Poeaxtry's Prism

Spell. Stone. & Sparks that Ignite Change

Category: poetry

  • 100 Poems in 100 Days: Days 13-19 themes: Grief, Home, Justice, and Reflection

    100 Poems in 100 Days: Days 13-19 themes: Grief, Home, Justice, and Reflection

    One of the most sound pieces of advice I’ve seen in recent graffiti. Two other examples of good advice in graffiti in the post below. I found all three here today in Wheeling, West Virginia at the Overlook Castle.

    This collection captures Days 13 through 19 of the 100 poems in 100 days creative challenge I am participating in. These entries were written daily. They were just shared as a batch in one post. The first 12 were shared daily as solo posts. These poems reflect a week of observation, reflection, and response. Each poem is a moment in time. You’ll find poetry that is personal, political, and more. I am documenting memory, grief, injustice, and the search for clarity and home.

    While these seven poems are shared together, the writing continued daily,as it will continue until day 100. Future entries (Days 20–100) will be posted either individually or in small batches, like the first 19. This will keep readers present and on their toes as to when new daily poems are coming. The ongoing rhythm mirrors life itself: unpredictable, urgent, and evolving.

    Each poem is paired with a Poet’s Note to deepen the context. It reflects on its inspiration. It draws connections between the personal and societal, and the intimate and the global.

    Day 13 – 1/2/2026

    “Rhyme”

    Ukraine

    Palestine

    Venezuela

    There is no point in trying to

    Rhyme

    Nigeria

    Iran

    Sudan

    Their lives the cost at the end of the billionaires

    Riches

    Oil, minerals

    Human greed

    The West strikes again to save the Middle East

    American propaganda machine

    Poet’s Note

    In the shadow of global conflict and the Christmas night bombing in Nigeria. This poem names the human cost behind headlines. Revealing the repeated cycles of violence. Then highlighting the ways ordinary people bear the burden of power, greed, and war. This is poetry that challenges the systems that profit from oppression. Naming places directly like Venezuela, Iran, and Sudan. I want to mention this poem is about all the places affected by these systems, and the people impacted. It is a call to witness what is often ignored.

    top level of mount wood overlook and part of the rolling hills view
    The Top level View and the Rolling hills in the distance at Mount Wood Overlook in Wheeling, WV.

    Day 14 – 1/3/2026


    “Warm Places, Cold World”

    I am blessed to have

    many warm places in a world so cold.

    My home

    My car

    The woods

    places I feel safe

    Yet when the lonely days are too rough

    My partner’s arms

    My mother-in-law’s couch

    Or friends with shared spaces

    Are places I am blessed to know

    On this winding road, finding pieces of home

    West Virginia roads once led me there

    now the memories of

    the place are

    scattered

    everywhere

    Curating a place for me

    after searching eternally

    Poet’s Note

    Written 1/3/2026, this poem reflects on the fragments of home we find throughout life. Safety, warmth, and belonging can appear in unexpected places, from people to landscapes to fleeting moments. Home is not just geography; it is collected through memory, connection, and care.

    The view from the top of the stairs to the lower level of the castle Overlook Wheelinh, Wv
    View from the top landing of the spiral steps at Mount Wood Castle.

    Day 15 – 1/4/2026

    “The Same”

    Swipe.

    F

    l

    i

    c

    k. M o .

    v e

    The days on the calendar
    float on by,

    though they
    always stay
    the same.

    R l
    o l.

    T
    u
    r
    n.
    Change….

    The numbers on the clock,
    never showing
    a repeating
    moment….

    Though, they always
    stay
    the
    same.

    Fast-forward
    or reverse,
    wherever
    you
    choose
    to
    press
    play.

    World history
    or
    familial ties
    through bloodlines,
    cursed or blessed,
    they never look
    the same.

    Though,
    they always stay
    the
    same.

    Who is to blame for never making the change?

    Those in history?
    Or
    Those of us living through its
    repeats?

    Poets note

    This poem traces the rhythm of repetition, the illusion of movement in days, clocks, and history. Swipe, flick, turn… As we do on our phones. Then we press play, like a movie, thinking we are deciding, thinking we are moving. Yet so much is actually left unchanged. The poem artistically depicts the movements we make on our phones. As well as showing how we rewound, fast forwarded, and pressed play on VHS tapes, DVDs, and more. Using both depictions to show time and how things change yet stay the same.

    The lines stretch, scatter, and move on the page like our attempts to grasp time and meaning. Showing how moments pass, events unfold, generations bear patterns… Yet in their echo, the sameness persists. Asking quietly and plainly: when cycles repeat, who holds the responsibility? Those who lived before? Or those of us who carry the weight now?

    This piece is both a mirror and a map. Acting as a reflection on history’s repetitions and the intimate, daily rhythms we navigate. It acknowledges the frustration of watching patterns endure while searching for change. Poetically playing on tension between inevitability and agency.

    Axton wearing a backwards hat, black hoodie with a skull, gray joggers, and green crocs junipers, leans against a wall At Mount Wood Overlook where grafitti says Love not Hate in green bubble letters .
    Axton a Transgender man posing next to graffiti reminding people to chose love over hate.

    Pause here with me for a moment.

    Did any line, feeling, or piece here stick out or to you more?
    I’d love to hear the details regarding which and the ways it resonated.
    Think about it and tell me in the comments?

    or

    At the end of this post you could comment a line, quote, or your full poem. Poems from the past, that align with these daily themes are welcome, as well as those written this week.

    Any and all interactions or additional conversation pieces and starters highly appreciated. We enjoy reading your creative pieces, input, takes, reviews,reflections, and all the interactions in between.

    Day 16 – 1/5/2026

    A micro-poem on Grief

    “Goodbye, Breathe”

    I wish you had

    thought to

    breathe your quiet

    warmth inside of me

    one last time

    before you said

    goodbye

    Poet’s Note

    Today’s micro-poem captures grief and the longing for a final shared moment. Its brevity emphasizes the weight of absence, memory, and the lingering warmth of those we lose. Even in few lines, poetry can cradle the unspeakable and hold the echo of those gone. This was written in the shadow of grief after the loss of my mother. “Goodbye, Breathe” works at showing how some poetry is adaptable to any type of loss. Here I leave the meaning up to interpretation by the reader yet fully convey my feelings.

    Cat graffiti in wheeling, WV at mount wood overlook
    A Cute Graffiti Art Cat to Brighten the Post.

    Day 17 – 1/6/2026

    “Circus and Cake”

    Downplayed self‑care in society

    Overworked, under‑lived lives….

    Romanticized

    You work a hundred hours a week…

    Just to spend all your time off
    feeling
    weak.

    You barely scrape by.

    Yet you have the mind to brag

    and boast.

    Making the hours you waste
    working

    a competition to make yourself feel
    better…

    No matter how much you try to…
    disguise it

    it’s true

    They made the working-class
    slaves

    Then we thanked them for it.

    They took away the circus and
    the
    cake.
    And
    instead of throwing a fit…

    we blamed each
    other for it

    Poet’s Note

    “Circus and Cake” a poem reflecting on distraction through comfort. Small pleasures and fleeting indulgences that can pacify people while systemic exploitation continues. The stolen “circus” and “cake” are symbols of joy and entertainment. Throughout history, government agencies have used bread and circuses to distract their citizens. Panem et circuses was the Latin term used to represent this. The poem highlights governmental distractions and questions readers in different ways.

    What has changed in our society?
    We had our stability (bread, cake, food, etc) and
    entertainment (circus, distractions that are fun, etc)
    all but fully removed.
    Yet we remain distracted.
    Why?

    VIew of the Ohio River, Wheeling, and Parts of Belmont county Ohio from The Overlook in Wheeling, WV.
    View of West Virginia, Ohio, and the Ohio River from the Overlook In Wheeling, WV.

    Day 18 – 1/7/2026

    Prelude:
    Axton curated the piece below while sitting at Mount Wood Overlook in Wheeling, West Virginia. Also called the Castle Overlook or just the Overlook. At present time tourists and locals alike use this overlook for an array of things. Most visitors come for sightseeing, unique photography, and outdoor hangouts. Others are drawn to public murals created by the local Wheeling Art Commission. Urban-exploration also tops the list of reasons you’d find an individual visiting the overlook.

    But, for creative and emotionally driven humans, this paces exists to reminisce. Grief, childhood memories, or even a longing for home. Add to that the need to unpack big things in equally big spaces, that call us places like this. Last and maybe most important a giant serving of nostalgia. And now you can truly see why the overlook fits for these needs, as well as some mischievous happenings too.

    “Cremated”

    And
    every time I come home,

    it’s a little

    lonelier

    than the last.

    And
    every time I come home,

    I wonder if

    somehow

    home

    has
    picked up

    and
    left.

    Or did I?

    Was the place I knew
    turned to crumbled remains with you?
    Cremate my home
    right
    along
    with
    you?

    Ashes
    to
    Ashes,

    Dust
    to
    Dust,

    I still

    just

    collect

    the

    pieces

    along the
    way.

    My torture evergreen.

    Poet’s Note

    Written at Mount Wood Overlook in Wheeling, WV. A poem that explores home, memory, and loss. Sharing Feelings of grief and loss I feel when returning to the place I grew up since the death of my mother. The loss of feeling at home since she was cremated, “Cremated” poetically describes the cremation of home. The overlook, was built in the 1920’s. It was originally supposed to house a doctor before life drama got in the way of completing it. The structure now watches over absent families and scattered histories. The overlook castle (as locals call it) also showcases wicked graffiti, which doesn’t stay the same long. Here home is collected in fragments, in memories, and in what remains. For some reason, even when it feels lonelier each time I return.

    Axton leaning on a graffiti covered ledge in a black hoodie with a skull, gray joggers, a backwards hat, and green croc junipers at Mount Wood Overlook in Wheeling, WV

    Day 19 – 1/8/2026

    “Vigilante Justice”

    Let’s start a fire inside the United States,

    figuratively,
    of course.

    We can start by using
    oppression,

    hatred,
    and bigotry

    as gasoline to fuel
    this movement.

    Melting down
    ice
    into
    nonexistence.

    Covering the country’s soil in fluids

    other than

    spilled blood

    from darker
    complexions,

    the first time in a whole fucking year….

    The
    presidency ….

    has three
    entire
    years
    to go,
    still
    ….

    Scariest thing,
    if you ask me,

    the collective inability to remember
    how things were before…

    When they were just a
    minute fraction
    of the pie
    closer to equality

    We do not want…
    Venezuelan oil.

    We do not want to
    overthrow……

    Greenland.

    Mexico.

    Canada.

    We want
    education,
    affordable
    healthcare,
    workers’
    rights,

    equality
    for
    all

    Now

    OR
    vengeance for each
    and every infraction.

    Come tomorrow and on.

    A
    vigilante
    is
    what
    we
    need….

    And a
    vigilante
    I
    may
    soon
    be.

    Poet’s Note

    A piece that uses fire as metaphor, representing accountability and resistance rather than destruction. It critiques complacency, systemic injustice, and the erasure of memory. Then it names the need for moral vigilance and collective action. This is poetry that refuses to stay passive in the face of oppression.

    These seven days trace a path through personal and global reflection, grief, memory, and resistance. They examine cycles of oppression, moments of warmth and home. The tension between complacency and action lives in these poems. From international injustice to intimate loss. Stolen joy and moral awakening find their homes here. Poems as witness, critique, and call-to-action. Each a fragment of a daily personal creative contest. Join me in observing the world and responding with honesty, urgency, and reflection.

    Be Kind with hearts graffiti at mount wood overlook castle wheeling, west virginia
    I feel like everyone in the world could use this advice right now.

    Please feel free to share this post with anyone you think would benefit from reading these poems in any form.
    Have an artistic or poetic friend?
    Share this with them and challenge them to create one poem or piece of art every day for 100 days.

    Before you go, are you interested in supporting the creative dreams and goals of a small-town Ohio poet? Axton N.O. Mitchell the voice behind Poeaxtry is a transgender man with a neurodivergent thought pattern. He has a black belt in being a mental health warrior, he earned through lived experiences. The digital creations Poeaxtry by Axton designs always align with advocacy.
    Axton ensures Poeaxtry and the prism always keep community care centralized.

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    Monetary donations, subscriptions, and purchases are all welcomed. Comments, shares, likes, reads, reviews, and trades are greatly appreciated. We value any and all interactions, regardless of money spent.

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    Art & Literature have often been hidden behind these.
    By design paywalls keep individuals who need these creations most at arms length in a lot of situations.
    Here we offer many ways to access forever free work.
    While offering paid collections and items by trade for honest reviews or other indie creations.
    As well as advocacy based creations for free by form to those they aim to advocate for.
    Free Collections For Honest Reviews
    Ask about trading collections, physical items, and services.
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    Green bubble letter Love not Hate graffiti at Mount Wood Overlook Castle in Wheeling, WV 1/7/2026
    More surprisingly sound advice from graffiti in Wheeling, West Virginia.
  • Day 12 Poem of 100 Days, “2026”, Manifesting through Poetry

    Day 12 Poem of 100 Days, “2026”, Manifesting through Poetry

    There’s a temptation every January to pretend the year before didn’t bruise us, to slap a fresh number on the calendar and call it rebirth.

    But real change doesn’t work like that. It carries memory. It carries consequence. This poem doesn’t ask 2026 to save us. It asks us to arrive honestly, eyes open, grief acknowledged, hope still breathing.

    After you read this poem, comment something you wanna manifest for the year of 2026. Or you could tell me if your manifestations send something like mine all input is appreciated.

    2026

    As we enter 2026,

    we need not forget

    the implications 2025

    had on our lives.

    Set our course and stay afloat.

    We cannot begin to give up hope.

    Dry our eyes from the tears we cried in 2025.

    Forget fear in the coming year.

    This year we will lead

    the majority of humanity

    to see each individual equally

    for the first time in human history.

    Poet’s Note

    This poem exists in the space between grief and resolve. It refuses erasure. 2025 mattered, for better or worse, and pretending otherwise only weakens what comes next.

    Writing this felt less like predicting the future and more like setting an intention that requires participation. Equality isn’t automatic. Hope isn’t passive. Both are choices we make out loud.

    2026 isn’t a reset button. It’s a continuation. What we carry forward matters just as much as what we leave behind. If this poem resonated, it’s because you already understand that change doesn’t come quietly. It comes when we decide to see each other fully and act like it.

    Share this with someone who feels like they need permission to hope again, so they can manifest alongside us, not alone.

    Poeaxtry links A different day

  • Day 11 of 100 Days of Poetry- “Beauty” a poem About Difference

    Day 11 of 100 Days of Poetry- “Beauty” a poem About Difference

    Day 11 sits in that quiet space where observation turns into truth.

    This poem doesn’t shout, it asks. It looks at nature and humanity. Then it waits for the reader to notice the gap between how we praise difference in the wild and how often we reject it in people.

    This is a piece about human difference, natural diversity, and the cultural resistance to letting others exist as they are.

    This is a window to the inside of humanity.

    Before you scroll, think about this: Where have you admired difference in nature but struggled with it in people?

    Where has it been done to you?

    Are you open to changed thinking?

    Let’s talk in the comments!

    Beauty

    What do waterfalls and the prints on your fingertips have in common?

    There’s no two exact matches anywhere in life.

    The flakes of snow prove the same.

    If nature relishes in difference,

    why can people not do the same?

    Historically, when someone is different,

    we as humans can’t handle it.

    Instead of losing your mind,

    embrace the beauty in human difference

    as you do in nature.

    Poet’s Note

    This poem exists because difference is celebrated selectively.

    We romanticize snowflakes, collect stones, hike through forests, and marvel at how nothing repeats itself exactly. Then we meet a human who doesn’t match the mold and suddenly uniqueness becomes a threat.

    “Beauty” is a reminder that difference is not a flaw, it’s the original design.

    Nature never asked permission to vary.

    People shouldn’t have to either.

    Difference is not new.

    It isn’t dangerous.

    It isn’t something to correct.

    The problem has never been uniqueness.

    The problem is discomfort, taught, inherited, and rarely questioned.

    If we can learn to admire the unrepeatable patterns in nature, we can learn to protect them in people.

    If this poem made you think of someone who has been made to feel “too different” or “too much,” share this with them.

    Simply to remind them that they were never the problem.

    Check out another day

  • Day 10 of 100 Days of Poetry- “New Year Same Fight”- A Call Out Poem

    Day 10 of 100 Days of Poetry- “New Year Same Fight”- A Call Out Poem

    Day ten lands in that strange quiet between calendars, when people throw confetti over unresolved harm and call it renewal.

    This poem doesn’t toast the turning of the year.

    It questions it.

    Because remember a new date doesn’t undo old violence.

    A holiday doesn’t cancel policy.

    And cheer, when it’s demanded instead of earned, becomes another form of pressure.

    This is for anyone who feels the dread creep in louder than the countdown.

    “New Year, Same Fight”

    As we get closer

    to the end of this year,

    I can’t even pretend

    that the fear of the coming one

    doesn’t outweigh the cheer.

    How do I celebrate

    a future where we can’t

    agree to be different

    and still live in harmony?

    How do I look forward

    to another year

    of hate and policy

    thrown about haphazardly,

    leaving only those like you and me

    standing under the terror rain?

    How do you play along,

    pretend everything’s okay,

    celebrate a holiday

    that only marks the turning of years

    and never the growth of humankind?

    You must be out of your god damn mind.

    Give me something worth celebrating,

    and with you, I will cheer.

    Until then,

    I already have something worth fighting for,

    so I won’t be blinded

    by your unwarranted holiday.

    Comment one thing you’re refusing to celebrate blindly this year, and why. Or Share one value you’re carrying into the new year even when it costs you comfort.

    Up Poet’s Note

    This poem came from watching joy be weaponized.

    From seeing celebration demanded from people who are actively being harmed by the systems others toast.

    Hope isn’t confetti.

    Optimism isn’t obedience.

    Refusing to cheer doesn’t mean refusing to live.

    Sometimes it means choosing clarity over distraction.

    If this poem sounds like someone you know, someone exhausted by forced positivity, someone whose survival keeps getting labeled as “too political”… Share this with them. Or send it to the person who keeps telling you to “just focus on the good” while ignoring the cost.

    Not every new year deserves applause.

    Some deserve resistance, honesty, and memory.

    If you’d like to support work that pushes acceptance, hope, and the refusal to accept inequality when it counts! Consider a donation via CashApp, PayPal, Ko-Fi, or Buy Me a Coffee. This helps to keep our projects and community thriving.

    Poeaxtry Links Day5

  • 100 Days of Poems- Day 9: “Pain on Purpose”- Things Love won’t do

    100 Days of Poems- Day 9: “Pain on Purpose”- Things Love won’t do

    TW- Topic is Physical Abuse in intimate relationships if that’s too much today save this for another day.

    Some literary and visual artworks are written slowly, over weeks, shaped by distance and reflection.

    Others arrive all at once, urgent, sharp, and unwilling to wait.

    This piece lives in that second category. It speaks to intentional harm, to the lie that pain can be justified by love, and to the quiet danger of staying when leaving feels impossible.

    Pain on Purpose exists to name what should never be normalized.

    Pain on Purpose

    I wish I could say

    I didn’t quite

    understand

    why

    you

    chose to believe

    purposeful pain

    could come

    from an

    individual who truly loved you

    Actions

    aligned more with

    their same behavior

    after anything they claim they own

    isn’t fucking flawless

    Love doesn’t

    look like

    this

    Eyes swelled shut

    will hopefully heal soon,

    allowing insight

    to guide you toward leaving,

    or

    you may lose your life

    Human hands held hopes

    now

    positioned painful, precise punches,

    willingly wronging you without worry.

    Did a part of this piece hit you, linger a little longer, or spark a line of your own? Leave a comment with the feeling that stayed the longest/hit the hardest/ came out of the blue, or the thought it created. No need to explain your pain to engage with this work. Presence is enough. All commenters interactions welcomed and appreciated.

    Poet’s Note

    This poem was written in response to witnessing the ongoing cycle of relationship abuse and the silence that so often surrounds it.

    Abuse does not always happen behind closed doors, and it does not always stop when there are witnesses. What stays with me is not just the violence itself, but the way people look away, rationalize, or convince themselves it is not their place to intervene.

    The phrase “purposeful pain” matters here. Abuse is not accidental. It is not a misunderstanding. It is a choice made repeatedly, reinforced by control, fear, and isolation. This poem speaks directly to the myth that love can coexist with intentional harm. It cannot. Or that staying leads to the abuse stopping. It doesn’t. Love does not require endurance of violence to prove loyalty. Love does not demand silence to survive.

    Writing this was not about offering solutions or advice. It was about naming the danger plainly, without euphemism, and refusing to soften what is already too often minimized.

    Pain on Purpose is a reminder, to anyone who needs it, that harm disguised as love is still harm. Survival should never require shrinking, hiding, or accepting violence as the cost of connection. Poetry cannot stop abuse on its own, but it can tell the truth out loud, and sometimes that truth is the first crack in the wall.

    If you know someone who creates work that calls out abuse, enjoys work that speaks support to those who feel weak, or needs to be held by words that refuse to lie, please share this poem with them. Let it move where it needs to move.

    Hey, One Last Thing Before You Go..

    If you love poetry that calls out many forms of abuse. For example highlighting victims of political, intimate, financial, emotional, economic, and other forms of abuse in uplifting and resourceful ways. Or if you love supporting honest, independent publishing, please consider donating to help sustain our penned pain, pleasure, peace, positivity, and publishing projects.

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  • Poem day 8/100: “Failing, Badly” – America the Blind- visceral poetry

    Poem day 8/100: “Failing, Badly” – America the Blind- visceral poetry

    This is my day 8 poem for the 100 poems in 100 days contest started on threads. Here I am exploring the intersections of political power, personal trauma, and societal complicity. “Failing, Badly” titled after the ending of the merry Christmas post on his social site truth social. This poem confronts the shocking realities of public figures’ actions and the collective silence that allows abuse to continue, using visceral imagery and direct language to provoke reflection and outrage. Content warning mention on CSA and Incest aligned thinking! Do not proceed if you are not comfortable being uncomfortable.

    “Failing,badly”

    I began to wonder

    seeing repeats of Donny’s

    “truth” on December 24.

    Radical leftists scum.

    Would if he’d stop

    riding our asses if we

    pretended not to care

    little girls make him cum.

    Visceral visual

    disgusting

    disturbing

    America the brave

    Where are they?

    Failing badly

    Or

    They transitioned to

    America the

    Blind.

    To trump voters the

    Mother’s and Father’s

    Of girls, who voted him in

    I have a

    Question

    How’d you vote for a man who

    publicly makes taboo statements

    About his own

    Kid?

    “if Ivanka weren’t my daughter, perhaps I’d be dating her.”

    Admitting to reoccurring times of

    Bring up Incest adjacent

    Attraction

    on the tv screen

    Now cheer for your President.


    Did this make you wince, get pissed, or something more? Drop what feelings it stirred in you in the comments or even other things it reminded you about.

    Poet’s Note:

    I wrote this poem in response to the resurfacing of statements made by Americas first king that should disturb any human conscience. It’s intentionally loud, intentionally uncomfortable. The poem uses repetition, short lines, and stark imagery to mimic the emotional jolt of confronting truths that the people who could stop this, or care often ignore. I hope it sparks conversation, reflection, and a refusal to normalize abuse.

    “Failing, Badly” is a call to awareness and accountability. It is not enough to witness wrongdoing and look away. Poetry can amplify discomfort and force reflection. This I feel can be an essential step toward change. America must confront the failures of its leaders and the complicity of its change makers and citizens, before history writes another chapter of moral collapse. Notice each one is worse than the last as history progresses? We have got to do better!

    Share this poem if you please let it travel like wildfire and reach the ones who need to see it, feel it, or wrestle it. Poetry and truth deserve no quiet corners.

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  • New Year- New Era, New Names, New Vision

    New Year- New Era, New Names, New Vision

    What began as Poeaxtry_, my personal artistic persona and small business. This space was for self-published e-books rough Google Doc formatted, rockhounded items, and spiritual things. It turned into the Poetry Prism, a publishing arm and community centered on poetry. Though, over time, it became a home for indie poets as well as authors, artists, small businesses, and more.

    Does the name “Poetry Prism” really fit what we do now? We are clearly not just poetry anymore and not just words on the pages. The Prism Publishing has been a platform for all indie creators, artists, writers, musicians, and small businesses for awhile. But to reflect this evolution and to make our intentions and community more clear, we are dropping the word “Poetry.” The Prism now stands as an inclusive, expansive hub: one name, one era, one identity. So Poeaxtry & The Prism is no longer just for short that’s the form fitting identity. Though the publishing based email will remain poeaxtryspoetryprism@gmail.com at least for the time.

    A New Era of Collaboration

    Our collaborative efforts are evolving too. Gone are the days of simple community PDFs, themed collections, that are free-read by download. Now, we’re moving toward digital anthologies: quarterly curated collections featuring minority creators and allied contributors. With permission from all prior themed individual persons submitting work to continue with the new model. We are transitioning those early submissions into this new format. Just moving forward, no theme restrictions either!

    Each person may submit up to:

    10 poems
    10 digital art pieces or high-resolution photographs,
    2 essays,
    2 prose works
    from minority creators.

    Allied submissions are welcome at half that cap above.
    Free small-business ads spots celebrating creators and projects, Curated resources for indie publishers, artists, and small business owners.

    Important Dates:

    The first submission period for ads, poetry, art, prose, and essays is open until February 12, 2026. This allows time to curate, edit, promote, and release the inaugural quarterly.

    A New Era of E-Books

    E-books have traditionally followed seasons of life, chronicling moments and collections as they unfolded. Going forward, e-books will be curated around themes now as well as seasons of life:

    “The Man Who Was Never Enough and Somehow Too Much: an anthology exploring BPD and mental health.” Is a project for a themed e-book I have in the works.

    I.I.A.S.D.: the first free collection, explored 13 poems written on the day the election results were announced in 2024. To continue this free series I.I.A.S.D. Volume Two: 2025, Year of Fear- A Political Poetry Collection.” This one will explore poems of policy, advocacy, and social change. This collection was originally drafted as “It is a Sad Year.” Though, the political collection will still show the expansion over the year following Election Day. It captures my original poetic reflections on politics, society, and lived experience.

    These thematic collections ensure that every release is intentional, cohesive, and resonant. These collections provide context for the work. They also highlight perspectives and what future generations will call historical issues that matter.

    What This Means for You

    The Prism is now:

    One unified brand, dropping “Poetry” for clarity and inclusion. A hub for all indie creatives, with poetry still at its heart, but no longer its only focus. A gallery of meaningful digital themed e-books to go with the seasonal anthologies. A space for collaboration, spotlighting, and resources for marginalized voices, allies, and indie creators alike.

    This is our new era. A Prism shining light on voices, art, words, and projects that deserve attention—without confusion, without limits.

    Welcome to the next chapter.

    Forms

    Submit to the Quarterly by emailing poeaxtryspoetryprism@gmail.com or form

    Submit to Indie Spotlights/Shelf Space by emailing Poeaxtry@gmail.com or form

    Free Digital Collections For Honest Reviews Form

    Volunteer to mod, promote, format, etc. form

    Questions? Comments? Concerns? General Contact form

    Arc Readers & Street Team Form


    Poeaxtry Links Best of Poeaxtry Portfolio Buy me a Coffee

  • Day 7 of My 100 Days of Poetry- A call for: “Creating Curated Change”

    Day 7 of My 100 Days of Poetry- A call for: “Creating Curated Change”

    Day 7 of my 100 Days of Poetry series is about intentional creation, refusing extraction, and building space for voices that are too often talked over, repackaged, or erased. This poem speaks to the act of creating with purpose, not as spectacle, not as trauma currency, but as documentation, resistance, and invitation. It is about community built with care, not permission, and about forward motion that actually follows through.

    Creating Curated Change

    I don’t write of

    trauma

      pain

    life’s unseen stains

    to pass an emotional buck

    Not one to complain

    Unseen pain outside of me

    I do not

    have not

    will not

    seek unsolicited help to

    shoulder a burden that

    no one can claim to own

    outside of me

    I weave words willfully

    immortalized receipts

    capturing points of view

    perpetually prevented from

    participating in literary and artistic

    mind meetings

    Expect me to be

    never

    asking permission

    from a single soul

    and

    stopping for the same

    Current and future people like me

    need opportunity to see

    other people’s perspectives

    that actually relate

    consciously communicate

    No more stolen

    minority

      makers

        manifestations

        through creation

    Curated creative community

    No more requirements of

    status

      education

        plausible politeness past

    wreck the walls that gatekeep creation

    Forward action, curating change,

    no more complaining with zero follow-through

    Creative creatures collect, creating change

    Poet’s note

    This poem was written as a refusal. A refusal to create for consumption alone, to package pain for approval, or to dilute language for comfort. The “curation” here is not exclusion, it is intention. It is about protecting creative spaces from extraction while still opening doors for those who have been historically shut out.

    The idea of “immortalized receipts” speaks to indie publishing minority works both mine and community, to proof of lived experience, and to the power of language as record. This piece centers community that creates with accountability, forward action, and care, rather than performance or proximity to status.

    “Creating Curated Change” is a declaration of practice, not theory. It challenges the idea that creativity must be polite, credentialed, or palatable to matter. Instead, it argues for community built through conscious communication, lived perspective, and actual follow-through.

    This poem invites readers to consider not just what they create, but how, why, and who is allowed to participate. Change does not come from endless critique alone. It comes from collective making, from tearing down the gates, and from building something better in their place.

    Links

    Speaking of community and creations don’t forget you can submit work to our first quarterly by emailing poeaxtry@gmail.com or submitting a form.

    Deadline is 2/12/2926

    Find out more about submitting here

    Best of Poeaxtry

    questions or concerns?

    Free digital collections in exchange for real honest reviews? Email poeaxtry@gmail or submit this form.

    Feedback?

  • Day 6 of 100 Poems: Life Expectancy. A poem on Coping and loss

    Day 6 of 100 Poems: Life Expectancy. A poem on Coping and loss

    Day six of the 100 poems in 100 days threads project brings us to reflection, memory, and the quiet ache of missing those we love. Today’s poem, Life Expectancy, explores the stark reality of time lost and the enduring shadow of absence. As we approach the end of the holiday season, this poem reminds us that love and grief are intertwined, that the moments we have with those we care for are precious, and that the time spent apart stretches longer than we often anticipate.

    Life Expectancy

    How melancholy it brings me

    to be,

    when

    reminding myself

    I’m likely to miss you an eternity

    longer than the time I got with you.

    Though I know our time in this life

    is never guaranteed,

    if my life expectancy is at minimum

    average,

    what I’m saying will ring true

    More of my time will be spent

    missing you,

    your light,

    and your love,

    my sweet mother,

    than the amount

    actually spent with you

    Though if this proves untrue,

    I will have been plagued

    by joining the good in dying young

    Either way, my projected

    forecast,

    bleak, and for longer

    than the coming week

    Poet’s Note

    Life Expectancy came from the deep reckoning of loss. Writing this poem allowed me to put into words the enduring ache of missing my mother, the arithmetic of love and absence. The piece reflects the tension between the fleeting nature of life and the permanence of memory. This is a meditation on grief, love, and the small, precious moments we hold dear. It is a reminder that poetry can capture both sorrow and reverence.

    Day six of this 100-day poetry journey underscores the truth that love outlasts the life we are given. Life Expectancy asks readers to reflect on their own relationships, the moments shared, and the times lost. As we read, we are reminded that today is the only day, and the memories and love we carry are infinite. Through this poem, I honor my mother’s light and invite you to hold close those who matter most, to cherish each fleeting moment, and to confront grief with honesty and reflection.

  • Day 5 of 100 Poems in 100 Days, “I Hope It Burns”, F*ck the American Melting Pot

    Day 5 of 100 Poems in 100 Days, “I Hope It Burns”, F*ck the American Melting Pot

    Day 5 showed up after a meme. It said simply “immigrants belong in Ohio.” This happens to me when the world won’t shut up long enough for the words in my mind to behave. Memes, commercials, fragments of conversations, and other randomness become lines to poetry.

    This series was never meant to be polite, or evenly spaced, or emotionally neat. One poem a day for one hundred days isn’t about discipline alone, it’s about witnessing. Some days whisper. Some days yell. Some days light a match and wait. This for me is mostly about practice, honing my craft, discipline x2 yes, and seeing what my mind will produce for 100 days straight one poem every day.

    “I Hope It Burns” is a refusal poem.

    Not an argument.

    Not a debate.

    A refusal to keep explaining what has already been taught, erased, rewritten, and weaponized.

    It comes from exhaustion, repetition, and the surreal experience of watching history pretend it doesn’t recognize itself.

    This is day five.

    I Hope It Burns

    What’s going on in society today?

    fuck if I know!

    One thing’s for certain though

    immigrants belong in Ohio

    And Utah, and Maine

    Washington, Texas, California

    New York, West Virginia

    Florida, Nevada

    And the rest of the United fucking States

    This is so redundant for me to

    have to explain

    I feel like I’m going fucking insane

    Did we not learn in second grade, if not earlier,

    what the fucking melting pot is?

    I mean, if the only Americans are Natives,

    our ancestors with palm colored skin

    came here on a fucking boat,

    took lives and land

    How the fuck are you saying no one else can come here?

    The whole damn country is built on it

    Melting pot this, melting pot that,

    American dream washed-up bullshit

    doesn’t mean a thing

    when no one’s allowed in

    Would you like some crushed ice for that burn?

    Poet’s Note

    This poem is written from repetition fatigue.

    The kind that comes from answering the same questions, hearing the same slogans, watching the same cycles spin louder instead of smarter. It is not interested in convincing anyone. It is interested in naming the absurdity of selective memory, of nationalism that forgets its own construction, of classrooms that taught one story and adults who pretend they never heard it.

    The geography matters. The language matters. The anger is intentional, not decorative. This poem is not asking permission to exist, it is documenting what happens when the truth keeps getting told and ignored anyway.

    “I Hope It Burns” doesn’t end with a solution because it isn’t offering one.

    It ends with heat.

    With consequence.

    With the reminder that stories don’t disappear just because they’re inconvenient.

    Day five is a pressure point. It holds tension instead of releasing it. That’s allowed. This series isn’t a ladder toward comfort, it’s a record of days lived honestly in a country that keeps pretending it doesn’t know how it got here.

    Tomorrow’s poem might be quieter. Or maybe it won’t be.

    Either way, the fire doesn’t undo itself.

    Ice kofi