Poeaxtry's Prism

Spell. Stone. & Sparks that Ignite Change

Tag: Inclusive Literature

  • 100 Poems in 100 Days, Joining the Threads Poetry Challenge With Ice

    100 Poems in 100 Days, Joining the Threads Poetry Challenge With Ice

    Every so often, a simple idea creates a creative avalanche. I’m hoping that this will be that.

    Write a poem a day.

    But do it for one hundred days.

    Then share it publicly.

    No paywall, no panel of judges, no polished submission packets, no gatekeeping. Just writers showing up where they are, writing through whatever weather they’re standing in.

    I’m joining in.

    Not because I want more pressure, or because I think productivity equals worth, but because poetry thrives on repetition, attention, and witness. A poem a day doesn’t have to be perfect. It has to exist. It has to respond. It has to mark time. It is practice, which we all have been told makes perfect!

    For indie poets, marginalized writers, and creatives working outside institutional publishing, challenges like this matter. They create visible momentum. They pull poetry out of private notes apps and put it back into conversation. They remind us that poetry isn’t precious, it’s necessary.

    This post documents my entry into the challenge, and it begins with day one, where else?

    Day One of One Hundred

    “Ice”

    It’s cold outside,

    my desire is on fire,

    something more just out of

    r

    e

    a

    c

    h.

    The plows came through these

    Appalachian city streets,

    though the ice stayed

    Immigrant mothers pray

    for their brothers,

    others try to feed their

    families.

    No matter the kind,

    crushed ice

    is my favorite.

    Poet’s Note

    This poem lives in the overlap between weather and policy.

    Between what freezes naturally and what is enforced.

    Ice shows up twice here. Once as winter, salt trucks, plows, and streets that look cleared but still aren’t safe. The other time as ICE, immigration enforcement, the quiet terror that doesn’t melt when the roads do.

    Crushed ice is impact. It’s aftermath. It’s what happens when something large and heavy moves through a place and leaves fragments behind.

    I didn’t want to explain the metaphor inside the poem. I wanted it to sit unresolved, because that’s how it exists in real life. Some people experience winter. Others experience surveillance. Sometimes it’s both, at the same time, in the same city.

    Why This Challenge Matters to Me

    Writing a poem every day for one hundred days isn’t about proving discipline. It’s about practicing attention. About letting the world interrupt me and answering back in language.

    As an indie publisher, poet, and community builder through Poeaxtry and The Prism, I care deeply about visibility for small voices, especially voices that don’t get invited into traditional literary rooms. A public challenge hosted on a platform like Threads lowers the barrier to entry. It lets poets write in public without asking permission.

    This is also about sustainability. One poem a day is manageable. It fits between work shifts, hikes, grief, anger, and ordinary survival. Over time, those daily poems become a record, not just of craft, but of living through a specific stretch of history.

    If you’re participating too, or considering it, this is your nudge. You don’t need permission. You don’t need an audience. You just need to start.

    One poem today.

    Then another tomorrow.

    Links portfolio

  • A 33-Year-Old Trans Man’s Story of Love, Loss, Poetry, and Change

    A 33-Year-Old Trans Man’s Story of Love, Loss, Poetry, and Change

    Describe your life in an alternate universe.

    In this alternate universe, I’m still me. I am thirty-three years old and a trans man in Ohio. I carry the same stubborn heart and sharp edges. The difference is the weight on my chest is lighter here.

    The mornings still smell like coffee and fresh air. The seasons still move in the same Ohio rhythm. Summers are humid enough to feel like they could melt the skin right off your bones. Autumns are painted in fire-orange leaves. Winters slap your face awake the moment you step outside. But the biggest difference? In this version of my life, I wake up knowing I’m not alone in my fight.

    My Mom is Still Here, and that’s what matters most to me. Here, my mom is alive. Not just alive and thriving. She’s still my best friend, my safe place, my person. She’s the one I go to with half-baked ideas at midnight. Not only that, but she laughs with me over dumb memes. She sits beside me when my anxiety tries to chew through my ribs. The one who hears all my poetry first.

    We run my indie grassroots publishing company together. Her hands are always warm from holding a coffee mug, and mine are always stained with ink. Our kitchen table is permanently cluttered with stacks of manuscripts. Sticky notes are everywhere. There’s even the occasional stray pen cap that the cat tried to run off with. There’s cinnamon-scented candles burning most days, mixed with the faint metallic tang of printer ink. If you didn’t know, the idea that started this publishing house sprouted in me because of my mom’s constant reminder. She always said, “all people should be treated equally.”

    She would keep me grounded when I spiral into twenty new projects at once. I would nurture her belief. We can change the world with the right words. Art in the right hands amplifies this change.

    My Dad is a Ghost in the Story. My dad exists here too, but only as a background shadow. He has no voice in my life, no influence on my peace. I’ve shut that door and bricked it over. There’s no need for him in this world I’m building. He allowed my stepdad to adopt me. He chose this instead of refusing to be a dad and refusing to sign over his rights to me.

    My Siblings. My two sisters? Still my anchors. We don’t always agree, but the love is steady and sure. In this universe, my estranged brothers have returned to my life. Their return is not in a perfect, movie-ending way. Instead, it is in small, awkward steps. We’ve had conversations that leave the door open instead of slamming it shut. And they learned to understand that their experience with my father is not theirs and vice versa.

    Softball & School… Some things never change. I still played softball through school. I love the sound the crack of the bat makes. I love the dirt flying as I slid into base. I also love the smell of fresh-cut grass on a summer morning before a big game. I was always the loudest on the team, and I was just as fierce on the field. I still dropped out of high school. Still got my GED. But here, it wasn’t just about survival. And it was a conscious move toward freedom. I knew I could build something better outside the system that never made space for me.

    Poetry & Publishing…. In both universes, poetry runs in my veins. It’s messy, it’s raw, it’s how I breathe. I still self-published my first book. Still remember holding it in my hands, heart racing because my words were finally real. Still remember the first time my work appeared in a literary magazine and thinking, This is just the beginning. I actually get to show my mom here. This is unlike in the real world, where I didn’t get my shit together before she left us.

    But here, my publishing company is more than just my own platform. It’s a loud, unapologetic space for voices the world tries to silence. We focus on queer, trans, neurodivergent, disabled, Black and brown writers. We include survivors and anyone whose truth is too big for the narrow shelves of mainstream publishing. We make sure our books aren’t just printed, but seen. We send them to schools that actually care about representation. These libraries make space for more than just the “safe” stories. Our books go into the hands of readers who need them like air.

    Love Without Apology…. In this world, I’m still engaged. Still in love in a way that feels like safety and home. But here, we don’t guard our love. And we live it out loud. We dream big together, and when the fight for justice gets heavy, we hold each other steady. We talk about everything, about building a life where our identities aren’t just accepted, they’re celebrated. And we are always there when it matters most. Nothing really changes in the alternate world for Kelsey and I. I couldn’t wish for them to be any better than they are.

    The Change We’re Fighting For, the mission hasn’t changed: I want to be part of the change the world needs. In this alternate universe, we’re further along. Minority groups aren’t just existing, they’re thriving. Our art fills galleries, our books fill shelves, our stories are taught alongside the classics. No one questions whether we belong. We do. And the proof is everywhere.

    My Mother’s Words… On the days I feel tired, her voice is there. It is steady and certain: “They can’t erase what we refuse to let go of.” “Every life matters big or small.” “Someone thinks you’re scary too and they don’t squash you.” (The latter is in reference to bugs.) Those words are stitched into my bones. They remind me why I keep building. They remind me why I keep writing. They remind me why I keep showing up even when the world tries to push back. This is what keeps me going, having to live in the real world.

    But in this alternate universe, I’m still me. I’m the kid who played softball. I’m the girl who dropped out and found his own way. I’m the poet who refuses to be quiet. The difference is, here, the world listens a little closer. Here the world accepts me and others for what we truly are.

    links

    a poem about my mom