Featured Poetry - February, 2025
ODE TO THE SILENT SURVIVORS
By Shyla Register
Oh, how it may not be all men,
But it's enough men, enough to cause pain.
To shatter innocence and leave scars unseen,
A 14-year-old girl, just a child, left in disbelief.
Four grown men, holding her down,
Forcing open her mouth, pouring Fireball down,
Laughing at her pain, mocking her screams,
Leaving her haunted by cinnamon dreams.
It's been almost 10 years, yet the taste lingers still,
Taking her back to that night, against her will.
Silent she stays, haunted by sleepless nights,
Nightmares creeping in, stealing her light.
1 in 4 women, assaulted by men,
Silenced by fear, unable to mend.
Their stories untold, their wounds unseen,
But their strength and resilience, forever keen.
To the silent survivors, we hear your cries,
Your pain, your trauma, never denied.
May you find peace, may you find light,
In a world where darkness once took flight.
WHAT AM I LIKE?
By Susannah Chatfield
Do I fade into the scenery or stand out from the crowd?
Am I timid and fearful or obnoxious and loud?
Am I raucous or silent? Imposing or meek?
Do I never stop talking or struggle to speak?
Am I hard to remember? Is it hard to forget me?
What am I like?
It depends when you met me.
INTO THE FOREST
By Kelly Maida
I write you letters, but then I throw them all away!
I am covered in fear of what you might have to say! You left with no apologies!
Always blaming everything on me
Into the forest is where our secrets hide
Remember our walks by the broken tree?
Do you still have any memories left of me?
It seems like so long ago
And all the wells have run dry
I ran out of reasons to cry
I remember nights when you would lay in my arms and sing to me about cherry covered hills.
Do you still remember?
The truth is I really don't know how I feel about you anymore. I'm so tired of trying to open a broken down door. Do you still look up at the stars? I don't know why, but I sometimes wonder how you are. Maybe it is just out of curiosity.
I'm curious like Alice and your mad like the Hatter! Little things will remind me of you and then I start to write and then throw it all away
I wonder if you see signs of me too? Or am I just haunted by you?
IT’S LIKE …
By Emily Astey
Let me tell you what it’s like.
There’s no way these stains come out.
I don’t blame your ignorance,
but I do blame your doubt.
The problem with reality
is the chance that it is fake.
Not knowing if it’s day or night,
if I’m asleep or wide awake.
It’s like walking in the sand.
Your feet caressed by a wave.
But then comes the undertow,
and it’s futile to be brave.
It’s like climbing, oh, great heights,
seeing the pinnacle.
Then there falls the destiny,
and I cry just like a fool.
It’s like driving to the horizon,
and when I may arrive,
the sun has managed to disappear,
and I regret the entire drive.
It’s like being paralyzed,
while debating who to please.
My every contemplation
devours me with ease.
It’s like they restrain me,
shut the door, and leave the room.
They don’t seem to understand
I’m already in my tomb.
It’s like I can’t find a pulse.
I can’t take a breath.
With my eyes wide open,
I am riddled by my death.
But I keep to my travels.
A passenger at gun.
He is checking all the mirrors
to show me what I’ve done.
I know I am not alone,
but the asphalt is so hard.
There’s not much to simply trust,
so, I’ve built up my own guard.
My head is on a swivel.
I hush to try and hear.
It seems to be outlandish,
but then again, it’s much too near.
It’s like I can see the flames,
and already I’m consumed.
Up ahead I see its light,
but I know that I am doomed.
It’s just a memory to someone,
any ash that has remained.
All that is a worry now
is how it will be contained.
It’s like the hell we learned about
sitting uneasily on the wood.
It’s like their whole intention
was to convince us what was good.
When you are served such doctrine,
it’s like a game to just believe.
And then I learned my failure
was more natural to retrieve.
To my audience, are you ready?
My past, a belligerent plague.
As much as I shared particulars,
I’ll turn back to being vague.
I TRIED TO TELL YOU / UNMOTHERED
By Kristian Ford
They told me to love you anyway.
That I only had one.
But some of us are better off with none.
You taught me hunger,
for food, for unconditional love,
for something stable.
I tried to tell you.
When I was six, standing by the counter,
gripping the same tired sandwich,
peanut butter nauseating my thin body, choking words before they formed.
Can I have something else?
You slammed the knife down.
Make your own goddamn lunch!
I tried to tell you.
When I was thirteen, after school,
Heavy backpack weighing me down, diaper bag on my shoulders,
walking past my homework to pick up my baby sister.
I held her while you slept.
I held her while you disappeared.
I held her because no one else would.
I tried to tell you.
When I was sixteen, staring out the window,
watching you in the car, whispering to a stranger.
You said you were exercising, and I foolishly believed you.
I placed my sister in your lap,
walked away, let the truth unravel.
And you looked at me like I had betrayed you.
I wonder–if I had disappeared, would you have even noticed?
I tried to tell you.
When your new boyfriend opened my door,
stepped inside my room, inside my space, inside me.
He wanted to talk about my attitude.
I wanted him gone.
You let him stay.
I tried to tell you.
When you cooked for him,
meat sizzling in your pan.
A meal you never made for me.
A meal you never made at all.
I sat at the table with an empty plate,
and you filled his instead.
I tried to tell you.
When you locked my sister in the bathroom.
Her tiny fists beat against the door.
Her voice cracked against the thin walls.
She begged, she pleaded, she screamed.
I threatened to call CPS.
You told me I was overreacting.
I tried to tell you.
When I stopped eating.
When I stopped speaking.
When I held it all in, hunger, words, piss, breath.
Held it until the house was silent, until I was safe.
A ghost in my own home.
I wonder–if the walls spoke, would they share the same story?
I tried to tell you.
When I left.
When I packed in silence, vanished without warning.
You stood in the doorway, tears streaking your face.
But I was already gone.
I had been gone for years.
I'M NOT THERE YET
By Annie Walsh
An awful couple of years
I have really been to hell
Didn’t think I’d be here
And still be so unwell
Passed pillar to post
In every direction
Never ending tablets
Fighting this infection
I really have to laugh
Or else I’ll only cry
If I heard my story
Id think it was a lie
The pain is a nightmare
Worse I’ve ever felt
The endless medication
Is really something else
With every side effect
From tablets and creams
Every itch and allergy
I’m having so it seems
So I’m not there yet
But I finally see a light
Answers and a plan
Better days are in sight
And I will cherish life
Enjoy every single day
The hell I’ve been through
In the past is where it stays
THE MONSTER
By Alex Vorhies
He lurks slightly in the shadow, always there but only known by some.
He finds pleasure in the pain of his victims one by one.
And on the day you’ll meet him, he’ll take you by surprise.
He’ll strip away the happy things that make you feel alive.
He locks his teeth and grips his claws to keep you in his grasp.
And the war that you have just begun could be your toughest task.
He’ll attack you without warning, the length of battle is unknown.
And the impact that he has on you isn’t always shown.
You’ll struggle to keep your head afloat as he pulls you out to sea.
And you question where the old you went, is this how I’m meant to be?
At times it's hard to keep the hope and hang onto the light.
But the will you have gives you strength to push on through the fight.
You scream, “Who are you?! Show your face! I demand you set me free!”
And he whispers coldly, “Oh you foolish man. It is I, Anxiety.”
ABOUT THE POEM: "I wrote ‘The Monster’ as an exercise to give my anxiety an identity and better understand it. In time, I learned how to better navigate my mental health and things improved immensely. Through this poem, I hope to help others feel seen and remind them they’re not alone in their fight. I'm an example that THINGS DO GET BETTER! Hold on!"
IT WILL ALL COME OUT IN THE WASH
By Amanda Hancock
Grief is a cycle,
tumbling through memories,
wringing out moments.
I wanted to be strong,
but strength felt like silence,
and silence felt like suffocation.
I sat beside her,
watching her slip between worlds,
holding my breath
as if that could hold her here.
I set boundaries,
then broke them with guilt.
I loved her the best I could
but love could not heal.
I resented her,
but resentment had no place
in the face of goodbye.
The past came back like stains
I had scrubbed for years,
old wounds rising in the water.
Where were they
the ones who hung us out to dry
only to return
when time had already run out?
I wanted to scream,
to spill every unspoken hurt,
but I was stuck in the spin cycle,
turning over and over,
soaking in sorrow,
with no escape but to endure.
There was no bottle to blur the edges,
no escape but feeling it all.
And when I thought I had hidden it well,
she saw right through me.
A mother always does.
Grief does not come out easily,
It’s a cycle of pain
The uneven load circulating off balance
Will come to a stop
Not all at once,
not without effort,
but slowly,
steadily,
it will all come out in the wash.
ABOUT THE POEM: "This poem reflects my grieving process after losing my mother to pancreatic cancer. For many years, our relationship was filled with trauma and struggles. This poem captures the complexities of my emotions during that time feeling both love and resentment, guilt and longing, as I watched her fade away. It’s a reflection of the pain, confusion, and raw emotions that came with losing her, and the deep struggle of navigating grief while holding onto the moments of peace we finally found together."
BURDEN
By Paul Parker
A burden on the mind, of a past
That resonates from the darkness
Of the soul.
No voice of redemption, only loss
And despair.
What cause and effect brings such
To plague the spirit?
The Angel of Revelation is
Glimpsed fleetingly.
Seen as an omen of fate,
A warning of the future,
A silent sentinel of emotion.
Lost, searching for meaning, wishing
For peace, seeking understanding.
The mind is the mystery of the age.
A mystery that challengers all those
Who seek to understand what it is
To think and what it is To be.
ABOUT PAUL: Paul is a 69 year-old retiree and military veteran. He lives with his wife in a village near Shrewsbury in England. He has been reading and writing poetry for many years. He was diagnosed PTSD in 2006, as a result of his military service. Writing Poetry calms his soul - it is a great coping mechanism.
DEFINITIONS
By Acton Bell
A Word dropped careless on a page,
and as it stumbled on the white of the page,
It broke in halves, and struggled with making sense,
It's meaning meaning less,
A Word without order or legibility,
Has no definition.
And the Word spent all its existence
trying to make sense again.
Before its page was crumbled
For reuse.
UNTITLED
By Emmi-Heléna Daals
Because we already know,
not everything needs to be said.
But
sometimes
coming closer together,
needs spoken language.
ABOUT EMMI-HELÉNA: Emmi-Helena is a Dutch writer, living in Gennep, in the Province of Limburg. After being diagnosed with OCD and autism, and various other anxiety disorders, she embarked upon a new chapter in which she went about looking for herself within the corridors of her own words. Living the life that others live has always felt difficult, so she's begun to implement her own version, for which writing is her oxygen.
FEAR
By John Moody
Grasp how it feels to be scared
as the indulgence of security
is chasing the frisson you feel when
an apocalypse has no substance,
but fills your head all the same.
Scared of that state of safety
you reel away from accepting
all the fear under the surface.
In terror you stumble from that
chaos under the crust
of existence.
ABOUT JOHN: John Moody is a 72-year-old living in Recovery, sober for 18 years. Before retiring, John worked as a Network Officer for the Scottish Recovery Network. He also trained as one of Scotland's first four Advanced Level WRAP Facilitators. In recent years, John has engaged with writing as one of his significant wellness tools. Recent poems have explored some of the visceral aspects of mental illness. His work has been published in Dawntreader, Dreich, The SquawkBack, PocketPoetry, Southlight, Steel Jackdaw, Aayo Magazine, and by Lazuli Literary Group. Also published in anthologies by Pure Slush Books and Coin-Operated Press. His first poetry pamphlet is to be published by Kelsay Books this summer.
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