,goodwill to men.But now I’m tired.The faux limbs droop with evergreen shame.I can do the dishesor put it away—not both.Typical.A bowl full of jelly turned shame mascot.Even the Easter Bunny won’t stop by.I’m tired of marking timeby what I haven’t done.I want to carry the tree to storage,a singular pallbearer,before I need one.Let me mark time by what I manage—even if it’s small.Even if it’s late.Even if it’s just this.More from Nicole Shepherd ↓@tenderpunkconfessional on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.AmalgamationSophia JamesI walk to the top of the hill,The Sheffield hillThat made my accent broadMy legs - wide and sturdy,And my body - strong.The same bodyThat my Mother’s Mother’sMother had.The body that belongs to me,And in it, I belong.I stand at the top of the hill,Held up by my legs.I stick my belly out,My top rides up, and I feel a breeze.I feel the wind tickle my fingers,I clutch the air and squeeze.I clench the fingersI see my Grandma in.The fingers, my GrandmaSees her Daughter inThe fingersThat let us share ringsAnd hold onto thingsAnd peopleThat we love.The fingersThat my baby sister gripped,When she learned to stomp her legsUp the hill.That I now look over.Suddenly the noiseFizzles out.And this silence,Sets me free.My body is an amalgamationOf the womenBeforeAnd after me.More from Sophia James ↓@m0nkia on Instagram@sophialilyj19 on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Feed yourself poetry every day.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.WonderKerena JoselineAfter Tuvia RubinerIf after everything that has happened you can still hold your heavy heart with all the strength you have left, and brave one day at a time,if you can still hear those orange- breasted rufous treepies singing on the electric lines at dawn,and the sparrows with their yellow beaks...don't be surprised that happiness is watching the answer to your prayers sleeping beautifully beside you,is feeling the warmth of sunrays entering your living room like hands reaching out to comfort you,is gawking at the sky turning into a riot of gold,is drinking in with delight all the tiny details of this incredible world bursting with a million miracles every second.Take heart, you do not know when and where happiness will flood over you.More from Kerena Joseline ↓@kerena.j.c on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.Dystopian Dirges (United Healthcare)Amelia WickerRubbish or treasureWho is to measureThe value of a life cast aside?Nickeled and dimedWithout reason or rhymeDelayed and denied a day’s breathWho lives and who dies?Who’s the lord of the flies?This dystopian surmise too grim to speakFalse gods of profit and powerClaiming souls by the hourGrowing strong from the plight of the weakNo penance for crimes68,000 timesNew dirges ring with each blink of an eyeMercenary marionettes lieDeaf to the bereft criesAscension ripe for the fall after prideWhen a carpenter by tradeFierce and tender will say“I was thirsty, you gave me no drink”“But sir, we never met”How conveniently they forgetThey met Jesus in the least of all theseMore from Amelia Wicker ↓@poison.or.grapes_poetry on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud.Les OndinesClaire ShalhopeI devote myselfinto secret gardensWhere grey stoneis covered in soft ivythat are full of whispersof your demurralFleshy moss that sitsbeneath my toes,feeds my woes,and fumbleswith our inhibitionsThe scarlet rose thornsmay prick my thumb,But you'll obligeto taste my bloodHow senseless am Ito become insouciantAs the sun's beamsgolden light of myself-condemnationso I carve our initials into the old oakBut a Fortnight ago,all our woven trovesand glances piercingeach of our souls.Sweet honeysuckles growon twisted branchesTo roam our covesof endearmentI uncover your guiseour enthrallment deniesone another.How delicately the waterripples upon your waist,Where our stillness interlacedtroeping our patienceOur dalliance shinesluminescent in thetourmaline skiesfate delivers solaceIn our honeyed oasisAs the wistful naiads tokensMore from Claire Shalhope ↓@claires.creatives on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry reminds us what matte

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.HomecomingKara DobiasThe world wants to be kind, I think.But too often, we are warned of its dangersbefore we can meet its light.I learned to live in the shadowof others’ fear and felt it manifestas my own,self-censoring the softestparts of me out of safety,but I’m becoming something new.I don’t want to be good so much as brave.To make the agreement to be disagreeablewhen it counts.If I am to be beholden to anything,let it betruth,so that I may stand as a pillar of a womanyou can lean on.I’ll lay myself bare,and for once, not worry aboutthe consequences.Instead, I’ll choose to embracethe perfect contradictionI know myself to be.The very version of me I learnedto outrun.You can only ignore the gnawing of your soul for so long.So, who have I been denying myself for?An internal tug-of-war that has stood onlyto hurt me.To be a beacon of sincerity,I must show you my true face.I’m easily disillusioned by the mundane.The creator runs deep in my marrow.Left an untapped well,I become undone.I need something I can pour into.That’s the only wayI feel whole.I was never meant to live within the boundsof a limited imagination.I came here to break the mold.This is the end of my season of seeking.No more performing to be palatable.I give myself permission to feel safein being seen.Let opinions fall where they may.I’d rather inspire confusionthan be a vessel for unfulfilled dreams.Finally, I’ve come hometo me.More from K