Jun 4, 2026 - Hello Poetry

The Morning After

This week's orbit“The Morning After”The heavy weeks pass. What's left is the small, the ordinary, the dishes. This week we practice re-entering our own lives, slowly, on purpose.

Voting

Poems

Themes

Transformation & Change

Philosophical & Intellectual

❤️ 💕 🌹

Heartbreak & Loss

🌅 ☀️ 🕊️

Hope & Optimism

😔 💔 🌧️

Sadness & Melancholy

Beauty & Aesthetics

🎭 😭 ⚖️

Drama & Tragedy

⏳ 🕰️ 🌅

Time & Nostalgia

Inspiration & Motivation

👨‍👩‍👧‍👦 💞 🏡

Family & Relationships

Happiness & Joy

💀 ☠️ 🪦

Death & Mortality

Nature & Environment

🏙️ 🚕 🌆

Political & Social

Anger & Conflict

🧙‍♂️ ✨ 🧚‍♀️

Fantasy & Magical

🔮 👻 🕯️

Mystery & Supernatural

⚔️ 🛡️ 🎖️

✈️ 🌍 🧳

🏛️ 📜 🏺

Historical & Ancient

The Morning After

This week's orbit“The Morning After”The heavy weeks pass. What's left is the small, the ordinary, the dishes. This week we practice re-entering our own lives, slowly, on purpose.

Voting

Jun 3, 2026Poems

Open

For 5h

Boards June 2026

Jun 4

The top three on this board will be added to the monthly at the end of the day.

Open

For 5h

17

The lighthouse went dark, after you went away. The sea grew twice as lonely, with no beacon in the bay. But if you listen to the silence, where your voice once used to stay, you’ll hear me tapping SOS, across the night thats turning gray. And if your heart remembers maps you never meant to cast away, you might still find me drifting floating on the edge of break of day.

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The lighthouse went dark, after you went away. The sea grew twice as lonely, with no beacon in the bay. But if you listen to the silence, where your voice once used to stay, you’ll hear me tapping SOS, across the night thats turning gray. And if your heart remembers maps you never meant to cast away, you might still find me drifting floating on the edge of break of day.

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She rings the doorbell, smiling too wide. Magazines clutched like life rafts— inked promises of better lives, better bodies, a better world. Late thirties. Small ******* Strawberry-blonde hair. Hands that look like they once knew dirt— maybe farm work, maybe just hard years, the kind that leave their mark without asking permission. Freckles begging for domestic bliss. A black-and-white photo on the counter— him and a dog, long gone. She hesitates, eyes drifting, thinking how long it’s been since… The door swings open. Slow. Beer gone warm in my mug. The apartment holding its breath. She lingers in the frame, a little too aware of the space around her. Then—just for a heartbeat— her eyes catch mine. Undeniable. Pure animalistic heat, tamed somehow. I know what’s coming is already happening in both of us. Magazines shift as she sets them down. A faint, heavy perfume lingers— flowers, ancient, insistent. Filling the small room with something fragile, something urgent. The kitchen sink becomes a stage, chrome catching the afternoon light. She leans in; our mouths meet. Skirt shifts. Edges sharpen. Her hands brush my hips— she can’t remember the last time someone held her this way. My fingers catch the strands of her hair, kaleidoscope in the light. This wetness is a vague memory. The room folds around us, every heartbeat undeniable, every motion already written. And we mattered. At least for a few minutes, to each other.

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Lonely Night Hawks

She rings the doorbell, smiling too wide. Magazines clutched like life rafts— inked promises of better lives, better bodies, a better world. Late thirties. Small ******* Strawberry-blonde hair. Hands that look like they once knew dirt— maybe farm work, maybe just hard years, the kind that leave their mark without asking permission. Freckles begging for domestic bliss. A black-and-white photo on the counter— him and a dog, long gone. She hesitates, eyes drifting, thinking how long it’s been since… The door swings open. Slow. Beer gone warm in my mug. The apartment holding its breath. She lingers in the frame, a little too aware of the space around her. Then—just for a heartbeat— her eyes catch mine. Undeniable. Pure animalistic heat, tamed somehow. I know what’s coming is already happening in both of us. Magazines shift as she sets them down. A faint, heavy perfume lingers— flowers, ancient, insistent. Filling the small room with something fragile, something urgent. The kitchen sink becomes a stage, chrome catching the afternoon light. She leans in; our mouths meet. Skirt shifts. Edges sharpen. Her hands brush my hips— she can’t remember the last time someone held her this way. My fingers catch the strands of her hair, kaleidoscope in the light. This wetness is a vague memory. The room folds around us, every heartbeat undeniable, every motion already written. And we mattered. At least for a few minutes, to each other.

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We all wear different masks hiding our faces Situations cause for emotions without traces A father of 5 requires more than a date Needs a Step Mother lady woman mate Dad’s desire best Step-Mother family to create Should be; Eupeptic ,Optimistic Auspicious Realizing tender hearts are slow to mend What type of message will her presence send 5 children is a big burden,2 families to blend This can be Difficult When He is Beguiled Her Charms. A Woman’s Attributes Qualities Should be Examined designed Defined Loving, Caring , Compassionate Kind Treats equallyALL kids Hers His Theirs Children the innocent should play without Care NO MASK A Father must be Diligent Prudent Watchful Meticulous Cautiously Careful observation Avoiding A staunch tenacious, iron-willed vehement strong woman with a short fuse His Choice For a lifelong muse mate Much more than a one night stand play date She Is The One that glows it shows looms Optimistic Charismatic Heart in the room Mother’s call her difficult intense, in defense Her beauty Grace The truth makes Sense She doesn’t know how to pretend. If she loves you, she will show genuine affection If bothered She finds resolution without rejection She’s not interested in any covert objection NO MASK Her anger last minutes her loyalty last a lifetime Better a loud TRUTH Than a quiet Betrayal ADVERTISMENT Seeking a stepmother, not for the faint of heart Nor for a handsome man on a whim or lark Tender hearts on the line a great mom to find Needed to heal unseen wounds left behind Understanding, cautious hearts, tender minds Although a temporary fix a great example Perhaps Mary Poppins is available “A robin feathering, her nest has very little time to rest gathering the bits of twine and twig a cheerful song will help you move the day along” Inspired song From the movie Mary Poppins 1) The Perfect Nanny sung by Jane and Michael Footnotes A five line stanza in poetry is generally called a quintain or a quintet both various rhyme schemes ABABB or AABBA. There are many different types of 5-line stanzas. This poem is a Cinquain often focuses on nature or emotions Mirror /Crown Cinquain a sequence of five line stanzas that relate to one another I’m going to try to make a poem with every different type of 5 line stanzas (Quintain) A lofty goal I admit

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Arduous Task, No Mask, Step Mom who Multitasks

We all wear different masks hiding our faces Situations cause for emotions without traces A father of 5 requires more than a date Needs a Step Mother lady woman mate Dad’s desire best Step-Mother family to create Should be; Eupeptic ,Optimistic Auspicious Realizing tender hearts are slow to mend What type of message will her presence send 5 children is a big burden,2 families to blend This can be Difficult When He is Beguiled Her Charms. A Woman’s Attributes Qualities Should be Examined designed Defined Loving, Caring , Compassionate Kind Treats equallyALL kids Hers His Theirs Children the innocent should play without Care NO MASK A Father must be Diligent Prudent Watchful Meticulous Cautiously Careful observation Avoiding A staunch tenacious, iron-willed vehement strong woman with a short fuse His Choice For a lifelong muse mate Much more than a one night stand play date She Is The One that glows it shows looms Optimistic Charismatic Heart in the room Mother’s call her difficult intense, in defense Her beauty Grace The truth makes Sense She doesn’t know how to pretend. If she loves you, she will show genuine affection If bothered She finds resolution without rejection She’s not interested in any covert objection NO MASK Her anger last minutes her loyalty last a lifetime Better a loud TRUTH Than a quiet Betrayal ADVERTISMENT Seeking a stepmother, not for the faint of heart Nor for a handsome man on a whim or lark Tender hearts on the line a great mom to find Needed to heal unseen wounds left behind Understanding, cautious hearts, tender minds Although a temporary fix a great example Perhaps Mary Poppins is available “A robin feathering, her nest has very little time to rest gathering the bits of twine and twig a cheerful song will help you move the day along” Inspired song From the movie Mary Poppins 1) The Perfect Nanny sung by Jane and Michael Footnotes A five line stanza in poetry is generally called a quintain or a quintet both various rhyme schemes ABABB or AABBA. There are many different types of 5-line stanzas. This poem is a Cinquain often focuses on nature or emotions Mirror /Crown Cinquain a sequence of five line stanzas that relate to one another I’m going to try to make a poem with every different type of 5 line stanzas (Quintain) A lofty goal I admit

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My heart isn't broken. No one tore it apart. I know that's what I've been saying. But I feel it now. My heart isn't broken, it's just full. And maybe that's worse because... I can't feel. I don't love you, or anyone. Not even friends, or my mom. I need to ***** Wanna break my own heart, physically smash it. Take a hammer to the chest, maybe then I could feel again. My heart's so full of memories. Of me drowning. It's like the water became solid, and the hands that forced me to breathe in the water, are still squeezing my heart now. So it can't beat fully. My heart isn't broken, it's just full. And maybe that's worse because... I can't feel. I don't love you, or anyone. Not even friends, or my mom. I need to ***** Wanna break my own heart, physically smash it. Take a hammer to the chest, then I could feel again. Whoever said flames don't burn, if you only touch them fast? Because it didn't matter how quickly I jumped away from him, I still got the scar. And it feels like the same hands that forced me to s c r e a m, are still squeezing my heart right now. I need to ***** Wanna break my own heart, physically smash it. Take a hammer to the chest, then I could feel again.

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My heart isn't broken. No one tore it apart. I know that's what I've been saying. But I feel it now. My heart isn't broken, it's just full. And maybe that's worse because... I can't feel. I don't love you, or anyone. Not even friends, or my mom. I need to ***** Wanna break my own heart, physically smash it. Take a hammer to the chest, maybe then I could feel again. My heart's so full of memories. Of me drowning. It's like the water became solid, and the hands that forced me to breathe in the water, are still squeezing my heart now. So it can't beat fully. My heart isn't broken, it's just full. And maybe that's worse because... I can't feel. I don't love you, or anyone. Not even friends, or my mom. I need to ***** Wanna break my own heart, physically smash it. Take a hammer to the chest, then I could feel again. Whoever said flames don't burn, if you only touch them fast? Because it didn't matter how quickly I jumped away from him, I still got the scar. And it feels like the same hands that forced me to s c r e a m, are still squeezing my heart right now. I need to ***** Wanna break my own heart, physically smash it. Take a hammer to the chest, then I could feel again.

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You’ve been here before. Sat through the storms, breathed in the ache, dreamt you awake— yet alone, you break. You’ve seen this before. Stood by the skyfall, felt the tears of the skies, listened to its cries— Love, open those blue eyes. It’s yourself you should see, you’ve waited a life for this. Spread your wings gently, for a new breath—a first kiss. Fly for me, my butterfly, through the dark night, knowing I’ll wait there for you— forever, in the light.

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You’ve been here before. Sat through the storms, breathed in the ache, dreamt you awake— yet alone, you break. You’ve seen this before. Stood by the skyfall, felt the tears of the skies, listened to its cries— Love, open those blue eyes. It’s yourself you should see, you’ve waited a life for this. Spread your wings gently, for a new breath—a first kiss. Fly for me, my butterfly, through the dark night, knowing I’ll wait there for you— forever, in the light.

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people ask me about summer if I like the sun beating down on my skin making me ache and burn forming red blotches down my body of course I don't, its torture they ask me about spring if I like the pollen floating in the air making me sneeze all the birds chirping loud enough to hear from miles away of course I don't, its torture they ask me about winter if I like the cold air burning my lungs with every breath wind stinging my cheeks every limb frozen solid of course I don't, its torture then they ask me about autumn if I like the leaves dancing around the air using the footpaths like a ballroom each step whimsical and elegant of course I do, it's beautiful browns, reds and oranges decorate the sky turning the world into nature's canvas an abstract artwork catching the attention of many more valuable than any money could buy

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arls_hoping_dreaming

people ask me about summer if I like the sun beating down on my skin making me ache and burn forming red blotches down my body of course I don't, its torture they ask me about spring if I like the pollen floating in the air making me sneeze all the birds chirping loud enough to hear from miles away of course I don't, its torture they ask me about winter if I like the cold air burning my lungs with every breath wind stinging my cheeks every limb frozen solid of course I don't, its torture then they ask me about autumn if I like the leaves dancing around the air using the footpaths like a ballroom each step whimsical and elegant of course I do, it's beautiful browns, reds and oranges decorate the sky turning the world into nature's canvas an abstract artwork catching the attention of many more valuable than any money could buy

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seeing life has become much like a house of games putting gold in and hoping it will give back more seeing life has become much like an old schoolhouse learning this and that yet still feeling kind of dumb

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seeing life (part 1)

seeing life has become much like a house of games putting gold in and hoping it will give back more seeing life has become much like an old schoolhouse learning this and that yet still feeling kind of dumb

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I remember blowing bubbles, winsome bubbles in the air Enchanted by their beautiful prismatic hues As they danced upon the breeze like ballerinas in free flow-- The art of blowing large bubbles was a long, steady exhalation Once I blew a bubble so large it unceremoniously kissed my face I laughed at the bubble fairies' aqueous embrace... Now I blow bubbles to improve my lung function and breathlessness A far cry from the child smiling with the sun in her eyes Infirmity is an uninvited visitor here to stay until death's sweet release So this too shall pass, when my ashes blow upon the winds of peace... Well, this is turning out to be a rather morbid affair To be honest, the days feel like scaling Everest without a rope Thus, I've taken up mountaineering, accompanied by lost hope... Tomorrow will be better is a fallacy, for the 'morrow doesn't exist Thus, I've fallen in love with clouds, and today the sky is grey Now is the only moment available to blow pretty bubbles Grateful for every mindful breath, with the sun in my heart Peace be upon you, love's timeless truth doth impart...

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kim-johanna-baker

Blowing Bubbles

I remember blowing bubbles, winsome bubbles in the air Enchanted by their beautiful prismatic hues As they danced upon the breeze like ballerinas in free flow-- The art of blowing large bubbles was a long, steady exhalation Once I blew a bubble so large it unceremoniously kissed my face I laughed at the bubble fairies' aqueous embrace... Now I blow bubbles to improve my lung function and breathlessness A far cry from the child smiling with the sun in her eyes Infirmity is an uninvited visitor here to stay until death's sweet release So this too shall pass, when my ashes blow upon the winds of peace... Well, this is turning out to be a rather morbid affair To be honest, the days feel like scaling Everest without a rope Thus, I've taken up mountaineering, accompanied by lost hope... Tomorrow will be better is a fallacy, for the 'morrow doesn't exist Thus, I've fallen in love with clouds, and today the sky is grey Now is the only moment available to blow pretty bubbles Grateful for every mindful breath, with the sun in my heart Peace be upon you, love's timeless truth doth impart...

Continue reading...

The wind is up and the landscape is changing. Like a bureaucratic comedy, tomorrow’s forecast calls for ‘strong winds,’ as if the gusts we’re seeing now aren’t physical enough. The big yachts that usually cluster offshore are gone. They moved out, heading for deeper, more sheltered anchorages. We went to the outdoor Saint Tropez market this morning, to get brugnon, abricots, rouge cherries, fresh bread and tapenades. Fishermen in the harbor were working with quiet anxiety to lash down and secure their boats. On the beach, ocean waves are boring in on shore - sharper, faster and frothier, rolling in more dramatically, tucking down at the last second to break on the beach in sudden, forward rolls - like you see on the gulf of Mexico. Gulls, herons and swifts hang in the air, like sculptures in orbit, not flapping - just rocking back and forth above the waves. Clouds rush by, like a ticker-tape Rorschach test and the umbrella pines are starting to shimmy like bobblehead dolls. I wonder if the giant show kites will be up tomorrow, the big 40-foot long ones - the whales, dragons, caterpillars, and octopuses - I hope so. We’ll have to watch those from the hills, because sand whips along the beach, flowing like a sandpaper river to sting bare ankles like a swarm of bees. We had to tie-off our suites sheer Belgian linen drapes earlier, they were thrashing like living flags of surrender. I delight in this kind of domestic chaos, it makes me feel alive. . . Songs for this: Riviera Life by Caro Emerald Sail on sailor by the beach boys Colors Of The Wind - End Title by Vanessa Williams

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a wind off the sea

The wind is up and the landscape is changing. Like a bureaucratic comedy, tomorrow’s forecast calls for ‘strong winds,’ as if the gusts we’re seeing now aren’t physical enough. The big yachts that usually cluster offshore are gone. They moved out, heading for deeper, more sheltered anchorages. We went to the outdoor Saint Tropez market this morning, to get brugnon, abricots, rouge cherries, fresh bread and tapenades. Fishermen in the harbor were working with quiet anxiety to lash down and secure their boats. On the beach, ocean waves are boring in on shore - sharper, faster and frothier, rolling in more dramatically, tucking down at the last second to break on the beach in sudden, forward rolls - like you see on the gulf of Mexico. Gulls, herons and swifts hang in the air, like sculptures in orbit, not flapping - just rocking back and forth above the waves. Clouds rush by, like a ticker-tape Rorschach test and the umbrella pines are starting to shimmy like bobblehead dolls. I wonder if the giant show kites will be up tomorrow, the big 40-foot long ones - the whales, dragons, caterpillars, and octopuses - I hope so. We’ll have to watch those from the hills, because sand whips along the beach, flowing like a sandpaper river to sting bare ankles like a swarm of bees. We had to tie-off our suites sheer Belgian linen drapes earlier, they were thrashing like living flags of surrender. I delight in this kind of domestic chaos, it makes me feel alive. . . Songs for this: Riviera Life by Caro Emerald Sail on sailor by the beach boys Colors Of The Wind - End Title by Vanessa Williams

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Why can’t I cry? Is it because it’s not dark enough in my room, Or has my heart quietly given up on me too soon? I stare at the ceiling — it stares back the same, No lightning, no thunder, just silence and shame. I press my eyes hard, but the tears won’t fall, Like I’m standing on the edge, but there's no one to call. Maybe I’ve felt too much for far too long, Now even sadness won’t sing me her song. Maybe the girl who used to feel everything Has folded her wings… and stopped listening. Why can’t I cry? Did I run out of reasons, or out of the sky? It’s strange to miss the pain I used to hate, But now I sit, numb, just waiting for fate. I’m stitched together by silence and empty dreams.

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Why Can't I Cry

Why can’t I cry? Is it because it’s not dark enough in my room, Or has my heart quietly given up on me too soon? I stare at the ceiling — it stares back the same, No lightning, no thunder, just silence and shame. I press my eyes hard, but the tears won’t fall, Like I’m standing on the edge, but there's no one to call. Maybe I’ve felt too much for far too long, Now even sadness won’t sing me her song. Maybe the girl who used to feel everything Has folded her wings… and stopped listening. Why can’t I cry? Did I run out of reasons, or out of the sky? It’s strange to miss the pain I used to hate, But now I sit, numb, just waiting for fate. I’m stitched together by silence and empty dreams.

Continue reading...

I can't see my notifications Limits are set on how many comments you can leave.. but , literally everything from a heart to a repost is classed as a comment Yesterday I could only leave comments on 12 poems, even saying thank you for a comment is classed as a comment And what about messages, it's like twitter of old now, hardly any words allowed per message And more and more bugs Please add below what bugs you are experiencing Apologies If I don't reply, as my limit is already nearly up today Oh, and have you seen the boards, rammed full of the same names who pour stars in great amounts on their own poems, what's the point now of even having stars? The whole experience of Hello Poetry is now extremely frustrating, can anyone help? Are you there, Eliot?

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richard-shepherd

*** is going on with comments?

I can't see my notifications Limits are set on how many comments you can leave.. but , literally everything from a heart to a repost is classed as a comment Yesterday I could only leave comments on 12 poems, even saying thank you for a comment is classed as a comment And what about messages, it's like twitter of old now, hardly any words allowed per message And more and more bugs Please add below what bugs you are experiencing Apologies If I don't reply, as my limit is already nearly up today Oh, and have you seen the boards, rammed full of the same names who pour stars in great amounts on their own poems, what's the point now of even having stars? The whole experience of Hello Poetry is now extremely frustrating, can anyone help? Are you there, Eliot?

Continue reading...

A voice so subtle, now forgotten no fake to berry wilds of chimney, oblivious to speedy winds of yacht fleecing your green, now been caught, Pretty daisies' rights to be subtly lazy stepping timidly on garden slippery. little rocks prancing to a love of feat kicked shoes and socks off flimsily, sweet smell that the freeze can't dim a private refuses a sergeant's whim, a devil's stage of nervous hymns... This good old boy with pub whiskey and flashbacks of a tease dreamily, her jumper smells and the fleece that boldly bought him to his knees. the jam and peanut butter re-invention, There's a black and white generation before a lamp rage of all whose crazy, gas oiled, like the bronze fashioned, intricately designed antiques Burning fuel beautiful as her country.

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stepping timidly on garden slippery

A voice so subtle, now forgotten no fake to berry wilds of chimney, oblivious to speedy winds of yacht fleecing your green, now been caught, Pretty daisies' rights to be subtly lazy stepping timidly on garden slippery. little rocks prancing to a love of feat kicked shoes and socks off flimsily, sweet smell that the freeze can't dim a private refuses a sergeant's whim, a devil's stage of nervous hymns... This good old boy with pub whiskey and flashbacks of a tease dreamily, her jumper smells and the fleece that boldly bought him to his knees. the jam and peanut butter re-invention, There's a black and white generation before a lamp rage of all whose crazy, gas oiled, like the bronze fashioned, intricately designed antiques Burning fuel beautiful as her country.

Continue reading...

Comfort gathers the soul to heart then forgives but more importantly it forgets Love never slights forgiveness Nor does comfort slay love

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South-by-Southwest

Comfort gathers the soul to heart then forgives but more importantly it forgets Love never slights forgiveness Nor does comfort slay love

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Standing to attention, eyes sweeping the room, hands folded behind me as if restraint were a language my body learned too young. The mind flickers — a storm behind a locked door, thoughts pacing like shadows that refuse to settle. And still I hold myself still, breath tight in my chest, as if someone might read the tremor beneath my ribs. There is a closeness in the air, a presence felt more than seen, the kind that turns silence into something weighted, something that presses gently against the edges of my composure. In the moment, caught between fear and longing, between the urge to step forward and the instinct to stay braced — a quiet confession in the way my pulse betrays me.

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Bound to the Moment

Standing to attention, eyes sweeping the room, hands folded behind me as if restraint were a language my body learned too young. The mind flickers — a storm behind a locked door, thoughts pacing like shadows that refuse to settle. And still I hold myself still, breath tight in my chest, as if someone might read the tremor beneath my ribs. There is a closeness in the air, a presence felt more than seen, the kind that turns silence into something weighted, something that presses gently against the edges of my composure. In the moment, caught between fear and longing, between the urge to step forward and the instinct to stay braced — a quiet confession in the way my pulse betrays me.

Continue reading...

It seems… In this day and age, that there’s an anxiety for everything — Health anxiety, Social anxiety, Performance anxiety, … … (add yours here). I have just discovered a new one for me… Star Anxiety — I need to have a star always on backup, Ready to give, Ready to post, Ready to surrender... To one of my poems to obtain greater “real estate," most(ly), in the Hello Poetry sphere — Rather than write, For writing's sake — Now, I release and resolve, Settle my heart and peace; I partake.

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It seems… In this day and age, that there’s an anxiety for everything — Health anxiety, Social anxiety, Performance anxiety, … … (add yours here). I have just discovered a new one for me… Star Anxiety — I need to have a star always on backup, Ready to give, Ready to post, Ready to surrender... To one of my poems to obtain greater “real estate," most(ly), in the Hello Poetry sphere — Rather than write, For writing's sake — Now, I release and resolve, Settle my heart and peace; I partake.

Continue reading...