Author: poeaxtry_

  • A Saturday on the Upper Rim at Conkle’s Hollow: Celebrating Her Life, Finding New Peaks

    A Saturday on the Upper Rim at Conkle’s Hollow: Celebrating Her Life, Finding New Peaks

    Setting the Day

    Saturday afternoon found me passenger-seat riding into southern Ohio, the deep autumn colors folded into Hocking Hills. I was there with my buddy Kylie. I was only one hike off a two‑week hiatus from hiking… depression is weird. Today was important to me, though. It was the anniversary of my mom’s passing. I wanted to celebrate her life in motion, in elevation, on trail, and somewhere I know she would have loved. Obviously, the chosen Rim at Conkle’s Hollow for just that. She boasts wide views, edge‑of‑cliff moments, autumn colors, and air that makes you feel alive.

    We parked at the trail head of Conkle’s Hollow State Nature Preserve. The location is 24858 Big Pine Road, Rockbridge, Ohio. That’s started up the Upper Rim loop. The Rim Trail is about 2 miles (3.22 km) long and one-way, though per Hocking Hills hikers normal lack of etiquette it seems seldom followed. The terrain is moderate to steep with exposed roots and edge of cliff drop-offs. Some of the hike kept us on the literal edge. It was not a casual stroll. It should be noted that the preserve warns it may be strenuous for those who don’t hike regularly. Kylie and I both were surprised by our over-all lack of feeling worn from this.

    From the moment we climbed the wooden stairs leading up from the valley floor, the energy shifted. Our joking started almost immediately. We joked about cliff edges and how you can’t bring your friend to celebrate his mom’s death at a cliff. He might jump off himself to re‑join her. Yes, dark jokes, but we were healing. Ahead of us were hikers, who were being cautious and speaking about a friend lost to a cliff fall. Though they didn’t stay to close to us much longer…. So, laughter came louder and less infrequent because sometimes that’s what you choose instead of tears.

    The Upper Rim Views & Trail Reality

    Once you crest the valley floor, you step onto the Rim Trail. You are walking a loop that literally hugs the top of sandstone cliffs. The cliffs at Conkle’s Hollow rise nearly 200 feet above the gorge below. The geology is impressive: Black Hand sandstone, deeply eroded over millennia into steep walls, narrow gorges, and dramatic rock formations. 

    As you walk the Rim, you gaze down into a gorge. In places, it is only 100 feet (30.48 m) wide. From the bottom yet still undiscovered by me are towering walls that rise straight up on either side. The breeze along the rim felt different. You could hear the echo of the gorge. As we paused at lookout points, the view unfolded in layers of tree‑topped ridges and stone.

    We reached vantage points where the bottom of the gorge revealed the valley floor farther away than I expected. The trail views were unbelievable. Streams, waterfalls, and giant rock formations were highlighted. Caution was advised for the steep cliffs.  Because of that height, you’re part of the scene and above it at the same damn time. For me, there was something cathartic in that duality.

    Overlook on Rim Trail At Conkle's Hollow Showing Cliffs, Autumn leaves, and a clear blue sky

    Memory, Laughter, and Ladybugs

    What made this hike stand out wasn’t just the rock and the view, though those were stellar. It was celebrating her life. It was doing something visceral, physical. Likewise, it was high enough so I felt like I was reaching. Kylie, laughed as ladybugs literally attacked us. In one pause, I felt a swarm of red‑speckled wings in my ear. We both jumped and giggled because yes, nature doesn’t pause for solemnity.

    Yes, this is the second hike of the week for me—but it already ranks among my top three ever. Why? Because it was layered: terrain challenge, emotional depth, natural beauty, story. I’m going back this week to do the Gorge Trail of the Conkle’s Hollow Preserve. This isn’t just a day on a trail. It’s part of what hinges my entire rhythm.

    The Bottom Trail Awaited

    I’m headed back to the bottom part of Conkle’s Hollow this Wednesday after work. The preserve has two major trail systems. One is the Rim Trail, a two‑mile one‑way loop. The other is the Lower Trail or Gorge Trail. It is wheelchair accessible for a part. Then it becomes a natural path that leads into the gorge floor. Some adventure‑seekers combine both for a full day.

    On the gorge floor, we will be surrounded by the walls of sandstone instead of on them. Hemlock and fern canopies stretch above us. We will walk between cliffs that feel alive. According to one site, I consulted during trip planning, this trail concludes in a bowl of massive sandstone walls. Waterfalls cascade over these walls, though they do tend to be dry in summer.  When I go back, Thursday, I’ll see the other side of things.

    Practical Tips & Details

    Trail head & Location: Conkle’s Hollow State Nature Preserve, 24858 Big Pine Rd, Rockbridge, Ohio 43149.
    GPS coordinates: approx 39.4529, ‑82.5721. 
    Trail Info: The Rim is approx 2 miles (3.22 km) long, moderate to strenuous, one‑way loop with cliff edges and steep terrain. No pets allowed. 
    Views & Terrain: Sheer cliffs of nearly 200 feet (60.96 m), extremely narrow gorge in places, rich plant life at the base including hemlock and fern communities. 
    Note: The preserve was designated a State Nature Preserve (1977) to protect its rugged geology and ecosystems. 
    When to Go: Weekdays or early mornings avoid lots of visitors; parking fills quickly, especially on weekends. Though, I have heard that The Rim trail offers more solitude than the paved Lower Trail. 

    Why This Was One of My Top Three

    Because it met multiple layers: challenge, scenery, emotion. Because I wasn’t just escaping—I was celebrating. The jokes with Kylie, the memory of my mom, and the ladybugs. They’re the good part of different. Trails and places like this don’t ask for perfection, they ask for presence.

    And because I’ll be back this week. Because doing the bottom part means continuity. Because in the business of indie publishing, rockhounding, nature‑crafting, life intervals like this matter.

    A Note of Nostalgia

    A man sits with his feet over the edge of a cliff. He wears a black hat, a black shirt, tan pants, and Friday the 13th Vans.

    The ladybugs dive bombed us at every overlook like tiny kamikaze pilots in polka‑dot suits. I joked about one hitting me in the throat as I sat on the edge of a cliff. Claiming that I’d yeet myself right off the ledge, because one hit my throat and scared me. Then one clipped my neck mid‑sentence & mid-throat. The air smelled of ladybugs, nostalgic… oddly. When I was a kid, I once got seconds of mashed potatoes, took a bite, and crunched a ladybug. It tasted exactly how they smell. I spat it out and sprinted to my mom, screaming, while she tried not to laugh. Some memories never leave, they just follow you up mountains in red shells.

    Conkle’s Hollow Photo/Video Album

    Links Coffee Wattpad

  • Colors in the Sky: A Poem of Memory, Loss & My Mother’s Sunset Light

    Colors in the Sky: A Poem of Memory, Loss & My Mother’s Sunset Light

    I was inspired by the sky Monday evening… blue, pink, and purple. In that moment I realised how my mother learned to paint. Four years after she died, every sunrise and every slow‑burn sunset feels like her newly found brush‑stroke across the horizon. This poem invites you into the space where loss becomes colour and presence becomes visible light.

    The view that inspired this poem.

    “Four Years Later, She Paints”

    The sky’s been a little more beautiful since she left.

    Four years now,

    and she still finds her way back,

    not just in dreams,

    but also in color.

    Pink, blue, purple,

    the hue of the view she painted

    this evening

    the kind that makes you stop mid‑sentence,

    just to take another look.

    Never painted a day in her life,

    she paints now.

    Every sunrise, every slow‑burn sunset,

    she’s learned a language that allows her to share even when she’s no longer there

    Somehow I know she mixes those shades

    just to show she misses us too.

    And sometimes,

    I think it’s her way of saying

    I love you,

    now that her words

    don’t

    reach

    our

    ears.

    Poets Notes

    This poem came from noticing the sky and realising it carried messages from the one meant the most… My mother wasn’t the painter she is now, in her absence she became an artist in the sky. Seeing those colours reminded me she’s still at work… even when I can’t hear her voice. Writing this piece helped me feel her presence not as a memory trapped in time, but as light moving, transforming, still reaching out.

    Even when words fail us, love remains visible. This piece is a reminder to look up, to notice colour, and to feel the presence of those we’ve lost in the world around us. Let this poem and photo stand together as proof: what’s lost isn’t gone, it’s just changed form.

  • Top O’ the World Hike And Accidental Rock Finding Adventure

    Top O’ the World Hike And Accidental Rock Finding Adventure

    Top O’ the World Hike

    This week, I finally got back outside. I went for a hike at none other than Top O’ the World in Summit Metro Parks. We followed Adam Run Trail with Luna, Sky, and The Baby. After taking a couple of weeks off from hiking, depression sucks. It was a relief to get back into the rhythm, or at least try to. This was a bigger challenge than I anticipated. The day didn’t go as planned. Yet, it turned into a memorable adventure. That was full of colorful rocks, fall foliage, and small, meaningful moments.

    Planning vs. Reality

    Originally, we planned to visit the Arc of Appalachia. I wanted to check out the Seven Caves area as well. This spot is known for its ecological protections, particularly for bats during mating season. Bats are carefully monitored there. The mating caves are fenced off to protect them. This allows visitors to see the cave entrances and surrounding wildlife. I love that type of balance between nature protection and exploration. Unfortunately, Luna couldn’t go to either of those places. The drives were both over two hours from my house. So, Top O’ the World became the best choice. I have wanted to see both, but not yet fully planned this one out. It was still rich with sights. It was full of discoveries.

    History & Trail Background

    Top O’ the World was once the Top O’ the World Farm. The Adam family donated it to Summit Metro Parks in 1966. The “Top of the World” name comes from its elevated position above surrounding valleys. These area offers sweeping views that make the hike feel more expansive than it actually is. Adams Trail winds through glacial-formed terrain. Then it is mixed with forests, open meadows, rocks, and fallen leaves were all over the path. Though I hadn’t fully planned for this exact trail, the natural beauty quickly made me forget the original plan.

    Weather, Layers & Hiking Challenges

    The morning started cold, and I hadn’t charged my heated jacket yet. Layering was the only fix. I found myself shedding and readjusting layers as the sun warmed the trail in the afternoon. Forgetting my water added a small scramble. I had to be mindful of Luna’s pace as well as my own. Coming back from a hiking hiatus was challenging. It was hard to keep a steady rhythm without feeling exhausted. I also wanted to avoid skipping too many moments to take it all in. I experienced two near-asthma flares. Of course, I brought my empty inhaler! This reminded me that even though I hike regularly, coming back after a break can be physically demanding.

    Dogs & Trail Etiquette

    Luna, now eight, still carries the energy of a younger dog. She did surprisingly well with the sheer number of other dogs on the trail. She responded to my cues with fewer corrections than I expected. Hiking with dogs requires constant awareness of others on the trail. I try to preemptively move Luna away from situations that cause stress to her or other dogs. Seeing her react more positively to the environment without constant tension felt like a big win.

    Red Pitbull Sitting on trail with Blue collar black leash & autmn leaves all around

    The Rock Haul

    The rocks at Top‑O the World were the real highlight for me. I found stones in shades of blue, green, red, orange, and other colors. The way the sunlight hit them made each one feel unique. Rockhounding in Ohio is always full of hidden treasures. Today reminded me why my eyes are always scanning the ground. Even leaves that had fallen from the trees seemed to complement the colors of the rocks. This made the entire trail a canvas of autumn hues.

    Shared Moments & Joy

    One of the best moments of the hike was seeing Skylar’s daughter light up. She was excited when she spotted me in my car. Those small expressions of joy reminded me why these outdoor moments matter. Hiking isn’t just about the views or the physical activity. It’s about connection. You connect with nature and with the people and animals around you. The shared excitement of discovery makes the experience richer. Each discovery adds joy. A colorful rock, a squirrel darting across the trail, or a fall leaf floating by all add to the charm.

    Why Hiking Matters

    Hiking has always been a way to reset, to give my thoughts space to breathe, and to feel grounded. Today, even though I hadn’t planned this exact trail, it worked. Sometimes hiking to process emotions, especially after difficult times, doesn’t always feel successful, and today it didn’t. Showing up made it worth it. Walking the trail and paying attention to details also contributed, despite small inconveniences like missing water or cold mornings.

    Visitor Tips & Rock hound Notes

    Best time to go: Fall, for peak foliage and cooler temps. Dress in layers. Dog-friendly trail: Summit Metro Parks allows dogs on leash; bring control skills and patience for reactive dogs. Rock hounding tips: Keep eyes on the ground for stones in blue, green, red, and orange shades. Check sun angles for sparkling highlights. Be prepared: Even moderate trails feel longer after a hiatus. Bring water, snacks, and a camera. Leave no trace: Always pack out what you pack in. Avoid littering, even food scraps like orange peels, to protect the ecosystem.

    Reflections & Final Thoughts

    Top O’ the World reminded me that even when plans shift, there is value in showing up. I found new rocks to turn into art, spent time with Luna, and saw genuine joy from someone else’s excitement. While the trail was unplanned compared to my original Arc of Appalachia plan, it delivered its own treasures. Hiking isn’t about perfect execution; it’s about engagement, discovery, and moments that make the day worth it.

    Summit Metro Parks offers something for everyone. Whether you’re in the park for nature, rocks, or fall colors, you’ll find what you seek. If dog-friendly trails are your interest, Adams Trail at Top O’ the World delivers. Expect the unexpected, and enjoy each small reward along the way.

    AND Don’t Forget:
    Leave NO Trace
    Pack out what you bring in
    And know that food scraps are not SAFE.

    Links Coffee Portfolio

    View all Adam Run photos

  • Drici Amos James: The God of Poetry

    Drici Amos James: The God of Poetry

    Drici Amos James, DAJ2020, The God of Poetry.
    Drici Amos James, DAJ2020, The God of Poetry.

    THE GOD OF POETRY

    About Drici Amos James:

    Born and raised in the Pearl of Africa—Uganda, East Africa—Drici draws his strength from his indelibly rich, deep-rooted beginnings. His creativity is inspired by the slums of Africa.

    DAJ2020 is an internationally published and widely read author. This multi-published author has been featured in various magazines. These include Figgi Magazine, Marika Magazine, and SSSIVANE Magazine. Additionally, Charisma Magazine, Loop Lite Magazine, The Style Cruze, and The Untold Magazine have also featured this poet.


    Self-Taught Creative Force

    “For Drici, art has always been a lifeline, a form of survival and redemption since childhood.”

    A self-taught creative powerhouse, Drici has established himself as a two-time self-published author, poet, model, artist, writer, and publisher. He is also the founder and CEO of DAJ Foods Africa.

    His dedication has earned him multiple awards. He has gained the distinguished reputation of being called the “God of Poetry.” He embraces this title with pride.

    Celebrated Works

    Among his most recognized pieces are the poems *Sex and Wine* and *Gates of Hell*. These were featured in *No Shortcut Magazine* and *Agora the Magazine*. Both received international acclaim.


    – *The Naked Race*, poetry collection, released July 12, 2025

    – *Crowns*, poetry collection featuring mentor Dapharoah69, releasing June 26, 2026

    – Co-author in anthology *Bloodlines*, November 2025


    When not writing, Drici finds solace in reading, meditating, and listening to music—fueling his creativity.

    DAJ2020 Author photo

    – Follow the Poet:

    Threads Twitter IG Tiktok

    – Explore DAJ2020’s Work
    KO-Fi Emotions on Amazon


     Want to Be Featured?

    Are you a writer, artist, or creative with a story to tell?

    We’re always looking for voices to uplift and celebrate. Send your work, your book, or your creative journey to be considered for the next Spotlight feature. Email me directly poeaxtry@gmail.com with your spotlight information or send a form here.


    Poeaxtry’s Links Portfolio
    Ko-Fi

  • “Where her hands still are” a poem of loss

    “Where her hands still are” a poem of loss

    There are some loves that never leave the room, even when the person does.

    This poem is for anyone who has ever reached into an empty kitchen and still felt warmth. Who has caught themselves folding towels the same way, or found their heart beating to a rhythm that was first taught by love.

    Loss doesn’t silence that bond…

    it transforms it into echo, ritual, and the quiet kind of forever that hums through the smallest parts of life.

    “Where Her Hands Still Are”

    By: Axton N. O. Mitchell

    I still hear her in the quiet,
    her quiet giggle.
    A low hum the house learned from her,
    The lines around her mouth,
    soft percussion of spoons on porcelain,
    Her sigh as the curtains breath with the wind.

    She was the kind of gentle
    that never had to announce it existed;
    you just felt it.
    In the way light hit the kitchen table,
    Or how your shoulders settled
    when she walked into a room.

    She always swayed,
    and somehow, it made everything feel safe.

    Now every sound leans toward memory.
    The kettle whistles her name,
    the wind carries faint notes of her perfume,
    and every dawn feels a little more unsure
    how to begin without her.

    Her hands made warmth
    out of thin air and love.
    Even the dust knew her touch.
    I fold laundry the way she did,
    sleeves tucked in, corners neat
    a quiet ritual…
    to keep my world from unraveling.

    Grief doesn’t shout anymore;
    it lingers in the shadows,
    breathes through the walls,
    sits down beside me at dinner
    every single night,
    waiting for me to notice.

    I talk to her often…
    just not out loud.
    I
    I find her in the places silence but quiet best:
    the garden,
    the car,
    anywhere I know she lingers.

    Life goes on, yes,
    but oh so differently,
    like a song missing its first note.
    Yet her love hums underneath it all,
    steady, ancient,
    woven into everything I touch.

    Even gone,
    she’s everywhere.
    She is the steam of morning tea,
    the lilac scent after rain.
    I feel her in the echo of my own heartbeat,

    After all it learned its rhythm from hers.

    Her absence will always ache,

    but the ache itself is proof,

    she’s still here.

    She is woven into the pulse of every moment I’m still living.

    Love doesn’t end when the heartbeat stops;

    it just finds new ways to hum.

    Poet’s Note:

    I wrote Where Her Hands Still Are after realizing that grief isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s patient. It waits, hums, and reminds you that love this deep doesn’t vanish. It simply reshapes itself. You don’t ever lose a mother completely; you just start learning to speak in her silence.

  • 🎉 Poeaxtry’s Prism Press — New Quarterly Digital Magazine 🎉

    🎉 Poeaxtry’s Prism Press — New Quarterly Digital Magazine 🎉

    I have decided to launch Poeaxtry’s Poetry Prism Press. A free quarterly digital magazine. This publication will: spotlight creatives, single creative works, and themed collections. All while sharing indie voices, who all share different minority perspectives, and creative work in a space that’s inclusive, thoughtful, and full of surprises.

    What’s inside each issue:

    Poetry & Writing: Submissions paired with contributor bios, flowing naturally through the magazine.

    Art &Art Pieces: Modern, bright visuals highlighting artists and creatives

    . Interactive Extras: QR codes or shortened links may unlock playlists, prompt journals, collectible images, actionable self-care checklists, and so much more. *These are not guaranteed in every issue like they are in my e-zines.

    Interviews & Community Features: Q&As with authors, creatives, and indie voices: full or sidebar size.

    Resource Highlights & Prism Picks: Curated books, music, art, and community projects.

    Trans Truth & Hot Takes Thoughts Column: Opinions and reflections from a trans man’s perspective

    . Letters from Readers: Shared throughout to amplify community voices.

    Call-to-Action Panels: Join The Prism community, submit work, or support Poeaxtry_ via tips, all accessible via QR codes.

    Newsletter Early Access: Sign up via QR code to receive the next issue early.

    Differences from e-zines& ebooks :

    E-zines include a minimum of six interactive add-ons and hidden layers only visible after purchase or free download of a digital copy. The digital magazine is free, public-facing, and curated. Submissions are reviewed to fit the issue’s flow and ethos.

    This is a space to read, explore, and engage. Submissions, feedback, and tips are welcome. We don’t accept violent or discriminatory content.

    Get ready for our first issue. Free, quarterly, and made with care for indie voices and the creative community.

    Ebooks:

    50 plus poems written over a period of a few months, no theme, and some may include a playlist but that is it.

    ✍️ Free Publishing & Creator Support Through Poeaxtry_

    Poeaxtry_ was built on the belief that everyone deserves to be seen and heard. Instead, of just those who can afford to buy their way into visibility. Through The Prism, I offer free publishing opportunities for minorities and supportive allies… on a first-come, first-served basis. Access should never be a gatekeeping game.

    Each accepted project gets as much help as the creator needs: editing, formatting, layout design, covers, eBook setup, visual direction, listing on their store fronts, and a forever spot in our catalog linking to you’re store, website, whatever.

    If it makes your work shine, I have accomplished my goal. Some need a single pass of edits; others want to build the look from scratch. Either way, we work together until the final piece feels right. Like it’s theirs, not just an extension of mine.

    I’ll even handle the form designl if they’re unsure how to begin, or we can build it collaboratively step by step. There’s no wrong place to start, and no creative too small to deserve care and craft.

    Nothing about this process is paywalled. No one is ever charged for publishing, spotlighting, or showcasing their art, words, or anything else. Book spotlights, creator features, and collection highlights — all of it stays free for minority creatives always. I do have paid avenues and ways to continue.

    I don’t measure success by profit. I measure it by impact. If a creator I helped goes on to something bigger, that’s the whole point. I’ll never regret contributing to someone’s growth or seeing their art evolve beyond Poeaxtry_. That’s what this brand is built for. When I started my poet and publishing journey I decided ai wouldn’t come up without offering a hand to other minorities as well. I open doors, And I do not close them without reason.

    ☕ Supporting is Appreciated, Never Required

    Ko-fi and Buy Me a Coffee are simply there for anyone who wants to tip or offer support . It will never be a requirement for other marginalized individuals . This is especially for creatives in marginalized communities. Every free project, collab, and spotlight stays free, always. Support is welcome, not expected. On theme contributors will have at least But up to all submissions included in our community first collabs,

    Ko-fi Buy me a Coffee

    Poeaxtry’s Links

    Portfolio

  • Zombie Dreams, Birthday Ghosts, and Losing the Only Constant

    Zombie Dreams, Birthday Ghosts, and Losing the Only Constant

    Sleepless Nights and Haunted Dreams

    I haven’t been sleeping very well since mid‑October. Not from tossing and turning, but because my nights have gotten populated by fragments of her dead, walking through scenes that don’t make sense. I know she was cremated. My brain knows that. My dreams don’t care. They hand me versions of her that are wrong in small, cruel ways, and I wake up hollow, disoriented, and exhausted.

    Usually I don’t remember my dreams. That had always felt like mercy. Now the dreams are sharp,enough to cut me out of the fabric of my sleep. A physical reaction to what I know can’t be real. I would trade anything to stop carrying them into daylight . They are grotesque and tender in the same breath. Sometimes a dream turns ridiculous.

    Kelso as some “boob‑head” character, storming heaven like an absurd hero to bring her back. You know the boobs stayed as a stubborn, surreal trophy. I laughed when I woke from that one at noon when I should have been sleeping for work. This is ugly, honest, and necessary. Humor slides under grief like sunlight through cracked glass. And it doesn’t fix anything, but it convinces you for a second that you’ll survive the next hour.

    Facing the Anniversary and Birthday Blues

    Saturday, November 8th is the fourth anniversary of her death. My birthday is November 16th. Those two dates sit like magnets on the calendar and pull at everything around them. People say time heals, but time just rearranges the edges. The hole stays, and never really goes away. The fall light grows brittle and memory gets louder. The anniversary reopens the wound; the birthday asks me to pretend there’s room for celebration when there’s barely room to breathe.

    Some years I was prepare with self care and such things. As if lighting a candle, walking a trail she loved, and writing a letter I never intended to send was better. Others, I keep the day hollow and move through it like a ghost that has learned to mimic presence. This year the dreams have made it worse: they throb up from sleep into waking, so the days (I work nights) feel longer and the nights feel thin.

    The Only Constant in Nearly Thirty Years

    My mom was my base code. For almost thirty years she was my first and fiercest believer. You know the person who read my early poems, who clasped my hands and told me to keep going when I wanted to hide. She was not only a supporter; she was the architecture of my risk. She taught me to put words out into the world, and to take the small, stupid leap that turned into Poeaxtry_. Without her, I’m not convinced I would have trusted that anyone needed the corners of my voice.

    Losing her didn’t just remove a person; it removed orientation. There are empty chair conversations, and moments when I start to share a small victory and realize there’s no one there to make that face I used to chase: the proud, slightly embarrassed, always‑loving face. I carry her in the choices I make now. She’s in every collab I push for, the minority voices I refuse to let slip, and the low‑cost entry points I design. She believed access mattered. Those are her fingerprints on everything I build.

    Dreams as Mirrors of Grief

    Dreams become a theater where loss rewrites itself nightly. Sometimes she appears whole and familiar; sometimes she’s an impossible version that breaks my chest open. When my subconscious stages the Kelso quest, ridiculous, cartoonish, oddly tender. I saw how the mind tries to make sense of an impossible absence. There’s grieving and then there’s surviving. Your brain will invent a plot if it thinks it can get you through the night.

    Those surreal bits matter. They remind me that grief is not a problem to be solved. And is a presence to be navigated. The dream logic is vulgar and honest: it says, if I can’t have her back, then let me at least laugh at my ridiculous attempt to smuggle her home. That laughter is not betrayal. It’s armor.

    Laughing, Crying, and Writing Through Loss

    Writing has been the only honest map I possess. Pouring the ache into lines gives my grief shape; sharing the lines gives it witness. Public writing didn’t start as strategy. She passed away and I hadn’t done it yet. So it started because she pushed me toward it even in death. She would read my messy poems and she always insisted they mattered. She was the one who taught me to put emotions in my words. So I write because she taught me; I publish because she believed it was worth the risk.

    There’s a thin, fierce purpose that comes from turning grief into craft. That is this: every poem, every collab, every free spotlight I give a marginalized voice is a way to keep her impulse alive. She taught me to make room at the table. I try to make that room as wide and stubborn as she would have wanted.

    The Weight of Absence and the Persistence of Love

    The absence is heavy, but it is proof. Proof that something true was there. The ache is the mirror of what I had: it indicates depth, not failure. I miss the private conversations, the small practical kindnesses, the ways she was present without trying to be noticed. Missing someone who was your constant is also learning to carry them differently. You see she is in policy decisions for the collabs, in the language I use when I offer critique, in the empathy that underpins how I run things publicly.

    Grief shapes you into a different steward of your work. I find myself patient with voices that are less polished, insisting on publication for those a gate would have stopped. That stubborn inclusionism is a living tribute.

    Carrying Her Presence Into Creation

    This November has been the sharpest yet. The anniversary and the birthday will land, and I’ll meet them the only way I know how: by making something that outlives the day. I write because she told me to. I run Poeaxtry_ because she imagined I would. I build community because she taught me generosity wasn’t optional.

    I can’t call her. I wish I could. I can’t ask what she thinks about the newest collab. I can’t show her the little victories and expect that laugh that makes everything feel both ridiculous and necessary. But I can work. I can create spaces for the marginalized voices she would have defended. I can keep her first faith in me alive with every small, defiant publication.

    For now, that has to be enough… because it is after all, all that I have.

    Ko-fi Payhip Gumroad

  • The good die young- book spotlight.

    The good die young- book spotlight.

    Poetry that heals & reveals

    by: Shela brown.

    A good writer is one who pleases themselves. 

    Every voice carries a story worth hearing. At Poeaxtry’s Poetry Prism. We shine a light on those stories. The raw, real, and resilient. Our Book Spotlights celebrate independent authors and poets who speak truth through art. Today, we’re honored to feature The Good Die Young by Shela Brown — a powerful, vulnerable collection that transforms pain into poetry and healing into art.

    The Good Die Young (TGDY) is a 91-page digital poetry collection and memoir, evoking raw, unfiltered emotion. These poems follow a young woman navigating heartbreak, identity, and the depths of mental health struggles—depression, anxiety, and PTSD.

    Through each verse, TGDY explores how innocence transforms, how pain shapes us, and how expression becomes survival. This project is more than poetry; it’s reflection, release, and rebirth. A right of passage and a pivotal part of the author’s healing journey.


    “The Good Die Young” 
    KELSO volume- 2

    🛒 WHERE TO FIND THE GOOD DIE YOUNG:

    Buy on Gumroad

    Instagram: @_babysham1

    TikTok: @__babysham

    💫 WHO IT’S FOR:

    For the art lovers. For the healers. For anyone who has ever felt deeply and quietly at once.

    For those still finding themselves after the storm. This is a safe space …soft, heavy, and honest.

    The Good Die Young reminds us that art is survival, and that writing can be a home for every emotion we’ve been told to silence.

    Through The Prism, we continue to uplift voices like Shela Brown’s . The voices that turn pain into power, and vulnerability into strength.

    If her story resonates with you, share it forward. Every share helps another poet, author, artist,or creative be seen. And another story be heard.

    I created Poeaxtry’s Poetry Prism because too many voices were told they weren’t enough. Either too soft, too loud, too different, too much. And I wanted to build a space where “too much” becomes exactly right.

    Every spotlight, every poem, every project under Poeaxtry_ exists to remind creators that their stories matter. The goal isn’t fame or followers … it’s community visibility, validation, and connection.

    I do this for the ones who never saw themselves on the shelf. For the ones who were told to edit out the truth. For the ones still healing, still creating, still daring to speak.

    Because when one of us is seen, we all shine brighter.

    — Axton, Founder of Poeaxtry_

    Portfolio Links

    Discord

  • “Can You Read the Room?” A Poetic Exploration of Silence and Presence

    “Can You Read the Room?” A Poetic Exploration of Silence and Presence

    There are rooms that speak without words. Spaces where light, sound, and presence…or absence, tell stories the heart quietly knows. In “Can You Read the Room?”, this poem navigates the fragile space between life and stillness, showing how even the smallest elements, like the hum of a heater, the gaze of a pet, anchor us in a world of quiet reflection.

    Can You Read the Room?

    The lamp’s gone cold,

    its bulb a frostbitten moon.

    Light spills out wrong,

    pale and unconvincing,

    a blue hue.

    The air hums sterile,

    a clinic without purpose,

    a stillness once safe.

    Soft. Solace.

    The heater drones on,

    groaning through the night,

    spitting warm breath

    that never reaches cold hands.

    Blinds drawn tight,

    as if the outside could judge,

    or the sun might bite.

    Even the usually lit TV’s

    dark eye is closed.

    No flicker.

    No laugh. No light.

    A blanket rises…

    enough to prove life is here.

    The body beneath,

    neither dreaming

    nor sleeping.

    The dog watches quietly,

    devoted without demanding.

    The cat’s tail curls,

    a question mark still,

    but he’s stopped asking.

    A clock ticks,

    the only noise

    for nothing worth timing.

    Every second,

    a whisper saying:

    “Can you read the room?

    Can you taste the air gone flat,

    the hum of things pretending to function?”

    This is how a heart

    plays dead

    without truly dying.

    Life exists even in muted forms. The poem reminds us that presence is not always loud and that subtle signals, like the rise of a blanket, the loyal eyes of a pet, can speak louder than words. “Can You Read the Room?” challenges us to notice, to feel, and to recognize the understated pulse of being alive, even when everything else seems still.

    Poet’s Notes:

    This poem was inspired by quiet, personal observation and the way empty spaces reflect our emotional landscape. The imagery aims to balance the sterile with the intimate: a room devoid of action yet full of subtle life. I focused on sensory contrasts like cold and warmth, light and darkness, movement and stillness, to capture the tension between isolation and connection. The repetition of questions mirrors the mind’s own attempt to engage with emptiness, urging the reader to “read the room” both literally and metaphorically.

    So tell me can you read the room?

  • Four Years Without Her: Grief, Growth, and Letting Go

    Four Years Without Her: Grief, Growth, and Letting Go

    Four years

    November 8th marks four years since I lost my mom. Four years since everything I knew broke open and the world is still shifting in ways I still can’t fully name. Grief isn’t a straight road, it’s a labyrinth. It’s a mess and a maze all at the same time. Some days I walk through it calmly, breathing deep, grateful to have survived another turn. Hiking through places I knew my mother would love breathing in crisp air and I know then I can feel her there. Other days, I slam into walls made of memories, and I ache like it just happened yesterday.

    People say time heals, but it doesn’t, not even slightly. Time teaches, especially how to fake it. It also teaches how to carry the weight differently. Some mornings I can laugh, work, create, and feel almost whole. Other mornings I stare at the ceiling and think about the space she left, a space that no one else could ever fill.

    I’ve kept working through all of it. I’ve kept building my life piece by piece, even when it felt like holding everything together with shaking hands. I built this business for her, for the strength she gave me, for the words she never got to read. I’ve published my own work many times now, and I’ve even been published by others. Every success feels like a conversation I wish I could have with her. “Mom, look. I did it.”

    There are so many things she’s missed.

    The late-night laughs. The healing. The slow, quiet days when I finally felt peace again. She hasn’t seen my sisters growing up into young women… strong, funny, and fierce in ways that remind me of her. She hasn’t seen me learn to be happy again, to find joy without guilt. She hasn’t seen the forgiveness that never came from others, but still bloomed in me.

    And then there’s my dad. That’s a different kind of grief, the kind you choose. I finally cut him off, and though it hurt, it was necessary. You can’t heal in the same place you were broken. That decision came from love. A love for myself, and for the memory of the woman who taught me what love should feel like.

    There’s a hole where she was, and nothing fills it. I’ve stopped trying to. I’ve learned to build around it instead. And while I try to let light pour through it sometimes. It is hard to honor it on the dark days. Grief isn’t something you get over. It’s something you grow around.

    Four years without her feels impossible, and yet I’m still here. Still writing. Still working. Still remembering.

    Because she never left entirely. She just changed forms. She’s in every poem, every stone I pick up, and every person I help heal through my work.

    Grief changes shape, but it never disappears. It becomes part of your story. And if you let it, it can become the fire that keeps you creating, surviving, and loving through the loss.

    Here’s to four years of missing her, and four years of finding myself again in the space she left behind.

    Poeaxtry Links kofi portfolio