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 1432° 
guy scutellaro
born in the artic snow
she chromed
her heart
in steel

flames could
not
touch that heart

always a half a step ahead
sure
a few stumbles
but never a fall

and moonlight is just
a heartache in disquise

till one day
leaning out a car window
a scar upon his cheek
and the luck of the draw

was the jack of hearts

and the queen of diamonds
had
never met
anyone
quite like

the jack

of hearts,

black-haired blue-eyed
her beauty inspired
stupid men
to commit foolish acts

and as he smiled
the queen of diamonds
thought she had

the jack of hearts,

blue sky shimmering
in her eyes

jack became
the brightness
of her day

and the jack of hearts
saw a flame
flickering in her eyes
that he had never seen
in any women's eyes
before ...
                
               act. 2

... a strange destiny
was unraveling
and one long poker hand
was over
and the snowflakes came
down like ashes
under the street light

and then
the jack of hearts
walked away

a pale spirit fleeing
a graveyard
into the wall of night

and the queen of diamonds
cried

the sea into sky

with eyes
like twilight
waiting

to eat away the day
 1136° 
somedumbbitch
My wet mouth, has left...

the heft,
of you,
to dangle low...

with your flavored ***,
still chambered,
in my strained
throat...

These hazy lips,
have swept
your member, in their
paint strokes.

And you, remain...
glittered, and glazed
in the shifting flickers,
of my
lip stain

Your thighs, and hips
are slick,
with spit,
restrained,
in chains, and clips...

do they eclipse
the pain?
When my fingertips
slip,
in sinuous ways,
between your straining limbs,
to maul, and grip,
your disco *****,
in a limber fist,
and to give their haul,
just, a little
twist...

"Mine...
You are mine..."

A sotto voce drawl,
on the "bottom" line,
as I scrawl these nails,
down your softened spine.

Now let's see,
what can happen,
when we cross, some lines.

Which one, is the Master,
and which one, the sub?
When a brat has got you lashed,
and stuffed
with your cheeks gashed,
and your back, up...

give that thick ****, a slap, but
I rub and tap, the plug,
until I feel you... clamp up...

Ready? I think you're ready.
I think you're hungry...
I think you need me.
But I hate, to disrupt you,
while you're lovingly feeding.

So let's give you something
that's fun to eat, then...?

Now, open.
Wide.

I'm gonna measure your throat,
with the bulk,
of the biggest, of mine.

Now I'm dragging the width,
down the bridge, of your nose,
and the fat, of your lips...
snap you, back, with a grin,
and a slap, of the tip...
As you grasp, at my hips,
through the strap, and the belt,
and latch on, to the shaft...
and then melt,
down the sides.

"Mine...
You are mine.
Don't you know...
that you are *******, mine?"

...With your lips, spread,
to ****...
as I'm thrusting,
inside.
For any kinksters who appreciate, and my Master switch, especially.  😏😉😘 Happy Priiiide, my bisexual king. 💗💜💙
 889° 
The Invisible Poet
my heart used to flutter
when you texted me
I would gush at every compliment
but then
I was impatient to be called yours
you cut our situationship off
and decided we should be just friends
it broke my heart
as tears streamed down my face
but soon enough
I accepted it as that
but then
you became distant
and stopped replying to me
you left me on read/seen
it made my heart heavy
and stomach churn
I stopped begging for
your attention
and affection
now I no longer care
I do not feel anything for you
my heart is steady
I don't look forward to
your texts
I barely think of you
I am done
done with this mess
I will wipe my hands of
this situation
and leave it in the past
I just stopped caring when my effort isn't returned
 780° 
Dom
She asked:
“Why so blue?”
When the room lights in an indigo hue
Amber liquid decanted
Poured in crystal clear glasses.
“Why so pale?”
I replied.

Gentle knocker at the window
Tenebrous limbs shyly tremble
At the gust of Gaia’s impatient sighs
As the sky’s spotlight lights the way
For nocturnal arboreal spies.

I guess when ruby red lips
Stain the glass as we sip
Spirits always haunting us,
That I’m prone to wondering
How I can be her knight cap.

She asked:
“Aren’t you gonna kiss me?”
Signals fired like a flare,
Synapses lit aflame I’m rushing with adrenaline
As I feel her satin fabric twisted in my palms
Gripped to pull her into me like a fleece blanket,
We embrace like joined twins
And lip lock in a flurried fury.
“Like this?”
I replied.

In love with imperfect,
Pure bliss in your candor
Won’t you let me in?
Spread your pedals wide,
Stride after stride
Until the room paints in white
And the sun blinds our shame
To freshen our gaze,
And restart our game
Intentionally abstract to have the narrator appear to be intoxicated retelling the events
 598° 
badwords
. Canto I: The Movement .

Sing, O depths, of the sundered and stitched
of lovers who fled the lattice of men.
They bore no dowry but discord and blaze,
cast off from the courts of the land-born kin.

She rose from a brine-locked temple,
crowned in eelbones and saltglass,
her voice a harpoon through silence.
He came from a pyre of failed gods,
drunk on the ash of forgotten cities,
carrying a heart wrapped in nettle and wire.

They met in the undertow—
not with grace, but with rupture.
He called her flame in the throat of the sea,
she named him the reef that bleeds stars.

They kissed in the eye of a cyclone,
fed each other names never spoken twice,
and shackled themselves in sinew and storm.

Let it be known: they did not set sail.
They were flung—howling—from the world’s wound.


. Canto II: The Recognition .

Seven moons passed through their lungs
before they saw.

Not eyes—not bodies—
but the myths coiled inside each other’s ribs.

She bore a temple in her stomach
where drowned saints wept for the living.
He kept a cemetery behind his tongue
for all the truths he’d butchered with silence.

They laid bare their reliquaries,
cracked open their chests
like oysters of ruin—
and still, they reached.

No mercy. No disguise.
Only pulse and plague.
She screamed her mother’s curses into his jaw.
He fed her the names of storms he never wept for.

Still—
they danced.
Still—
they sank.
Not from weight,
but from knowing.

And the sea, jealous of such raw mirror,
split its throat open,
so even Poseidon would forget peace.


. Canto III: The Resolution .

They did not break.
They were not mended.
They blurred,
like blood in tide,
like prayer in fog.

The sea claimed their names,
then forgot them—
but the bones remembered.

Now coral grows from their vows.
Now whales dream their sighs.

She became the thrum beneath shipwrecks,
the voice in a sailor’s last breath.
He became the itch in the compass,
the pull toward madness at dusk.

If you listen—
truly listen
you may still hear it:
a hymn of wire, salt, and marrow,
carried on a wave older than time.

Not warning.
Not lament.
But tribute.

To the wire-bound lovers—
to the myth that dared to bleed
and called it sacred.
A salt-etched epic in the tongues of leviathans

⚔ ACT I: THE MOVEMENT

("Of Departure, of Fire, of Teeth")

This is the voyage—the hunger, the pact, the leap into chaos. The lovers are not yet divine, not yet doomed—but becoming. They tear from their origins, riding the edge of creation, mouths full of storm and yearning.

🜂 ACT II: THE RECOGNITION

("Of Mirror, of Maw, of Memory")

Here is the gnosis. The mirror. The ache of reflection. The sea begins to whisper, not just with gods, but with ghosts. They see each other fully—and cannot look away. Love becomes blade, becomes psalm, becomes revelation.

☠ ACT III: THE RESOLUTION

("Of Ash, of Drift, of Song")

Not death. Not salvation. Something more cursed and blessed. They do not win. They do not fail. They become—the myth, the wreck, the hymn in the kelp. This is love as legend, not because it endured, but because it transformed.

Bonus Round::

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5074338/ballad-of-the-wire-bound-lovers/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5074340/silk-ash/
 281° 
ap0calyps3
a casket my bed, my morbid rest
I am dead
I am blessed
death; a darkness that roams fancily dressed.
 280° 
OnLithium
Its always
The simplest
Of things
That can't
Be done
Even just
A quick
I'm sorry
 250° 
Pierre de Ronsard
Je plante en ta faveur cet arbre de Cybelle,
Ce Pin, où tes honneurs se liront tous les jours ;
J'ai gravé sur le tronc nos noms et nos amours,
Qui croîtront à l'envie de l'écorce nouvelle.

Faunes, qui habitez ma terre paternelle,
Qui menez sur le Loir vos danses et vos tours,
Favorisez la plante et lui donnez secours,
Que l'Été ne la brûle et l'Hiver ne la gèle.

Pasteur, qui conduira en ce lieu ton troupeau,
Flageolant une Éclogue (1) en ton tuyau d'aveine,
Attache tous les ans à cet arbre un tableau,

Qui témoigne aux passants mes amours et ma peine :
Puis l'arrosant de lait et du sang d'un agneau,
Dit : « Ce Pin est sacré, c'est la plante d'Hélène. »


1. Éclogue : Élégie.
 210° 
undefined
The call to Oblivion
gets harder to resist
A desire to be numb
so obviously persists
 210° 
Lyle
when my heart is done aching
the pain moves to my head
the feelings swarm to my mind
because simmering in my heart
does them no good
at least when they make my head ache
they are allowed to boil over
and be released all at once
captured in headache tears
that once were heartache feelings
 189° 
Maria
A woman, who’s really tired,
Hasn’t even go to bed.
It’s past midnight and all over again.
Her bed’s still fully made.

A woman, who’s really tired,
Forgot what sleep is.
She spent herself but stably accepted
Her Destiny’s painful decrees.

A woman, who’s really tired,
Wants simply and plainly to be.
She stopped laughing long ago.
She rarer wants to speak.

A woman, who’s really tired
Of blaming herself for breathe,
A woman, who’s still feeling,
Has simply the right to live!
Thank you for reading it! 🙏💖
 187° 
Bekah Halle
Are we but pawns on a chessboard
That God just moves about haphazardly?
Or are we placed strategically;
And through God’s plans can claim: “Checkmate!”
 181° 
Ma-kayla
Even the moon has to go through phases -
sometimes barely there,
sometimes shining full.
But no matter what,
it always comes back whole.
 172° 
kevin
History teaches itself to live
Wars fight themselves to the source
Countries grow wise, ending the research and funding excitement of the new war

The reflections aren't timely, but they come in bit by bit

The buildings of resistance are destroyed

And the lesson is learned

Toured Procurements on Amazon covers Geneva Convention violations and research journalism
My knife
Once a gift
Now my tool
My blade
Once for protection
Now for relief
My razor
Once pristine
Now rugged
My knife
Once shiny
Now stained red on the edge
 149° 
Charles Baudelaire
Tout homme digne de ce nom
A dans le coeur un Serpent jaune,
Installé comme sur un trône,
Qui, s'il dit : " Je veux ! " répond : " Non ! "

Plonge tes yeux dans les yeux fixes
Des Satyresses ou des Nixes,
La Dent dit : " Pense à ton devoir ! "

Fais des enfants, plante des arbres,
Polis des vers, sculpte des marbres,
La Dent dit : " Vivras-tu ce soir ? "

Quoi qu'il ébauche ou qu'il espère,
L'homme ne vit pas un moment
Sans subir l'avertissement
De l'insupportable Vipère.
 140° 
Salmabanu Hatim
sad heart void of love
her smile scattered seeds of love
love songs fill the air.
2/6/2025
 139° 
Jessica B
Me
It came In waves.
Only when triggered.

I need to learn restraint.
Self-restraint.
Emotional restraint.
🩶
My sails are torn;
scratched and worn.
I’m impulsive.
My character is polarizing.
Calm or extreme.
There is no in between.
Love me, hate me, take your pick.
But I promise you.
I’m not one to forget.
🩶
 130° 
Henryk
I'll gladly oblige the request you have
As I run my hands through your hair and drive you mad.

Look into my eyes, you see me smile, I'll take my time, we may be here for a while.

Gentle I'll be or as hard as you like
The feel of your skin, it gives me life.

The warmth of your body, my breathe in your ear
Do not fret, you have nothing to fear.
 121° 
Rob Rutledge
These halls seem somewhat hollow
A certain sense of sorrow
Now graces ancient stone.
Replacing familiar faces
With defaced family paintings
And cold ancestral bones.
Thrones thrown upon a pyre.
Fate becomes the folly
Tomorrow the unknown,
The brows of time are furrowed
Past spent, lost, or borrowed
Flowers forever bloom alone.
Rats, the last lords of ruin
Rule cruel shadows from the walls.
Twilight sighs at daylight's rise
All seems dark till darkness falls.
 105° 
Ms Blue
What kind of love,
I reach for you—
Do I?
hays...

I'm sipping coffee,
yes, to stay awake,
but sleep steals in—
can you guess?

I bite on chocolate
to spark some fire,
but still,
I drift again—
what kind of life is this?

It’s like saying,
“I don’t like you,”
but the truth
is wrapped in silence,
sealed beneath this guarded chest.

So tell me—
What is this?
 97° 
Vesper
I wake up crying
Dying inside
Tell my parents that i'm ok
But i'm really not
And I hate it when they push further
Because they know that I am lying
But I need them to push me to keep me alive
And I hate the pain of the knife against my skin
But I love the punishment for my sins
I don't think that I can do this anymore
*It hurts too much to try
 93° 
black-mirror
And within her silent breathe,
I held my head to her heart,
and no words could ever be said
as the silence ripped me apart......
when the thumping's no silent roaring
RIP my beautiful mother.
 86° 
Maria Etre
I took a bite
out of the unexpected
I was starving
to let go
of my "should's"
just to see what's
on the other side
of your flavor











*And it was sooooooo
satiating
 82° 
rishita
A tender knot of love as our fingers entwined.
Binding us together as our hearts define.
You can't be real , a love so true to find,
Yet in my heart , you're all that's divine.
 79° 
Lily
I told the stars my pain, but they blinked in disbelief
As if the sky could not conceive a suffering so far beneath
Still their presence offerd a quiet relief
 72° 
TNS
Not today.

Cracks on my head
have appeared boldly—
scorching heat,
the culprit, smiles.

Wounds fester
and age with time.

Taunting sleep haunts along,
derailing any grip on reality.

Hopeless I am,
breathless and fallen.
 64° 
Mimi
Everyone's addicted to something
caffeine
drinking
smoking
toxicity
hate
some will let their pain consume them so no one
has to deal with their problems but they keep
growing as they try to fix everyone else's
im addicted to the rush
of what?
everything i could do and don't do
just wanted to write something
 61° 
Cadmus
🐺

The more I understand man
and what he’s capable of…

the more I am convinced
the wolf was framed

and Little Red
wrote the story.

🧣🧣
Interpretations are often shaped by those who survive to tell the tale. Sometimes, the villain is just the one without a voice.
 56° 
Julia Celine
Because I loved you
I fancied myself kind
To bow at your fingertips

Because I loved you
I felt myself strong
Enough to break

Your care,
Ever changing,
Floods me inside out

The dam bursts just
from the pinprick of a fracture

And I shatter

Because I loved you
~
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!

~
 53° 
badwords
Beneath the surface of our giving,
A quiet echo, always living.
The hand extended, the gift bestowed,
Holds traces of what the heart is owed.

In every act of kindness shown,
A seed of self is always sown.
A smile exchanged, a burden shared,
The giver leaves their soul ensnared.

Transaction speaks in whispers faint,
Not loud enough to mar the saint.
Yet woven in the tapestry,
Is the thread of reciprocity.

Evolution’s pen, so deftly writ,
Has carved the rules; we benefit.
To give is to connect, survive,
To keep the fire of bonds alive.

But purest light, we chase, we yearn,
For altruism that won’t return.
A gift devoid of self, of gain,
A spotless deed, untouched by stain.

And here, the fallacy takes form,
A standard raised against the norm.
To cast aside what’s real, profound,
For lofty heights that can’t be found.

For in the real, the flawed, the small,
Lies beauty woven through it all.
A kindness fraught with give and take
Still soothes the wounds that living makes.

Should we dismiss imperfect grace,
Because it wears a human face?
Or hold it close, and see it whole,
A blend of heart, and mind, and soul.

The saintly act, the selfish cheer,
Are not as distant as they appear.
For even joy in giving free
Forms part of our humanity.

So let us honor deeds once spurned,
Where subtle trades of trust are earned.
And measure worth by what is done,
Not by the motives of the one.

For if perfection is the goal,
We’ll find no virtue in the soul.
Yet in the flawed, the fractured light,
Shines something real, and something right.

Reflection
Altruism is no saint’s domain,
But the hand that lifts through joy or pain.
A mirror held to humankind,
Revealing heart, and what’s behind.
A Reply to:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4926937/what-about-me/

**Synopsis**
This poem, Altruism's Mirror, explores the multifaceted nature of altruism, juxtaposing the realistic, transactional aspects of human kindness with the idealized concept of selfless giving. The verses acknowledge that altruistic acts, though often celebrated as purely selfless, are deeply entwined with human psychology, biology, and social constructs.

Through vivid imagery and reflective tones, the poem weaves a narrative that critiques the pursuit of "pure altruism" as an unattainable standard, likening this pursuit to the **Nirvana Fallacy**. It invites the reader to embrace the imperfection inherent in acts of kindness, emphasizing that flawed and transactional altruism still holds profound value in fostering connection, survival, and mutual support.

The poem also highlights the inherent beauty in altruistic acts, regardless of their underlying motivations. It challenges the dismissal of acts deemed "impure" for carrying elements of self-interest, reframing them as authentic expressions of humanity.

**Artist’s Intent:**
The poet aims to reconcile the tension between the ideal and the real, urging readers to move past the binary of "selfless" versus "self-serving" acts. Through this piece, the artist seeks to celebrate the complexity of altruism, emphasizing that its worth lies not in its perfection but in its impact. By embracing the transactional nature of giving as part of the human condition, the poem calls for a more compassionate and pragmatic view of altruistic behavior.

Ultimately, Altruism's Mirror is a meditation on human nature, inviting readers to find beauty in the nuanced interplay between generosity, self-interest, and connection. It challenges the notion that altruism must be pure to be meaningful, suggesting that the flawed, everyday acts of kindness are the truest reflections of our shared humanity.
 51° 
Artis
If time heals
Why do i hurt myself
Trying to prove to you
I'm no...

MISTAKE.
 48° 
Aslam M
Problems will come
Just like the Rains.
Instead of  anticipating
For the Rains to Stop.
Just Get an Umbrella
And Simply Open it.
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