One Poem Only

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now. This month, One Poem Only presents One Poem After, featuring selected poems written in response to the poems shared during National Poetry Month. Each piece began as a conversation with another poem and became something entirely its own. Today’s poem is What the Ivy Does by J.A. Otto after Les Ondines by Claire Shalhope. Read the full poem on Substack.More from J.A. Otto ↓@jaotto.writes on InstagramMore from Claire Shalhope ↓@claires.creatives on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Follow OPO on Instagram, Substack, Threads, TikTok & YouTube.Feed yourself poetry every day.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. This month, One Poem Only presents One Poem After, featuring selected poems written in response to the poems shared during National Poetry Month. Each piece began as a conversation with another poem and became something entirely its own. Today’s poem is She Identifies as Unbridled by Maria Mecham after Untamed by Toni Young. Read the full poems on Substack.More from Maria Mecham ↓@ml.mecham on Instagram@mariamecham on SubstackShe has poems featured in journals: CIRQUE 15.2, Nettle Literary Journal & Clayjar ReviewAnd the anthology Upon Learning That: A collection of poetry based on facts about the natural world edited by Alex DawsonMore from Toni Young ↓ @toniyoungpoems on Instagram@toniyoungpoems on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Follow OPO on Instagram, Substack, Threads, TikTok & YouTube.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now. This month, One Poem Only presents One Poem After, featuring selected poems written in response to the poems shared during National Poetry Month. Each piece began as a conversation with another poem and became something entirely its own. Today’s poem is Once a Palm Reader Told Me by Tabitha Dial after Ariel Kasha. Read the full poems on Substack.More from Tabitha Dial ↓@TabithaDial on Instagram@tabithadial on SubstackHer book, Cheese Astrology: A Weekly Guide, is out nowMore from Ariel Kasha ↓@arielkashaceli on InstagramHer book, Luna di Sirena: Love Letters from the Tide, is available nowSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Follow OPO on Instagram, Substack, Threads, TikTok & YouTube.Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now. This month, One Poem Only presents One Poem After, featuring selected poems written in response to the poems shared during National Poetry Month. Each piece began as a conversation with another poem and became something entirely its own. Today’s poem is Unfurled by Monica C. Crum after Cradle by Meagan Sexton. Read the full poems on Substack.More from Monica C. Crum ↓@monicaccrumpoetry on InstagramHer book, Nena No More Volume 2, is available nowDiscover more at her blog monicacrumpoetry.comMore from Meagan Sexton ↓@soul.spills10 on Instagram@meaganswrites on SubstackHer books, Riptides and Rapture and A Sliding Light, are available nowSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Follow OPO on Instagram, Substack, Threads, TikTok & YouTube.Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. This month, One Poem Only presents One Poem After, featuring selected poems written in response to the poems shared during National Poetry Month. Each piece began as a conversation with another poem and became something entirely its own. Today’s poem is Year of the Skin by Sandra Beth Levy after Tower Moment by Belly Lux. Read the full poems on Substack.More from Sandra Beth Levy ↓@slevy43 on InstagramHer first poetry book, Unfurling The Scroll Of Seven Decades, will be available for pre-sale with Finishing Line Press in October of 2026.Sandra has had recent poems published in The Poetry Lighthouse.As well as The Vagabond’s Verse-Weekly Verses.And three poems in a SHINE Poetry Series spotlight.More from Belly Lux ↓@bellylux on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Follow OPO on Instagram, Substack, Threads, TikTok & YouTube.Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud. This month, One Poem Only presents One Poem After, featuring selected poems written in response to the poems shared during National Poetry Month. Each piece began as a conversation with another poem and became something entirely its own. Today’s poem is How to See in Color by Allison Dean after On the Roof I See (original title: Na krovu vidim) by Mirela Salihovic. Read the full poem on Substack.More from Allison Dean ↓@allisondeanart on InstagramMore from Mirela Salihovic ↓@salihowitch on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Follow OPO on Instagram, Substack, Threads, TikTok & YouTube.Poetry reminds us what matters. Thank you for listening.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now. This month, One Poem Only presents One Poem After, featuring selected poems written in response to the poems shared during National Poetry Month. Each piece began as a conversation with another poem and became something entirely its own. Today’s poem is Let Go Of by Poetically Nikki after Crushed Peaches in Palm by Paige Keller. Read the full poems on Substack.More from Poetically Nikki ↓@poeticallynikki on InstagramMore from Paige Keller ↓Her website: pkfictions.com@pk_fictions on Instagram@pkfictions on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Follow OPO on Instagram, Substack, Threads, TikTok & YouTube.Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now. This month, One Poem Only presents One Poem After, featuring selected poems written in response to the poems shared during National Poetry Month. Each piece began as a conversation with another poem and became something entirely its own. Today’s poem is Ink and Iron by Edyth G. after Mastering the Pen by Ellie Augustin. Read the full poems on Substack.More from Edyth G. ↓@edyth_grace17 on InstagramMore from Ellie Augustin ↓Her blog, Lines Between Living@lines_between_living_now on Instagram@linesbtwnliving on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Follow OPO on Instagram, Substack, Threads, TikTok & YouTube.Feed yourself poetry every day.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. This month, One Poem Only presents One Poem After, featuring selected poems written in response to the poems shared during National Poetry Month. Each piece began as a conversation with another poem and became something entirely its own. Today’s poem is First Crash by Lee Martínez Soto after CAUTION: STUDENT DRIVER by Carly Thompson. Read the full poems on Substack.More from Lee Martínez Soto ↓@cadaveres_literarios on InstagramCadáveres Literarios on SubstackHer book, Para los Locos, is available nowMore from Carly Thompson ↓@comehither_poetry on InstagramA woman of questionable morals on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Follow OPO on Instagram, Substack, Threads, TikTok & YouTube.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now. This month, One Poem Only presents One Poem After, featuring selected poems written in response to the poems shared during National Poetry Month. Each piece began as a conversation with another poem and became something entirely its own. Today’s poem is The Bee’s Knees by Amelia Wicker after To Be a Salamander by Rachel Turney. Read the full poems on Substack.More from Amelia Wicker ↓@poison.or.grapes_poetry on InstagramMore from Rachel Turney ↓@turneytalks on InstagramRachel Turney on SubstackHer books, Record Player Life (the b-side), Retired Wannabe Club Kid, and Women Making Soup Together are out nowYou can discover more on her website: TurneyTalks.comSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Follow OPO on Instagram, Substack, Threads, TikTok & YouTube.Feed yourself poetry every day.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now. This month, One Poem Only presents One Poem After, featuring selected poems written in response to the poems shared during National Poetry Month. Each piece began as a conversation with another poem and became something entirely its own. Today’s poem is All I Have by Rachel Turney after Not mine anymore by Avalon. Read the full poems on Substack.More from Rachel Turney ↓@turneytalks on InstagramRachel Turney on SubstackHer books, Record Player Life (the b-side), Retired Wannabe Club Kid, and Women Making Soup Together are out nowYou can discover more on her website: TurneyTalks.comMore from Avalon ↓@avalonspoems on InstagramHer book, Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it weird, is available nowSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. This month, One Poem Only presents One Poem After, featuring selected poems written in response to the poems shared during National Poetry Month. Each piece began as a conversation with another poem and became something entirely its own. Today’s poem is by Kay Medway after Butterscotch by Amy Laessle-Morgan. Read the full poem on Substack.More from Kay Medway ↓@medwaykay on InstagramMore from Amy Laessle-Morgan ↓@ultramarine_poetry on InstagramHer book, Live Wire, is available now.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud. This month, One Poem Only presents One Poem After, featuring selected poems written in response to the poems shared during National Poetry Month. Each piece began as a conversation with another poem and became something entirely its own. Today’s poem is Hawk Feather by Connie Helena after Peyton Michelle Bryant. Read the full poems on Substack.More from Connie Helena ↓@journalof1000days on InstagramHer book Journal of 1000 Days is available nowMore from Peyton Michelle Bryant ↓@mama.laloba on InstagramHer newest poetry book Wolf Witch of the Wild and her debut, Feral Mother, Sovereign Woman, are out now.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry reminds us what matters. Thank you for listening.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. This month, One Poem Only presents One Poem After, featuring selected poems written in response to the poems shared during National Poetry Month. Each piece began as a conversation with another poem and became something entirely its own. Today’s poem is Dear Unknown Ancestor Naked in the Woods by Danielle Eleanor La Valle after Dear Personal Care Department God by Chris Kads. Read the full poems on Substack.More from Danielle Eleanor Lavalle ↓@danielleeleanorlavalle on InstagramMore from Chris Kads ↓@chris_kads on InstagramShe is publisher and curator of the anthology, An Apple a DaySupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now. This month, One Poem Only presents One Poem After, featuring selected poems written in response to the poems shared during National Poetry Month. Each piece began as a conversation with another poem and became something entirely its own. Today’s poem is Bones by Toni Young after Ugly Bones by Ella B. Winters. Read the full poems on Substack.More from Toni Young ↓ @toniyoungpoems on Instagram@toniyoungpoems on SubstackMore from Ella B. Winters ↓@ella.b.winters on Instagram@ellabwinters on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Feed yourself poetry every day.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. This month, One Poem Only presents One Poem After, featuring selected poems written in response to the poems shared during National Poetry Month. Each piece began as a conversation with another poem and became something entirely its own. Today’s poem is Taco Bell under a Full Moon by Kris Aziz after When the Moon is Full by GiGi. Read the full poems on Substack.More from Kris Aziz ↓@tacobellkris on Instagram@tacobellkris on SubstackMore from GiGi ↓@thegigirising on Threads@thematriarchyrising on SubstackHer books, The Scorpio Rising and The Marilyn Rising: Letters to MarilynShe has a new book coming soon The California Rising: Poems from San Francisco to LASupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

One Poem More gathers all of this week’s poems from One Poem Only—an unhurried chance to listen again, or catch what you missed.This week’s poemsLife Is The Backside of Embroidery by Aasfa SiddiquiUnnamed Season by Jules Travers“Hija de tu madre.” by Elisha FernandezLilies by Madilyn LopezRash by Viviana AbnurSparrowfall by Arch BudzarPlus one new one to carry us into the week aheadYOLOMaggie DeversThank god I’m a millennial and learnedYOLOAt a pivotal period in my life.Who thought I’d pull her out again forWWIII,But there you are—There we are:OnlyLivingOnceUnless we’re considering reincarnation—Which I do most days—Even those I only live once.But I think it meansWe only get this moment once(That we conceptually understand—)We probably live many moments at onceAnd maybe that’s why WWIII feels familiarAnd why grass smells like homeAnd getting smacked in the face by a wave feels like a baptismWaves YOLO—They live and dieWith the tug of the moon.Icarus YOLOed the sunrise,And I feel like he really got it.So I sit in the sun and feel waxMelting down my shoulder bladesAs I stare at the oceanAnd tell my daughter the history of YOLO.More from Maggie Devers ↓My debut poetry collection, For My Daughter, available as an audiobook.Purchase a copy of For My Daughter or get one free by subscribing to the podcast: One Poem Only on PatreonFollow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cureMore from this week’s poetsFind links to each poet’s work, books, and social accounts in the show notes for the individual episodes.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry is better when it’s lived with. Thank you for listening.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.SparrowfallArch BudzarWhile maybe I wasn’t the smartestOr the strongestI never thought unkindly of youAnd Ialways sang my songAnd ISaw you as an angelUp until the very end.More from Arch Budzar ↓@archbudzar on InstagramYou can find more information about their life and work, as well as prints of their art at www.archbudzar.comSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.RashViviana AbnurEverything I know about deathI learned the hard waywhen I saw you go by on the stretcherto intensive therapyI was an atheist like you and I only sawa slight and strange bodypass at the speed of lightis it that perhaps we live confusedor we are just light and nothing elsebecause I suddenly knew in an instantthat you were notin that bodythey took you to the Emergency roomlike a war trophythere was a rush for the doctors to arrivethere was a rush to deathfor fleeing the territoryminutes beforeyou asked for a bookminutes before I hugged you and you told meyou are so goodthen the power outage in the hospitalthe door half openand I was spying on you and could seehow they surrounded you with candlesstill alivelike in a Poe storysomeone hugged me and I criedwe lost said the doctorand I knew deathis in a rush dadand in the rush it's sloppybecause something was taken foreverI knew itbut something notin that defeated bodyyou were not in.More from Viviana Abnur ↓@cruda.luz on InstagramHer book, Rash, is available nowSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud.LiliesMadilyn Lopezblood gushes from underneath my index fingersunderneath my thumbsmy eyes go white and pin-point blackbloodshot— my artery.my throat seals itself shut like a wooden door stuck in humidity’s clutchi tilt my chin to the popcorn ceilinggasping for air that’s already escapedLilies are my favorite flower by the way.it is late.12:15am exactly.my neck starts to itch where brittle bone holds nostalgic flesh imprintsthe coffee on my wooden-chipped scarred nightstand has gone tepidthen frigidit is late.12:17am exactly.congealed blood gushes from my nose where I have never been hit only walked into steel andconcrete wallsmy tear ducts know no repentance stuck in confession my chest feels liketenmilliontrapdoorsleftunsealedi scratch at the duct tape fastened around my goosebumped body clawing like a ravedrabid wretched animal wretched thingsalivatingfoamingachingteeth baringLilies are my favorite flower by the way.it is late.12:21 exactly.Lilies.Lilies. Lilies. Lilies.Lilies.More from Madilyn Lopez ↓@v0guerat on Instagram@maryshelleysmymother on TikTok@madilynlo on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry reminds us what matters. Thank you for listening.

Wednesdays on One Poem Only are Handpicked, a new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me.“Hija de tu madre.”Elisha Fernandez“Eres hija de tu madre.”“You are your mother’s daughter,” is a phrase I heard growing up,from strangers,family members,friends,most repeated by my own mother.I wanted to claw myself out of my skinPanicked by the implicationThat I did not belong to myselfI could not crawl above my stationLimited to the constraints and expectations people thrust on me,Like a hermit crab forced to stay in a shell too-small,No room to grow or become my own personKeeping me trapped against the wall, a doll stuck between pavement,yearning to bloomMy achievements, struggles, and experiencesNo longer my doing, the credit stripped awayLoneliness taking over as I stay, rewatching the events of the past twenty-some yearsThrough the lens of someone else’s existenceIt was so unbearableI eventually avoided the topic altogetherIt felt easier to snip the thread we twined, connecting us,so that I could cement my own self, my own roleIn your mind, in mineThe separation frayed us both,But I learned that it was healthier for us to co-existSide by side, free from the harm we imposed on each otherThan to be attached at the hipAnd that time apartGave me the space to see you, truly,To take you down from the pedestal,To get to know you fullyI think I’ve accepted that I am my mother’s daughter,In the sense that it’s true,I inherited her stubbornness and pride,Her love for words and witty sayings,Her craving to be important, the hunger to be accepted,I inherited her precision and wide-eyed curiosityBeyond the superficial, it’s hard to admit that while she birthed me and learned me,she also weaved her own insecurities and doubts into the fabric of my beingShe tried, and failed, to love me in her way, staining me with blood and tears and loathingShe imparted her wisdoms and her wrongdoings,I see the person I could’ve become, had circumstances been differentI may have been born in her image,But I stitched myself into the likeness of what I desiredI became unraveled;A bolt of cloth to gather anewI hemmed the tattered edges, patched up the holes,And threw out the patterns I had always followedSoy hija de mi madre,But can’t I also be my own?Can’t I existWithout relinquishing to the image ofAn identity I don’t claimAnd acknowledgeThat I am also my mother’s daughter,In the sense that I mothered myselfMore from Elisha Fernandez ↓@artistaelisha on InstagramWatch Handpicked WednesdayA new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me. Watch on Instagram at @rembrandts.cure.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Two poems. One poet. Let the words keep moving.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.Unnamed SeasonJules TraversHe lives in a peaceful territoryof his own,relatively well-defined.In conversation with his selves,he navigates daily weather,rainbows,mirages,sinkholes.Now,can he still live with himself,with you?Your eyes align,two shapes of water join, sun-lit,know themselves reflected.He feels your arms.He broadens,flattensand retreats,enters spaces filled by airand phantom.He waits, he listens.Voices surface.He slips into marrowlit by the gasping mouthsof scattered self-sustaining fires.He fractures.He falls.He pools heavy,turns, raw, smolder.He scratches notesand demolishes boxes of tissues.While you drink your morningcoffee in the next room,he makes his blanketa mourning shroud,he hibernatesin jumps and starts.He heaves open jammed windows,specks of old white paint confetti his hair.Curtains bloom.Now,he perches on the roof.Now,he shows you proudly,with some astonishment,there’s a new row of feathersin his wingspan --pocked with blushesand frowns of color,asymmetrical, but his,a wave of growth unique to your shared ecosystem,brought forthby an unnamed season.More from Jules Travers ↓@jules_wordspics on InstagramYou can read more of their writing on their LinktreeSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Feed yourself poetry every day.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. Life Is the Backside Of Embroidery by Aasfa SiddiquiAasfa SiddiquiI’ve been thinking about it latelylife feels like the backside of embroidery.All I see are the knots,threads pulling in opposite directions,lines crossing with no pattern,like someone stitched it blindfolded.But thenflip it.Turn it over.And there it is.The picture you never thought was formingflowers blooming where only knots existed,Maybe that’s just my side of the cloth.Maybe God sees the other.The one I’m not allowed to touch yet.The side where these very knotshold the picture together.Maybe heartbreak is just a red threadmeant to shape the outline of something larger.Maybe loneliness is a dark patchthat gives contrast to all the light.Maybe even the useless stitches,the ones we regret,add texture,depth,weight.When the fabric is turned,perhaps at the very end,we’ll see itevery knot holding the shape,every crooked linepart of the symmetry.The mess will finally look like meaning,and the backside will make senseeverything we called chaoswill glow with perfect order.Faithisn’t about seeing the image at all,but walking through the confusion,believing that nothing here is wasted.That even the ugliest loopsare part of a beautyI can’t see from this side.And soI stop trying to untangle everything.I let the threads dangle where they want.I trust that someone’s handsgentler than mineknow what they’re weaving.And if being lost in these tanglestill means I’m stitched into His design,then let me remain hereknotted, confused,but never outside the pattern.So yes,life is the backside of embroidery,and God is the One who sees the picture.We are just the threadsmoving in loops,crossing over one another,wondering why it hurts,never knowing we’ve been part of beautyall along.Until then,we keep living in the knots,trusting the Weaver.Because life, as we know it,is never the front side.It’s the backsideMore from Aasfa Siddiqui ↓@readwithshifa on Instagram@readwithshifa on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

One Poem More gathers all of this week’s poems from One Poem Only—an unhurried chance to listen again, or catch what you missed.This week’s poems“Words don’t even flow to me anymore” by Lisa Le GuiaderThe Return of Titans by Kate M. SineSunday Ritual by Evyan RobertsPrince of Marble by Auri TunglsdottirIce Box Woes by JACK"E"Women of Stardust and Soil by Steph PattersonPlus one new one to carry us into the week aheadA BaptismMaggie DeversI’m terrified of having to burn it all down to start again.The way a fire eats a mountainComes rushing down a ridgeOut of controlLike when you ran down a hillAnd couldn’t slow your legsWithout tumbling over yourselfHead firstThe way you felt sublimely alive when you sat up, spitting grass, to pull that first clean breath,feel your heart beat out your ears and pulse to the strawberry on your knee.The realization that the moment you surrendered completely, you felt like you were flyingOn the way down soaring feelsThe same as fallingAnd ash cleanses like waterWhen you know how to use itMore from Maggie Devers ↓My debut poetry collection, For My Daughter, available as an audiobook.Purchase a signed copy of For My Daughter or get one free by subscribing to the podcast: One Poem Only on PatreonFollow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cureMore from this week’s poetsFind links to each poet’s work, books, and social accounts in the show notes for the individual episodes.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry is better when it’s lived with. Thank you for listening.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.Women of Stardust and SoilSteph PattersonWe start as stardustand then soil, we become,Underneath our feetthe bones sing of so manywomen before us,Their whispers form tendrilswinding up to tip into your ear,Their stories will not be forgottenas the earth holds their proof of life,When their voices rosein anger and defianceWomen labeled as witches,spinsters, other, lesser than,The control men forced upon us,and continue to resurrect,Born of fear, and carefully tilled hatred,The women of todayborn of stardust with the soilsinging under our feet,We will not be quiet,our voices will be a cacophony.More from Steph Patterson ↓@spookyspatters on Instagram@spookyspatters on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.Ice Box WoesJACK”E”This freezing and thawingdosey doethe outdoors has frosted overice falls often,putting the Ice Man of historyin balmy palmsthough I hear the sunshine is dimin the panhandle.A chuck roastwhose rump has frozenrock salt sprinklingif this is dinnerI will screech on pass.More from JACK”E” ↓@poetique_jacq on InstagramHer book, An Abbreviated Mass: A Collection of Poetry, is available nowSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud.Prince of MarbleAuri TunglsdottirI’ve put you on a pedestalFor some reason.One day it was there,And I put you up,It looked right.I’ve made you a statue of marble and gold,Shining in the dark – the moon looks dull compared to you;Glowing in the sun – that’s learning how to look golden from you.I’ve made you immortalBy creating an image that will live in my mind, in the universe.I’ve made you a thought that flies through galaxies,Like a beam of light, carrying a message.I’ve written poems,Dozens over dozens,One longer than the other,One saying less than the other,And all of them screaming to be heard,Doing their best to express my inner world.I’ve filled a whole book with you,So I can put it on the shelf with things dear to me.I could fill another hundred,But I would be repeating myself.And I wouldn’t get tired of it,Of reliving every moment, remembering every word,Feeling every glance of yours again.The glance I longed for that strongly,That I wished for a different version of our lives.One on the surface of this ocean of dreams,On the land that means certainty.But that would mean giving up myself.I almost sold my voice to be able to walk with you.But I knew you would never see meThe way I wished for for so long,And I wouldn’t want to kill your happinessBy wishing for mine to come true.What if I’m only in love with a statue,With an idea, with an illusion, with a dream?I will leave my ocean,But not to be with you.I will travel the world with the birds,And the waves of the sea,The dolphin will carry me to unknown shores,Until I’ve seen everything.Until the laughs of a child will make me immortal as well.I’ll watch over you and your princess,As you sail on.My tears will stream home,And I will feel human, and love.I’ll kiss her on the forehead,I’ll wave at you and smile,And though I’m not the sea foam,I’m part of the blue sky.More from Auri Tunglsdottir ↓@songsofsunandmoon.official on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry reminds us what matters. Thank you for listening.

Wednesdays on One Poem Only are Handpicked, a new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me.Sunday RitualEvyan RobertsResiding in her pink robe, the one with the acrylic zipper in the front and the unnecessary homemaker-like lace at the collar. She sets her matching orthopedic slippers, to the side,and kneels over the basin. Like praying to deities of Arm &; Hammer Baking Soda and HeinzVinegar, she bends and begins passionately scrubbing, invoking the tool of her gods – a hard bristle brush – in the aid of her task. Mumbling in tongues, over and over, watching all that build up, give way. Her muscles fight exhaustion and residue. The grout of the tiles keeping her in a tepid sweat. I faithfully observe this private Sunday performance. Now, watching her lean back, to rest on her heels, then stretch for her cigarette, it ashing down her front. The fault of ceaseless muscles, trembling from rest – inspiring her to never stop. Falling to the laced collar of her robe, an ember slowly burns. She is unmoved. Looking to the water damaged ceiling, her eyes close, smoke aims from her mouth to the broken exhaust fan. The full billow dissipates to a thinned fume as she pulls once more. And with the remainder of her smoke, kneels forward, blessing the dingy basin, enriching it in smokey prayer, alongside the delicate sacrifice of polyester burning steadily, wider and wider, against her bosom.More from Evyan Roberts ↓@writing.femme on InstagramWatch Handpicked WednesdayA new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me. Watch on Instagram at @rembrandts.cure.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Two poems. One poet. Let the words keep moving.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.The Return of TitansKate M. SineThe last leaf of autumn falls,striking the door like a match,lighting our world with the magic from a distant universe.We watch the spirits pass us by at the window,our breath fogging the glass as the archaic creaturespad past,shepherding their kind to safety while the world sleepsthrough December, January, and February.Karan, the goose, who slides through the air like a knife,blotting out the sky with a quilt of murmuration of different birdsas they migrate to warmer winds.Tubor, the bear, who buries beetles, boil-skinned frogs, and his brethren,ushering them to sleep.Psyche, the wolf, who suns in the graveyards,her golden eyes roll sleepily like the sun across the horizon as she watches the herds and flocks pass by.She and her kin practice mercy on these long nights,giving them a dignified death with their teeth instead of a demise in the shadow of their families.My favorite is Elpenor, the elk.The world heralds his return,the air filling with thunder as he uproots from his dimension to ours.His antlers rise over the withered woods like a crown,grazing the sky as he strides out into the open,with deer, quail, foxes, and other creatures in tow.The men scold the giant deer for taking not only the wildlife away,but women too.A symbol of the balance between fragility and strength,woeful women have asked Elpenor to take them on his odyssey by shearing off their hair until they are left with downy heads,like that of fawns.Elpenor whisks them away, taking them to cities, to towns,wherever happiness finds them.It was only this year that I learned that the lord gives his does, as they are called,a knife, hewn from an antler shed of his children.I saw it one day on my mother’s belt,and now,I have found a mysterywhere I used to be whole,a magic that I now possess.More from Kate M. Sine ↓@enis.st.sparrow on Instagram@katemsine on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Feed yourself poetry every day.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. “Words don’t even flow to me anymore”Lisa Le GuiaderWords don’t even flow to me anymoreI think tiredness got meThe source has gotten stabbedStrangled I think I’m getting tiredhaving been let to stormand bleed it out, pouring this heart soft outIn your armsOn your chestNow to your touchI’ll much preferevaporate condense awayprecipitate a mile awayI’m already boiling insideWould not need much but meet the fire, your calming touchto light it all haze out of sighttear up and down burn it all outAll hot bloodedAnd cold as iceI’d float the air, everywhere you aren’tI’d rain on you I’d rain on you hotFlashes of light flooding you highBut this ardent sea, whole into mewould do no worse as warm you upO just enoughCuddle you up snuggle you inWish you sweet dreamsand ease you upRight into sleepKiss you good nightLull you gentlywhole against meMore from Lisa Le Guiader ↓@studio_escargot on Instagram@lisaleguiader on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

One Poem More gathers all of this week’s poems from One Poem Only—an unhurried chance to listen again, or catch what you missed.This week’s poemsWhat's Wrong with My Heart by Gillian ShielsA Few Weeks Into the Dreams by Jorge Lopez LlorenteBenedict Fruit by Yonsiri RojasDisjointed Conversations by Jean WathuguHuman-Nature by Katie-May FinchamIn the Hot Spring Locker Room by Haley DiRenzoPlus one new one to carry us into the week aheadShake It UpMaggie DeversI water my plants to feed myselfI feel my toes expandMy neck releaseMy lungs make room for airWe're not under the bootBut we feed itLeila Khalid said revolutionMust mean life in all formsSo I dream of life–In the plants I feed,In my daughter's wet hairI comb after she swims,In my mother's handsAs she towels off the dogWho shakes, covering usWith waterAnd we squeal in unisonAs we recall lifeAnd revoltMore from Maggie Devers ↓My debut poetry collection, For My Daughter, available as an audiobook.Purchase a signed copy of For My Daughter or get one free by subscribing to the podcast: One Poem Only on PatreonFollow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cureMore from this week’s poetsFind links to each poet’s work, books, and social accounts in the show notes for the individual episodes.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry is better when it’s lived with. Thank you for listening.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.In the Hot Spring Locker RoomHaley DiRenzoI saw naked women scrubbing saltedskin as my mother ushered mepast. Eyes lingered on bodies rawand round. Breasts dangling, belliesdrooping. Sketched scars and stretchmarks painted in different shades.Clay earth, bruised sky, blue vein.My own body was a girl’s then.Still, I’d graduated from runningnaked through my home to needingto hide myself. I barely rememberedthe bloom of my own mother’sbreast that fed me. She toonow dressed behind closed doorsunable to know or to teachbeing seen without sex or shameor desire. Even now in a locker roomI cover quickly, but long to bethese women. Limbs sloughedpink after sinking heavyinto a hot spring. I can heartheir breathy sighs as water carvesrivers over curves. Their soft whisperssaying simply—yes.More from Haley DiRenzo ↓@haleydirenzo on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.Human-NatureKatie-May FinchamIn the stillness of the awakening forest,where twilight dances with the dawn,human hearts pulse beneath the light rays,piercing the gloom like fragile promises.We wander, shadows flickering among blooms,breathing in the sweet scent of renewal,lost in the echo of stories yet to unfold.Together, we tread the sun-dappled paths,where branches stretch to embrace the light,and the wind carries whispers of ancient hope.Beneath the canopy, we are fleeting spirits,our laughter a fragile melody,swallowed by the weight of memories,as the darkness lingers,a haunting fragrance, blooming with spring.In this gentle light, we find our place,two beings woven with the wild,our dreams intertwined like ivy on the brink of life,yet always reminded of the fragile line,between warmth and the void,where every breath is a testament to our bond,illuminated by the rays that pierce the night,as spring unfurls, urging us to remember,that even in shadows, we are drawn together,bound by the cycle of light and dark.More from Katie-May Fincham ↓@katie_mayportfolio on Instagram@katiemayartist on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud.Disjointed ConversationsJean WathuguBecause I saw that obligatory smileI am dismembering the foot in my mouthYour eyes like to wander in the middle of my lame anecdoteSo here’s my prosthetic humourSo I can fake it enough to make itHow about you write me a technical manual on how to beSo in between the jargon I can mourn the parts of me that don't fit inYou took me in beforeSpitting me outI’m a mishmash of mismatched ingredientsPreheating the oven to bake foreign philosophies into my ownI hoped you'd see me but I guess now I'm in betweenCrystal glasses of wineSo I can see through thisDismembering of the foot in my mouthThe burning off of offensive quirksThe flogging of my delinquent idiosyncrasiesThe branding of new philosophiesMy drunk mind was always more imaginative. So I'm drinking 4% beerDreaming up a version of realityWhere your attention doesn't wander off-In the middle of my syllablesThe only visions that matter are the ones you have of meIn the right lens. Did you get my good side?I am dreaming up a version of realityWhere I am solid enough to be elusiveAnd you don't have to see through me and my bullshitI am mourning the parts of me that don't fit in - do you get it?More from Jean Wathugu ↓@jean.wathugu on [email protected] on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry reminds us what matters. Thank you for listening.

Wednesdays on One Poem Only are Handpicked, a new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me.Benedict FruitYonsiri Rojasthe goose hisses in its ivory crochet suit;sauntering the stoned road, a flinch of lightbathing the pigeon’s pearls, the town’s bruteanimal—its local needful, lazy pal mighthave carved off some of its benedict fruit.the goose grasps the pigeon’s winghums a ballad, makes a sorrowful scenedown the mountain, towards the spring“cut him some slack!”, swallows him clean;local conflict nicely solved, left neither a whing,nor the clumsy thief seen.More from Yonsiri Rojas ↓@lvrimar on InstagramWatch Handpicked WednesdayA new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me. Watch on Instagram at @rembrandts.cure.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Let the words keep moving.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.A Few Weeks Into the DreamsJorge Lopez LlorenteBack then, a few bodies ago, you knew how to get your dreams delivered. You would sleep in the shape of a question mark and the empty side of the bed would be the silent answer. Now the silence is broken by you answering the door late, groggy. Now dreams are strangers’ hands, with covered faces, leaving a parcel on the doorstep, untouched, which you find too late, with the doorbell’s ring muffled. You’re asking for more than you need. You lie that it’s broken and you’re reimbursed and keep these dreams. You lie to yourself: you don’t want them, you don’t know where to put them. Fragile, this way up, they are now half-used and tucked beneath your unmade bed. Now the dreamfulness wakes you up at odd hours of the night, with that shudder as if you’re dreaming that you’re falling or flying and then stop. Nothing is enough; the nothing is too much. You can’t say no to them, although you can’t say yes to them and follow them through; that would spoil these dreams. Besides, they’re not even yours. Kind of. Sleeping with outdoor clothes on has got you dreaming of the bubble wrap these dreams came in. You never finish bursting the bubbles; your room smells of plastic. In the next few sleeps, you want no more dreams, you want the sound of burst bubbles instead; not foam, but seconds of spindrift spittle. Throw it all out except the wrapping. A choking hazard. Only then can you wrap it all up, forget all the forgetting, stop feeling those dreams and that body as your own. Sleep on your back, straightened, correctly, staring at the ceiling. Sleep like a few bodies ago, some body on a commute, delivered, daydreaming of no longer dreaming, onwards, straight ahead, correctly. The bubbles don’t all burst.More from Jorge Lopez Llorente ↓@jorgelllorente on InstagramThis poem is from his recently published poetry Dreamescapes published by Alien Buddha Press, 2025Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Feed yourself poetry every day.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. What's Wrong with My HeartGillian ShielsMy heart is a little broken:Sometimes it does too much tickingAnd not enough tocking.It’s an electrical signal disruption,They tell me.I take my tablets every dayAnd they help.Most of the time.But I worry.I can’t help it.Over the years,This poor heart of mineHas been shattered so many times.It has been battered,Bruised,Ached so badlyI was sure I would die.It has expandedAnd contracted.Been scorched by flamesI mistook for lasting warmth.Still, I will continue to take my tablets.And whisper to my heart in the night,As if it were a fragile bird,Beat on,sweet heart,beat on.More from Gillian Shiels ↓@thoughts_finding_words on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

One Poem More gathers all of this week’s poems from One Poem Only—an unhurried chance to listen again, or catch what you missed.This week’s poemsAching by Brittany Searle KempaiahLa Mariposa de Fierro by Christiane Williams-VigilThey Built the Wall Themselves by M. A. DubbsNine Novembers Later by Erin ZarroShadow Infested Room by Himani GoelShow & Tell by Shahé MankerianPlus one new one to carry us into the week aheadTea PartyMaggie DeversThe hand of godSips with the divine pinky upHoly water servedIn antique china cupsFirst gently blowingNot for the heatBut to make ripplesStill, the liquid warms the sameEven for the dolls whoHave yet to taste a dropThe imaginary need not look realTo be feltCreation is not just what we seeMore from Maggie Devers ↓My debut poetry collection, For My Daughter, available as an audiobook.Purchase a signed copy of For My Daughter or get one free by subscribing to the podcast: One Poem Only on PatreonFollow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cureMore from this week’s poetsFind links to each poet’s work, books, and social accounts in the show notes for the individual episodes.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry is better when it’s lived with. Thank you for listening.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.Show & TellShahé MankerianThis poem was first published in Contemporary Verse 2, Summer 2024 (Vol. 47, No. 1)To Lucille CliftonJosé lifted a rabbit from a corroded cageand said, “This is Jesús. We found himsleeping among the dead daffodils.”Elizabeth asked us to cover our ears“Because Beethoven was deaf,” she saidas “Ode to Joy” squeaked on her violin.I clapped the loudest because on the firstday of school Liz braided my shoelaceswith hers. Mrs. Honzay poked my forearmwith a pen, “Settle down,” she whispered.Sweaty Mika wore his father’s space suit.Selma uttered from her wobbly desk,“He even smells like an alien.” When I stoodin front of the blackboard, nauseous,with nothing fancy to share, I raisedmy trembling hands shoulder high.“I was born with twelve fingers,” I said,“and I have the scars to prove it.”More from Shahé Mankerian ↓@shahemankerian on InstagramHis book: History of Forgetfulness published by the Fly on the Wall PressSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.Shadow Infested RoomHimani GoelClosing the door on the shadow infested room?I say noI pull the curtains open.Shaky handsWindows stuckStrain harderpushed open with a rattleSudden breezehair swept awayCurtains blownThe wind takes the lead to start a dance with the mossy curtainsUp they flysaying hello to theparticlessparkling like pixie dusta magic in new ray of shineThe wind pulls back with a whisperthe curtains flow downcaughtin a thorn,grown unknownbetween the floorboardsthe dance turns into a tug of wartug tug, oh the strugglethe wind wins,thorn ripswind tries to dance againbut the mark left the curtains flutteringbroken, healingWind settles downthe curtains rest.Pitter patternear my toesup I lookthe ceiling leaksI let it pour.Wet floorHidden tearsTaken first steps to wash away the sorrows pastWish to forget the shadows castMore from Himani Goel ↓@heartovermind on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud.Nine Novembers LaterErin ZarroTW: ViolenceNine Novembers laterYou plucked flowers from my mouth andweaved them into a crownYou sang me into submission andwe made beautiful music togetherbut in the morning, you didn't remember my name.When I wanted to leave you, you gave me sunlight,promised me forever,slid a dagger through my spine.When you sucked the light from my bones,I cried, and you sewed my tears to my facein silence that burnsIn darkness, you fed me wildflowers and pain.I will gather my bones and I will riseI will shine heavenly light through my empty eye socketsYou will never touch my bones again.Originally written in Esperanto. More from Erin Zarro ↓@erinzpoetry on InstagramHer chapbooks, Life as a Moving Target, and Without Wings are available nowSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry reminds us what matters. Thank you for listening.

Wednesdays on One Poem Only are Handpicked, a new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me.They Built the Wall ThemselvesM. A. DubbsOn any given weekday on the east boardwalk of Port Washington,you’ll find fishermen of leisure.Long white beards, shirtless with an all over tan,crepey skin a canvas of tattoos;a visual storyboard of his trials.If you’d ask, you’d learn about the steady handsthat inked him as a kid drafted to ‘Nam.He won’t say much about the thick bordered oneshe did when he got back.Just shake his beard and tell you “mistakes.”Ashes from his cigarette will fallon familiar burn marks as his lips tremble.The lake clears the mind,dampening the sound of everything.Even the water crashes silently on the storm breaker,so it’s always still.A haze, not a fog, rests north of here.Resting on the horizon like an acoustic panel.It’s the silence that he seeksbut he’ll bring six fishing rods anyways.Strap them up in a row along the railing,all cast close, lines just four feet apart.If you’d ask, he’d say he’s trying to better his odds.Ask if he’s caught anything so far and he’d shrug,tell you nothing good yetbut he wants a big fish so he brought the big rods.But mostly, he’s quiet.He rests on a bench or sits on his hams and squints outwards.Solemn face, as couples hold hands and stroll by,as a mom pushes her child in a stroller,as a group of teen boys pause.They long to learn and touch fishing line,have an old hand guide their fingers through pretty little lures,each feathered and glittered with care.They long for tough stories that were untold until they lent an ear.There’s a pause for connectionbut it passes too quick.The boys don’t know much yet but they’ll carry this anger homeand it will stay in their chest for years to come.The old man watches through sleepy eyes,human lighthouse:eyelids half open to the boys,half closed to the water.More from M. A. Dubbs ↓@madubbspoetry on InstagramHer book, A Walk to Americana, published with Dancing Girl Press is available nowHandpicked WednesdayA new feature where I go deeper into the poem of the day and discuss what made it stand out to me. Watch here on Instagram at @rembrandts.cure.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Two poems. One poet. Let the words keep moving.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.La Mariposa de FierroChristiane Williams-VigilThe autumn leaves of American Beechflutter and cover her inquilt-like patches of many colors.To warm her through icy yearsand struggles of the 9 to 5.She sings not for those who are entangled in richesbut lullabies those who are suppressed,silenced,and overlooked.The ones who she wishes life willtreat them kind..Blessed is she who opens her heart,and pardons red-haired womenwho can’t help their siren-esque call.Out of a chrysalis of ash,her soul profound in its understanding ofphilanthropy and eternal love.She rises as an iron butterfly,armed with guitars and an endless stream of lyrics.And we will always love her.More from Christiane Williams-Vigil ↓@christyvigilwriter on InstagramYou can see her latest publications and workshops at her website: christianewilliams-vigil.comSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Feed yourself poetry every day.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise. AchingBrittany Searle KempaiahUnexpectedly.There are moments I relish my arms being my arms again.And then,I ache for you.I ache for the way you once fit in the crux of themyour head on my bare chest.I ache for those moments I dreaded your screaming.and the way it seemed to echo with accusations of my failure.I ache for the days I wondered what I had done with my life.and sat by your cot.Begging you to forgive me for wanting to be me again.I ache for your tiny brace I hated.The thin clothes and baggy pantsthat always seemed to draw eyes to us,accusing me of not being enough to heal you.I ache for your bald spot I tried to coverand the tiny milk peoples I feared were a sign of sensitive skin.The fear that your easily marked brown skin would scarand you would blame me for allowing your perfection to be blemished.I ache for your fumbling steps, your bruised head and scraped kneesthat made me fear you were somehow becoming too much like me.I ache for the bottles you wanted late at night.To hold you in the rocking chair and sing you back to sleep,without wishing it away.I ache.because I don’t really remember them.They are fragments and illustrated by ideas of memories.Feelings.Senses.Exhaustion.ButI wasn’t really there.This is what I took from myself.Missing all our worst daysmeant missing all our best.And I will never be able to hold the tiny you again,and love you perfectly,I ache,and I ache.and I ache.More from Brittany Searle Kempaiah ↓@brittanysearlekempaiahwords on InstagramShe is currently working on three books: Waking Up in Darkness, a memoir about being diagnosed bi-polar while pregnant, Crossstich, a collection of random daily poems; and Travels with Poems, an exploration into types of poetry from around the word through the eyes of parents to busy to travelSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

Sundays on One Poem Only are reserved for the weekly recap, but since we were writing a poem a day with Write After in April, we haven’t had a break for a recap in a month. So today I’m reading a poem that perfectly encapsulates Write After. It is a cento and contains one line from each of the 30 poems shared on One Poem Only during April.April: A PoemElla B. WintersShe never whispers in my ear, unfurlingto swallow my words, abandon mewhen I most need her,while the past rides shotgunsilent.My mind is a black sand beach. My fingersstop tracing spines. I've stopped turningthe light on. I have climbed to the topof the very last tree, gawkingat the sky turning into a riot of gold.Sadness presses its thumbinto my chest - a cascadeof the most unruly waves,they sparkle in the morning sun.Delayed and denied a day's breath,drums prelude river current tears, drawtogether the wet ravines of skin like a zip.Observing life like Dali from below the waters,cracked asphalt flowers, reachingfor a Mediterranean sun, stand underthe downpour. If I couldunzip my heart from skin, unleashingperfection to fully know me, I'd chooseto embrace the perfect contradiction.My world would be trickling waterin this moss forest, while stars are singingto us from the cosmos - the masterpieceI've waited my life to see. How delicatelythe water ripples;I forgive the fluidity.Let my body be a vessel! I've got enoughwords to feed the both of us.This silence sets me free.Contains one line from each of the 30 poems shared on the One Poem Only podcast during the April 2026 'Write After' challenge.More from Ella B. Winters ↓@ella.b.winters on Instagram@ellabwinters on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.Square SocietyFaye SimpsonIn the land of square people,They live ridged lives,With right angled rooms made to fit their intended occupants only,And the ridged rules silently spoken by every straight line,Bent and broken are often indistinguishable,For the square mind,In this curveless space,Everybody fits into their place.Or so it’d seem,Between the boundaries of 2D,Live creatures like me.Natural plasticity has allowed me to form a false face,A more angular appealing shape,So, I can be a member of this strict society,Otherwise, no such thing is available to me.I bend but I am not broken,I attain and abandon all easily,Square society was not made for shapeless souls like me.My differences have been made disabling,My lack of a true shape is an “issue”Not inherently,No, I quite like me,But square society, has decidedly defined,That I don’t deserve a space.Because no matter how I change my face,My mind, isn’t the right shape.More from Faye Simpson ↓@faye.poetry.prose on InstagramSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.Everlong/EvergreenDan WebberAfter an endless winterthe spring has finally come,a reminder,that all things will passeventually.In defiance, nature remainsguarded by tall treeand howling wind.The beauty of the forestis untarnished.Frostbitten or sun kissedupon doorstep, or far, far awaytravellers and explorersold and neware welcomed inin equal measure.These whispers from the woods call:Come.Sit a spell.Breathe in the good air.Calm mind and soothe body.It’s peaceful here,but never lonely,still but ever-changing,eternal yet new-born,respectful, if respected.It’s time to reconnect.Mother Earthhas waited long enough.She wonders when we will realisethat every day is differentwhen you stop and look up.So, look up.More from Dan Webber ↓@imgenrefluid on InstagramHis book, Whispers from the Woods, is available nowSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

I didn’t miss a day. Thank you for being here. For listening, for sharing, for writing, for championing poetry with me. There’s so much more to come.I dwell in Possibility –A fairer House than Prose –More numerous of Windows –Superior – for Doors –Of Chambers as the Cedars –Impregnable of eye –And for an everlasting RoofThe Gambrels of the Sky –Of Visitors – the fairest –For Occupation – This –The spreading wide my narrow HandsTo gather Paradise –By Emily DickinsonThere’s something poeticAbout a country eating itself aliveTo appease the gods of private equityWhile stars are singing to us from the cosmos.Children go hungryBut fear not,They trim the fat and the wasteAnd the bloated, seeping fools will realize too lateThat a country without its peopleIs no country at all.There’s something poeticAbout letting it all fall awayAnd giving up the fight,Not because we know we lostBut because the fight is not ours.It never has been.We are free now to create something newFor those who careWill we save the world?No. That is not our task.We will save ourselvesAs the world spins round the sun.By Maggie DeversSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry reminds us what matters. Thank you for listening. To 365 and counting.

One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.AbstractWC QuinnMy pieces appear askew, but I am no Picassojust a Girl Before a Mirror trying to love myselfdespite the flaws in my reflectionI keep counting my brush strokesgrooming tangles in penance.My tongue’s burden is languageThe She Wolf bellow calls to me; I don’t replymy words, sticky sweet honey,smacking heavy in the roof of my mouthsplatters canvas akin to Pollock.My nightmares covet realityso call me a dream walker; lucid surrealistobserving life like Dali from below the watersbearing witness to The Metamorphosis of Narcissusunsure if I am art or artist.My heart stenciled with purposein the face of perpetual loss; A Girl with Balloonblack and white statements strickenwith red accentsRecognizable / Unknown.More from WC Quinn ↓@astoldby.wcquinn on Instagram@wcquinn on SubstackSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.Unlearning PerfectionMya NoelaniI took up the task of unlearning perfectionBecause what is perfect anyway?Besides of bunch of standards we try to maintain to impress other peopleI’m learning that it’s okay that the same pile of clothes has sat on my floor for three daysOr that I’m not always on my P’s and Q’sAnd that sometimes the most productive thing I can do is get in my bed and sleepI’m learning that perfection is a performance for which I don’t have time because I’m trying my hardest just to stay aliveI’m learning that life isn’t linear but bunch of highs and lows a bunch of day by days and lot of figuring it out as we goLet me ask you something…if Jesus got killed for being just that, then truly, what is the point of perfect anyways?It’s something I’ll never be no matter how much I tryAnd life is just not meant for constant strivingSo, I’m unleashing perfection to fully know meTo embrace opportunity and possibilityTo give myself some graceTo find courage and strength to complete the tasks I’ve been assignedSo tell me again…what is perfection besides a distraction that prevents you from experiencing the fullness of life?More from Mya Noelani ↓@noelanis_diary on InstagramHer book, The Dreamer’s Diary, is available nowSupport + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Feed yourself poetry every day.