Poeaxtry's Prism

Spell. Stone. & Sparks that Ignite Change

Category: poetry

Solo launches, pre-launch drops, full poems, and announcements for traditional, solo, or indie publishing. Explore new works, behind-the-scenes updates, freebies, and more in the evolving world of Poeaxtry poetry.

  • The Cost of “Amber”: a Poem the Blood and Oil Cycle

    The Cost of “Amber”: a Poem the Blood and Oil Cycle

    Best For:

    Generational War Survivors, Anti-Imperialist Creative Radicals, Veteran-Adjacent Advocates, Human-Rights Advocates, People who Want Peace over war, and openminded US citizens sick of being lied to.

    Their American Dream Our American Nightmare:

    The “American Dream” often comes with a hidden price tag, one printed in a language of “liberation” but paid in the currency of human lives. For those of us born into the shadow of the early 90s, the maps of the Middle East haven’t just been geography. They have been the backdrop of our entire lives. From the “slick” palms of the elite to the “golden sand” in the hair of the innocent, this piece explores the permanent stain left by decades of state-sponsored trauma. It is a look at the “lucrative lies” told to the youth and the “harmful heroism” that leaves our families broken while a billionaire class counts the profit. Also this is my poem for day 78 out of 100 Stained Amber Skin.

    We didn’t just inherit a map of borders; we inherited a multiple decade long cycle of broken bodies and exported trauma that the architects of these wars refuse to acknowledge

    Stained Amber Skin

    Amber drips,
    slick in the palms of few men;

    Returning,
    hand to pocket, counting
    blood money.

    Amber drips
    from their
    wallets;

    Staining,
    all their pockets,
    eventually.

    Tainting,
    their entirety,
    oil
    blood.

    Unbothered the few men seem.

    But brown and black bodies
    left
    in
    the
    wake

    of
    the
    United States
    are worth more

    than the
    resources you

    “free them” for.

    Freedom,

    bringing bombs

    culling

    innocent

    citizens

    is not

    democracy.

    After,
    loved ones
    make it home .

    Afghanistan.

    Iraq.

    Iran.

    Golden sand
    sprinkling,
    Strands of disheveled,
    hair.

    Arms that
    Do not
    Know how to move
    without being …
    armed,
    quite yet .

    Stress etched
    into
    their core,
    muscle
    memory

    Tainted amber,
    drips,
    staining the palms of few men,
    unable
    to hide
    their
    transgressions,
    even after their lifetime ends .

    Sending the kids,
    barely grown,
    after
    trauma and death,
    often their own
    among
    potential losses…
    serving
    lucrative lies,
    harmful heroism,
    the goal your gain.

    Poet’s Note

    I was born in 1991, the year the world watched the skies over Baghdad light up. My stepdad, the man who raised me, was a marine in operation “Desert Storm.” I grew up in the ripple effects of that conflict. Just go to school one normal day and find myself in a fourth–grade reading circle when the world shifted again on September 11th.

    I watched the cycle reset. As I grew into an adult, it wasn’t my parents‘ generation going off to war. Now it was my friends. I watched them leave for Afghanistan and Iraq, and I watched them come back with “arms that do not know how to move without being armed.” Now, at 34, I am seeing the drums beat for Iran.

    True democracy cannot be found in the wake of an airstrike
    under a guise of fighting for freedom. However, you can find it is buried under the lucrative lies that prioritize a billionaire’s bottom line over human survival.

    I wrote this because I am sick of watching the same “few men,” you know the Cheneys and the big oil guys of the world treat brown and black bodies as collateral for their countries resources. The “Amber” in this poem is the oil they crave and the blood shed in for lies in their wars. Leaving a stain on their legacy that no history book can wash clean.

    This is about the trauma and death as a service to the billionaire class, and the disheveled hair of those left in the wake of a democracy that looks a lot like destruction.

    The Debt That Outlives Us

    We are living through a cycle of “white war” fought for a rich elite who never have to stand in the dropping bombs, raining bullets, or any thing resembling a ware zone themselves. This poem is a rejection of the “harmful heroism” used to recruit “barely grown” kids into a machine designed for gain, not for people.

    Key points to remember:

    • The Stain is Permanent: The moral “transgressions” of those who profit from war follow them beyond their lifetimes.

    • The Cost of “Freedom“: When “democracy” is delivered via bombs, it ceases to be democracy and becomes a culling of the innocent.

    • The Cycle of Violence: From pre 1991 to today, the players change, but the “lucrative lies” remain the same, leaving a trail of “muscle memory” trauma in our veterans and a “wake” of destruction abroad.

    This isn’t just a poem; it’s a witness statement. We cannot keep “freeing” nations into extinction while our own homes are filled with the ghosts of the wars we’ve already fought.

    Join the Conversation

    • How has the timeline of the last 30 plus years of conflict shaped your view of “heroism“?

    • What are some creative ways we can support the “barely grown” youth to see through the “lucrative lies” of recruitment?

    • In your own words, what does “democracy” look like when it isn’t tied to resources?

    Drop a comment below and let’s dismantle these narratives together.

    Share This Post

    If this resonated with you, consider sharing it with:

    • Veterans and their families who understand the “muscle memory” of service.

    • History buffs and activists who are tired of seeing the same names in the “billionaire class” profiting from global unrest.

    • Creatives and poets who believe in using art to call out the “few men” who think they are unbothered by the blood on their hands.

  • Becoming the One Who Stayed: a Poem on Transition

    Becoming the One Who Stayed: a Poem on Transition

    Best for:

    Transgender people, gender nonconformists, mental health, growth, lovers of poetry, and creative writing readers.

    Some transformations are visible, others happen quietly, beneath the us people see visually. Transition often requires a period of survival that looks like performance, a daily rehearsal of someone the world finds easy to accept.

    This poem explores the space between those roles. It honors both the version of me that endured for years and the version that finally stepped forward into the light..

    Poetry is the bridge between the survival we perform and the truth we finally speak.

    Becoming the One Who Stayed

    You would not have liked me

    if you had met the woman I was

    pretending to be.

    Playing her part cost me a lot.

    She wasn’t full of whimsy.

    She didn’t know the

    happiness I have found.

    So how could she be full of positivity?

    We spent a lot of time together, trying to

    share our misery with anyone else,

    until we knew it was time for her to

    leave and for me to emerge,

    changed.

    Poet’s Note

    This piece reflects the emotional distance between who I once had to present to the world and who I am now. Transition changed more than my gender marker, it changed the way I experience joy, community, and the possibility of being fully present in my own story. The person I used to perform was not false because she lacked meaning, she was necessary for survival. Letting her go was not an act of rejection. Simply put, it was an act of becoming.

    Transitioning is not an erasure of the past; it is the radical act of claiming an authentic present.

    My Truth

    Transition did not simply alter how I am seen, it reshaped how I exist within my own life. It gave me permission to stop negotiating with survival and start building something steadier, something honest. The person I am now is not separate from who I was, but proof that endurance can become arrival.

    Internal Links

    A different poem a different day

    Transgender Focused Legislation Outlook

  • The Rust Belts Beauty: Pride & Grit a Poem

    The Rust Belts Beauty: Pride & Grit a Poem

    Best For:

    Appalachian studies, residents of the Rust Belt, poetry enthusiasts, readers exploring regional identity, individuals interested in personal resilience, and mental health journeys.

    Heritage, Endurance, And Beauty in a Poem

    This original poem explores the intersection of Appalachian identity, the rugged history of the Rust Belt, and the personal resilience required to thrive in a landscape defined by industry and grit.

    Appalachia is not merely a place we come from; it is woven into the very structure of our bones and memories.”

    Through themes of heritage and endurance, this piece highlights the beauty often overlooked in the industrial corridors of the Midwest.

    Pride & Grit

    By Axton N.O. Mitchell

    Year after year, I laced my trainers, preparing
    to outrun the river valley’s rusted villages.

    Never noticing the erosion, the tributaries and creeks
    carved through my chemistry along my way.

    Steel-dusted lungs,
    rust-caked memories.
    Running through these
    rolling-hills.

    Appalachia doesn’t raise us,
    it’s welded to our
    skeletal systems.

    Grit isn’t bought,
    but earned through
    life experience.
    You carry this with pride
    Like a tiger’s does his stripes.

    Our personal gift from the
    Ohio River herself,
    should we see her beauty
    more clearly.

    True grit is never purchased at a store; it is carved out of the hard terrain of lived experience.”

    Appalachian Poetry

    The history of the Rust Belt is etched into our daily lives, but it is the quiet strength of our people that defines our true landscape. As we continue to navigate these changing valleys, let us hold onto the grit that shaped us. Thank you for walking through this reflection on heritage and resilience with me.

    Another day. Ogelbay.

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    Support it, below. 👇

    Buy me a coffee?

  • A Poem of Thanks to the Mothers that Came After Mine

    A Poem of Thanks to the Mothers that Came After Mine

    Best For:

    Individuals navigating grief, dead parents club members, seekers of healing poetry, people exploring mother-child dynamics, poetry lovers, and fans of emotional, poetry.

    Grief and Parent-Loss

    Grief does not follow a linear path, and sometimes, the most profound healing comes from the unexpected hands of those who step into our lives after a tragedy. This piece is a reflection on the mothers, both biological and chosen, who offered support when I needed it most.

    They didn’t try to replace her. They simply made sure I didn’t have to walk the path alone.

    Thanks to You

    Losing my mom was the
    hardest thing I’ve ever faced.

    I owe a huge thank you to a
    select few mothers who stepped up
    in my time of need.

    Women who have:
    kept me laughing,
    made sure I was okay,
    showed me glimpses of my mother.

    Most importantly,
    women who were
    there for me.

    Immensely Grateful

    To the mothers who still show up: thank you.

    Your presence is a testament to the fact that even in the face of immense loss, we are never truly walking alone. If this reflection resonates with your own journey, please feel free to share your thoughts in the comments or subscribe to join this space for more poems on resilience and healing.

    When the silence of loss became too loud, these women became the music that brought me back to myself

    Internal Links

    A Letter I’ll Never Send to my Dad

    A poem about the longest day without my mom.

  • Breathe, Quiet, Warmth: A Twenty-Word Prompt Challenge

    Breathe, Quiet, Warmth: A Twenty-Word Prompt Challenge

    Best For:

    Poetry lovers, writers seeking inspiration, grief processing, creative journaling enthusiasts, and followers of concise poetic forms.

    In the fast-paced digital age, sometimes the most profound emotions are captured in the fewest words.

    Sometimes the most profound emotions are captured in the fewest words.

    Recently, I encountered a creative challenge on Instagram that pushed me to distill a moment of intense feeling into twenty words or less. The prompt asked for three specific words: “breathe,” “quiet,” and “warmth.” What emerged was a brief, haunting exploration of loss and the lingering memory of intimacy.

    Prompt, breathe quiet warmth 

    “Your Warmth”

    I wish you had

    thought to 

    breathe your quiet 

    warmth inside of me,

    one last time.

    Before you said 

    goodbye.

    Poet’s Note & Challenge

    I wrote this poem after an account on Instagram posted the challenge. We were instructed to use “breath,” “quiet,” and “warmth” in a poem. This poem should be 20 words or less. Now I’m challenging you to do the same.

    This exercise serves as a powerful reminder that our creative voices do not always need expansive canvases. Sometimes, a tiny spark is enough to ignite a deeper conversation about healing, grief, and the ways we hold onto the people we have lost.

    I found the words for this at the center of the grief of the loss of my mother. I write a lot from the emotions and loneliness I find there. I’m hoping other people who have lost their parents or loved one too can find solace here.

    The constraint of brevity forced me to strip away the unnecessary, leaving only the raw ache of a final departure.”

    Before you go

    I am now passing this challenge on to you. Can you capture a complex emotion using only “breathe,” “quiet,” and “warmth” within a twenty-word limit?

    Writing in constrained forms is a brilliant way to sharpen your focus and unlock new creative paths. I look forward to seeing how you interpret these elements in your own work.

    Please share your responses in the comments, tag me on social media, or email them to poeaxtry@gmail.com. Let’s see what we can create together.

    Ultimately, this space is built on the belief that our stories gain strength when they are shared. Whether your poem is a whisper of grief or a shout of joy, it belongs here.

    Thank you for taking this moment to breathe, reflect, and create with me. I cannot wait to see how this space grows.

    A poem– of thanks to the mothers who stepped up

    A Journal– for hikers who need to reflect

  • Axton Mitchell’s Original Poem: In the Lord’s Name

    Axton Mitchell’s Original Poem: In the Lord’s Name

    In the Lord’s Name

    Some humans

    are

    impossible 

    to tame  

    The devil always did his best work

    In

    God’s

    name.

    They don’t even hide in shame.

    Catholic crusades,

    genocide,

    slave trades,

    infanticide,

    cannibalism,

    pedophilia,

    and more, all done in

    the name of the Lord.

    No gatekeeping, no hoop jumping, just honest work, real people, unfiltered language, and rough-edged art. Submit to the next Poeaxtry Prism issue by form or email Poeaxtryspoetryprism@gmail.com

  • An Original Poem of Yearning and Memory by Axton Mitchell

    An Original Poem of Yearning and Memory by Axton Mitchell

    Yearning Memory

    What a blessing it is

    to yearn for your own

    memories.

    Maybe it’s a curse

    I seem to have forgotten

    the words; you see my lines get all

    jumbled up in my mind’s eye

    before escaping through my

    closed teeth,

    struggling to

    keep them in.

    I gaslight myself so much;

    I almost wonder if I started this fire.

    I’m feeling weak,

    week

    by week…

    I’m feeling more weak.

    Someone keeps feeding the flames,

    controlling them,

    no longer feasible

    to me.

    I

    choke on the smoke

    no longer.

    When the blaze continues,

    they will know it was not me

    who lit the inferno.

    A Note from the Poet:

    Below is a photo I took on my Haunted Tunnel hike this week. This is the sole inspiration I used to create the above poem. “Yearning Memory” was created for day 47 of 100 poems in 100 days.

    Graffiti from inside Moonville Tunnel
  • Day 30 of 100 a Poem about Standing Your Ground

    Day 30 of 100 a Poem about Standing Your Ground

    Protesting in Quotes

    “They will kill me if you let them take me”

    “Stop taking pictures and save my life now!” 

    “Help me!”

    “I am going home” 

    The time to wake up America

    Has come and past 

    we all live in fear 

    The time of finding out has come now. 

    Videotaping government agents murdering our sisters and brothers in the streets only to show outrage when they are white like you? 

    You should have cared when they were all black or brown. 

    Stand your fucking ground!

    A Small Update From the Author

    I’m still writing every single day. So, the challenge continues, but I won’t be posting each poem publicly from here on out. Some pieces need time to breathe, some are for future collections, and some belong to quieter places inside me.

    You’ll still see selected poems along the way… just not all of them in real time. Thank you for walking this stretch of the road with me.

    A Different Day

  • Two Poems for 100 Poems in 100 Days by Axton Mitchell

    Two Poems for 100 Poems in 100 Days by Axton Mitchell

    Ice Storms

    Written 1/17/2026 Day 27 of 100 –

    Immigration detainees know nothing

    Of the snow beyond their cells.

    They know of deadly ice storms

    within the

    borders of

    America the great, though.

    A dream we once sold,

    told everyone they could reach.

    “I’m not mad at you.”

    “I can’t breathe.”

    “Mom.”

    To point a gun in their face,

    The moment they start

    to look less white.

    Milk

    written 1/18/2026- Day 28 of 100

    We all know the father

    who somehow got lost,

    on the way to the store,

    never to return.

    Sadly, I wish the same could be said

    for mine.

    Went for the milk,

    never came back.

    But in fact,

    he did return,

    after my mom

    filed for divorce.

    He returned to

    hold me up on his shoulders

    at six,

    having me recite

    what

    I

    saw

    through the window

    of the

    next

    woman

    who left.

    He returned

    to

    call

    and

    promise

    a million visits,

    only a dozen

    or so

    actually

    fruitful.

    He returned

    to

    buy me

    cigarettes

    at barely

    thirteen,

    to scold

    me

    when the cops returned me

    after curfew,

    to

    miss

    almost

    every

    performance

    or

    game.

    So don’t hold it against me when

    I wish he would have just

    “gone for the milk.”

    Poet’s Note

    I wrote this poem after a conversation with my partner, Kelsey. We were talking after work and they said, “You should write a poem about how you wish your dad had just went for the milk and not came back, like the cliché.” I agreed with that sentiment, and the idea stuck with me.

    Later, I got in the shower and played with the prompt in my head. I was letting the thought move around, twist, and settle. By the time I stepped out, the poem had taken shape. It’s a reflection on absence, failed promises, and the complicated ways someone can return without ever really being there. It’s short, jagged, and uneven because that’s the memory of him, and that’s the truth I wanted to capture.

  • 100 Poems in 100 Days, Day 26: “Crunch, Snap, Sigh”

    100 Poems in 100 Days, Day 26: “Crunch, Snap, Sigh”

    Crunch,

    ice breaks beneath shoes.

    Snap,

    stick breaks under weight.

    Sigh,

    cool breaths escape hastily through nostrils.

    Red, chilled cheeks,

    sweat-soaked brow.

    A squirrel scurried under brush,

    a paw print planted in otherwise pure snow.

    Wind whistling,

    then whispering

    in between barren trees.

    The only cure for a wild wanderlust.

    Poet’s Note

    This poem was written after reflecting on a winter hike. I spent time reflecting on the same places I frequent just through a new lens. Snow transforms familiar paths, changes the sounds, the textures, and the way the world feels underfoot. Every crunch of ice, every snap of a stick, and every exhale of cold air is magnified in stillness. The small details, the squirrel darting under brush, the paw print in pure snow, become markers of moments. Fleeting and yet permanent.

    The poem is about noticing those shifts, both in the landscape and in myself. How a place can remain familiar and yet feel entirely new depending on the season, the weather, or the mind walking through it. The final line, “The only cure for a wild wanderlust,” is a quiet acknowledgment that these moments of attention, these walks through snow and cold, are what feed the urge to wander, to explore, to feel alive.

    It is a meditation on presence, observation, and the subtle ways the world changes around us, even in places we thought we already knew.