Poeaxtry's Prism

Spell. Stone. & Sparks that Ignite Change

Tag: modern poets

  • 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

  • 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.

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