The latest poems on Hello Poetry

Luca 6d

Warmth

The fire beckons me in.
Offering warmth,
but bringing betrayal.

I don’t move from the flame.
It stings greatly,
but I’d still rather be warm

𝑺𝒖𝒛𝒚 𝐁𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐤𝐲 6d

BOB'S SLEEVELESS WINTER COATS

are made for armless women. "I need a coat," Joan said, "but I don't need one with sleeves because I'm armless." Bob smiled a big one. "This is a good day to be armless Joan because I sell sleevelesss winter coats." Joan smiled back with her **** teeth showing off a dazzling smile. "Why'd you spell 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 with an extra S on the end?" She asked. "Don't mess with me Joan because I have arms to fight you with!" Bob exclaimed angrily.

Lynn Stillman 6d

Whales

The haunting sound
The distant song of the whale
They're beseeching us

Rastislav 6d

the whisper after

You’ve finished reading.
But not everything ends when you close a page.

Some words stay —
not as memory,
but as tuning.

And maybe now,
when you walk,
you’ll hear something
between footsteps.

Maybe now,
you’ll listen
not for meaning —
but for presence.

And maybe the sound
that never quite arrived
is the one
that stays.

Rastislav 6d

the absence that makes it real

(can art occur without an artist?)

Maybe the question is wrong.

Maybe art doesn’t begin
with the artist.
Maybe it begins
with a condition.
A field.
A stillness.

Something opens —
and something enters.
Not summoned.
Not owned.
Just… appearing.

A melody you hum without knowing why.
A shape your hand draws while thinking of nothing.
A line that arrives mid-walk
with no sender,
but undeniable weight.

Did you make it?
Or did you just
stop being in the way?

Art, sometimes, is what happens
in the absence
of authorship.

It doesn’t ask for identity.
It just needs
an opening.

A body willing
to vanish
long enough
to let it speak.

Rastislav 6d

ways the self disappears

a candle
burning in daylight —
still giving off heat,
but no longer needed
to be seen.

a river
forgetting its name
as it enters the sea.
not lost —
just larger.

a breath
held so long
it forgets who exhaled.

the silence
inside a cathedral
after the choir has left —
still echoing
with something sacred,
but unclaimed.

a shadow
that keeps dancing
even after the dancer
has left the room.

You don’t have to erase the self.
It erodes on its own
in the presence
of real seeing.

Rastislav 6d

not me / through me

It came like weather.
No origin.
No request.

Just a shift in pressure
inside the skin.
And something
started speaking
through my hands.

It wasn’t mine.
Not the phrase.
Not the image.
Not the ache it left.

But it needed a body
to pass through.
And mine
was open
enough.

There are moments
when I read back what I wrote
and feel
like a stranger
with my own voice.

Not confused.
Not proud.
Just…
borrowed.

I don’t always know
what I’m doing.
But sometimes,
not knowing
is what lets it happen.

Call it muse.
Call it current.
Call it memory
from before this life.

I don’t need to name it.
Just not get in the way.