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Alcyone, my heart is yours alone,
Though waves may pull me, tearing love from shore.
Beneath the storm, the sea may drag my body,
Yet love defies the tide, it fights once more.

Fate’s hand may tear my flesh from bone,
Yet still, my soul resists the reaper’s sweep.
I will not cross where silence makes its home,
Not yet, my love. I vowed—and vows I keep.

You pull my body, drag me toward the black,
Yet love remains, though flesh may fall away.
I beg no mercy, ask no solemn pact,
For I am hers, I am bound to stay.
The tide may take, the wind may plead,
But I will not depart—Alcyone, heed.

Not yet. Not yet. Death calls, but I won’t go.
The sea may tear, but I am not undone.
A shadow lingers—whispered hands pull slow,
Yet love remains. I stay. My heart is one.

Alcyone, I call—do you still hear?
The tide may claim my breath, but not my name.
Not yet. Not yet. My vow will not disappear.
I swore, and I swear still. I’ll remain.

Alcyone. Alcyone. Alcyone.
I speak your name, though water fills my throat.
The tide may take, the reaper calls—
I will not go. I will not go.

Alcyone. Alcyone. Alcyone.
I swore, I swear, I will not fade.
If time dissolves, if fate decrees—
Still, my soul remains. Still, my soul remains.
A second voice carried upon 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑊𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔—yet echoes deceive the ear.


https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136314/the-wings-of-waiting/
Cazzie Jun 3
There are times where I’m not myself.
I walk and stroll the passerby’s
With foreign eyes
To see if they can tell.
I am a lie of omission.
Not quite the truth.
A bit of a straight arrow,
With flavorings of the uncouth.
I’m not healthy for you,  
(nor would I want to be.)
I am unattainable,
I am fiction,
I am fable.
I am no one, nobody, nadie, Nemo.
~
June 2025
HP Poet: Agnes de Lods
Age: 47
Country: Poland


Question 1: We warmly welcome you to the HP Spotlight, Agnes. Please tell us about your background?

Agnes de Lods: "My name is Agnes (Agnieszka), and I come from Poland. I grew up in the countryside, in a family rooted in rural and small-town traditions. My mother is a very intuitive person, and my father was always standing in the last row, quietly helping others, especially people with disabilities.

My parents gave me two ways of perception: seeing with the heart and with the mind. They didn’t have higher education, but our home was full of music, books, radio talks, and documentaries that showed the world in many dimensions. They helped me see that reality is full of tension and harmony, depending on what we pay attention to.

They gave me space to speak in my own voice. Growing up close to nature, I spent time observing, listening to the rhythm of the seasons. I learned humility, compassion, and what it means to face hard work and failure."



Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Agnes de Lods: "In Polish, I’ve been writing for four years. In English, two or three. But in a way, I had been preparing for it all my life by writing, reading, and observing the world around me.

I started sharing my reflections on Hello Poetry in December, just a few months ago. For the first time, I felt ready to express everything I had kept inside for years."



Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Agnes de Lods: "People. I love people. Every single person has a story. Sometimes strangers stop me in the street and start talking. I guess they want to be heard, and I love to listen.

Nature inspires me. And my dreams, too. Some of them come true, others do not. Still waiting for those lottery numbers to show up in a dream.

Books are also a huge source, just like music and art in all their forms. I am inspired by Karolina Halatek and Hania Rani, Marc Witmann, Umo Vide, Dror Elimelech, and Patricia Suarez (Colombian poet and painter), and many others."



Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

Agnes de Lods: "Poetry is exceptional on every level. Metaphors express the unspeakable and have real power. They change the frequency of thought.

Poetry heals, invites contemplation, and opens doors to the many layers of human nature.

To me, poetry is sound, color, scent, even taste."



Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

Agnes de Lods: "Sylvia Plath, Alejandra Pizarnik, Wisława Szymborska, Adam Zagajewski, Czesław Miłosz, Jorge Luis Borges, Pablo Neruda, Federico García Lorca, and many more.

I also read poems on Hello Poetry, and I am so glad to see many truly talented writers here. It means this world still has a chance."



Question 6: What other interests do you have?

Agnes de Lods: "I am fascinated by psychology and archetypes. I read Jung with deep interest.

I love sci-fi, deep conversations, walks in the forest, and learning new languages. But more than anything, I care about human connection and understanding.

I like to dance and play the piano, though I have not had much time for that lately. And I love connecting the dots."



Carlo C. Gomez: “We would like to thank you Agnes, we really appreciate you giving us the opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet! It is our pleasure to include you in this Spotlight series!”

Agnes de Lods: "Thank you so much for letting me share my story. I am so glad to be part of this community of sensitive souls. I feel good here."




Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Agnes a little bit better. We certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez

We will post Spotlight #29 in July!

~
Cazzie May 31
Like. Share. Comment.
Normalize kindness.
                Normalize boundaries.
                                      Normalize normalizing.

Unapologetically me.
Living my truth.
Healing. Growing. Thriving.
If you don’t support me at my worst
You don’t deserve me at my best.

                                                                      
Mercury is in gatorade.
Self-care isn’t selfish.
Drink water.                                            
Protect your energy.

Let that sink in.
Let’s talk about it.
No one’s ready for this conversation.
Read that again.

Tag someone who needs this.
This one’s for you.
You’ve got this.
You are enough.
Say it louder for the people in the back.

Hot take:                                                      
Unpopular opinion:
My toxic trait is...
I said what I said.

Link in bio.
Not sponsored (but it should be).
Drop your favorite emoji
If you’ve made it this far.

Swipe left for part 2.
No context. Just vibes.
I don’t know who needs to hear this…
…but you’re not broken.
You’re a whole-*** galaxy.

You deserve the world,
but the algorithm gave you
30 seconds of someone else’s highlight reel.

Broadcast your joy.
Mandatory.
Authenticity must trend by 9 a.m.

Good citizens post daily.
Vulnerability must be
polished,
              monetized,
                                filtered twice.

Your sadness violates our aesthetic guidelines.
Please update your face.

Be raw,
but on schedule.
Cry but just enough.
Not so much that it lowers engagement.

Remember:
Every trauma is content.
Every heartbreak, a reel.
Every breakdown,
a branding opportunity.

Comparison is community.
Scroll for self-worth.
Swipe for validation.
You are not alone.
Everyone is performing the same algorithm.

Today’s Ministry Prompt:
“What’s something you healed from just enough to joke about?”
Post now or risk invisibility.

Influence is duty.
Disengagement is rebellion.
Silence is suspicious.

You will be loved,
if the metrics agree.

Smile, citizen.
Your relevance expires at midnight.
Post or perish.
Disrupt nothing.
Conform beautifully.

#GratefulForControl
#FreedomThroughFame
#CuratedAndCompliant

You are thriving.
You are glowing.
You are trending.
You are replaceable.
Still working on it, but what do you think?
Cazzie May 21
He stands where silence hums against the grain,
A soldier bound by ghosts behind his eyes,
Steel threads his chest, but not his ache or strain
The faded photos whisper lullabies.
Each taped-up moment clings like prayer to wood,
Though time has thinned what brotherhood once stood.

The camo hugs like armor and like chain,
Yet every fold remembers where he’s bled.
The wall, a shrine to joy not born of pain,
Still leans with shadows of the living dead.
He guards the space where memory dares to tread,
A quiet oath still echoing, unsaid.

The mirror watches with a hollow stares
Not quite a man, not wholly lost to war.
The past reflected, stripped and laid out bare,
Tattooed with names he doesn’t speak any more.
His silence roars where once he swore with pride,
Now draped in years he never set aside.

The brothers in that photograph still grin,
Suspended in a frame, immune to dust.
But he’s the one left carrying memories of them,
Their birthdays, burdens, courage, grit, and trust.
They marched beside him, now he walks alone,
A relic housed in flesh, not yet stone.

So steel your heart, and do not call it brave
This life of war is not a badge to wear.
Each breath he takes, he pulls out of the grave,
Each smile a lie, each laugh a threadbare prayer.
The vest may guard his ribs from a bullet's intent
But never from the hollow grief of death.
Looking at old pictures of my time in the Army, fills me with a weighted sigh of relief and regret. A simultaneous invasion of feelings and remorse.
  May 21 Cazzie
Mrs Timetable
I want to write
A little poetry book
Fitting in my pocket
To carry with me
With five little poems
One for each finger of your hand
Your hand that led me here
My muse
My blues
My cues
My heart tattoos
My infuse
So I will call it YOUs
I'm gonna do it. Watch me.
Cazzie May 19
He reclines in his brittle chair carved from his own grief,
Not very regal, but heavily resigned to the aches.
The weight of silence cleanly cuts through the air.
His hands, now mapless, no longer seek.
Memories he left behind in clouds, were few and brief.

Books cradle their breath upon the shelf.
Never once a glance as he knows their unchanging tone.
The windows screech with tempered light
As regret drips down the pale pane of ivory bones.
His posture reflects the weight of years notched in his belt.
The leather groans, stretched too thin like his sense of self.

The hour never bows a whim to beg his name.
Dust circles, never sure as to where to fall.
His suit of choice is a reliquary of loss.
Each button, a distant memory hard pressed in shame.
The air is stained
The room too small.
A silent gasp
The last breath falls.

— The End —