November has its own temperature in my life now. A private weather pattern that settles into the days leading up to my birthday. Sometimes even the days after my birthday too. When grief meets a date that is supposed to feel bright, something shifts, something lingers, and something refuses to fade. This poem moves through that space, the place where candles and memories coexist. The place where a mother’s absence still shapes the month and every breath inside it. I wrote this to honor that truth…
to let November speak the way it insists on speaking.
“No November Will Ever Be the Same”
November holds its own weather, a sky that remembers even when I try to forget.
My birthday rises, a candle in a tiny room that never carries your scent four years later… I have grown to miss it.
Four years without you, the month keeps its imprint, a bruise under the skin of another year, tender when I press it, tender when I don’t. I press it just to feel alive sometimes…
November keeps the ledger open, ink still wet, pages turning with your scent hidden somewhere between the cold mornings and the early nights.
People say time softens, but November disagrees. I walk through this month as if I am carrying two fires, one that celebrates my breathing one that flickers for the woman who taught me how to breathe at all.
What does November mean now? A point between what was given, what was taken? A place where joy and loss sit at the same table… neither greeting the other?
No November will ever be the same.
I keep moving through it anyway, candle in one hand, memory in the other, hoping the light I carry is enough to keep them both lit.
Poet’s Note
This one carries the weight of four years. The very echo of that week and a day before my birthday that will forever lead me back to her. Writing it felt like holding two flames at once. The one that marks my birth and the one that marks her leaving. The poem flows with the tension, the ache, and the pull. They meet at the quiet acceptance that no November will ever return to what it used to be. If you are someone who walks through a month that changed you, I hope this piece sits with you in a way that feels steady.
We all know grief never asks for permission to reshape a month, a date, or a ritual. It moves in and alters the light around everything that follows. Sharing this poem is part of learning how to keep moving. With my candle in one hand, and her memory in the other. I will continue trusting that honoring both is enough. November will never be the same, but it still holds space for growth, reflection and the kind of love that keeps shaping us long after loss has taken its form.
What’s the biggest risk you’d like to take — but haven’t been able to?
What’s the biggest risk I’d like to take but, I haven’t yet?
Walking away from the time clock for the most part and toward the trailhead.
See, I’m an STNA (that’s Ohio’s term for CNA everywhere else. We just had to be the different one). I love what I do. Yes we all need money to live in this hellscape. But I love it not for the paycheck, but for the people. The elderly deserve care from those people who care to be there. However, I also dream of caring for my own future with the same hands that hold theirs.
The risk?
Transitioning from working full-time and then some weekly for someone else’s company to working full-time for myself for Poeaxtry_.
My goal is that with-in the next five years, I will flip the ratio.
I want Poeaxtry_ to sustain me, not the other way around.
I can only imagine being able to wake up and know that my “job” is carving smiles into stones, engraving good karma into keychains, and polishing perfect statement pieces. All from rocks I’ve hounded myself.
To be able to sell handmade spell bags, wands, tinctures, sprays, and charms born from dirt and devotion not just in my spare time.While I also publish solo poetry collections (mine and other people’s) and community anthologies that spark conversation, change, and creativity not just sales.
Having a designated divination room, sounds so good almost too good to be true. A place for friends and new folks to get readings: pendulum or tarot. Readings set-up virtually or through local appointments.
Imagine being able to travel, explore, hike, forage, and rockhound in the wild. While sharing accessible adventures for those who can’t get out there. Or can, but need the guidance to do so safely.
Hosting open mic nights that echo through real and virtual rooms along with silent art galleries that speak without sound. Creating and collaborating under The Prism, where inclusion and artistry collide.
I will not wait for retirement to live.
I want to be able to grab my tent, my dog Luna, and my laptop, (other essentials obviously) and just go.
I can just see it now: a few nights backpacking through forests, collecting stone from stream, writing wildly under the moonlight. Where the only deadlines are sunrise and the next cup of coffee.
The poetry I’d write out there untouched, unbothered by society’s static crust.. would probably make my current work look like warm-ups. Honestly, I’m so ready for that.
The biggest risk I haven’t taken yet isn’t quitting, but it’s believing, fully, that I can.
Five years from now, I plan to look back and laugh that I ever questioned it.
One thing I am no longer willing to do is give more of me to the “man.” The shackles that have me captive to society and cities are becoming loose.
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.
I didn’t think blackout poems were for me. I’ve never considered myself a visual artist, not in the least bit. I wasn’t sure I had the eye for it. Then I saw this comment, before work tonight, and something clicked.
It was a public comment on my Facebook, under a WordPress post I’d shared. I wrote the post on a topic that I feel strongly about: that I’m not “LGBT without the T.”
The man who commented wasn’t a follower. He was just some creep who had something cruel to say, like people often do when they’re not being watched. Sending in the comment and, blocking me this afternoon while I was asleep for work.
And before I could even reply. I don’t delete comments, and I usually kill with kind snark. But this time, I made him into forever art.
I blacked out the rest.
And what was left.. well that is the art.
I didn’t expect to like this process. I didn’t expect to feel like I could even do it.
Now I have and, it feels like something I’ll keep doing.
There’s something quiet and satisfying about revealing the truth that was already buried in the noise.
My first thought is let’s make it pretty The art Chris helped me make
I feel insane. It has been four years. But still, I forget that you are no longer here.
Unable to pick up the phone, Can’t plan a weekend trip, Can’t meet up to do shit. Got a cool story to tell, but you’ll never be able to fucking hear even a part of it .
Everyone around me talks about their mothers, what they are up to, where they have been, what they do for fun, their jobs and, what their moms do at them.
I get to sit in silence once it’s my turn cuz’ my mom is fucking Dead and, no one wants to hear about it.
Step into The Prism 🌈. It’s our dynamic Discord server where poets, artists, critics, readers, and everyone in between converge. They share, inspire, create, and connect. We’ve built a unique space brimming with creative energy. It offers personality roles to truly express yourself. There is a diverse array of channels designed to support every stage of your artistic journey. You can start with the first spark of an idea in The Kindling Chamber. Then, showcase your polished pieces in Soul Scrolls.
Our community is expanding and flourishing. We seek enthusiastic and dedicated individuals to join us as Discord Moderators. Help guide this creative vision. This is an exciting opportunity. Become an integral part of a supportive and growing space. The love for words, art, and people of all backgrounds link 🔗 us together.
What does it mean to be a guiding voice in The Prism? As a moderator, you’ll be instrumental in:
Welcoming and Engaging: Greeting newcomers in The Entry Quill 🪶. We foster a warm and inclusive atmosphere across all channels. We also help people get a feel for the lay of the land here.
Nurturing Creative Dialogue: Encouraging thoughtful discussions in channels like Reflection & Feedback 🪞 and ensuring a respectful exchange of ideas.
Sparking Inspiration: Contributing to The Kindling Chamber 🪵 by creating engaging prompts that ignite the creative fire within our members.
Facilitating Growth📈: Helping to organize and support community events like open mics and art showcases. You should make informative posts off of Discord inviting other like minds to join us.
Maintaining a Safe and Supportive Space🫂: Upholding our community guidelines is crucial. We ensure a respectful environment where all voices are valued. There is a strong emphasis on LGBTQ+ and minority inclusivity. 🏳️⚧️ ✊🏽 ♿️
Being an Active Presence: Engaging with members, replying to posts, and generally contributing to the vibrant activity within the server. Keeping the spark alive. 🧨
✍️Who are we looking for? Ideal candidates will be:
Passionate about Creativity: With a genuine appreciation for poetry, art, and the diverse individuals who create and appreciate them.
Enthusiastic and Energetic: Ready to actively participate in the community and contribute to its growth.
Experienced (Preferred) or Eager to Learn: Prior moderation experience is a plus. However, we also welcome individuals with a strong drive and willingness to learn.
Respectful and Empathetic: We are dedicated to fostering a safe and inclusive environment for all members. We uphold our values of LGBTQ+ and minority respect and love.
At Least 18 Years of Age: Due to server topics and expectations. (21+ preferred)
Ready to become a vital part of The Prism’s journey?
If you’re excited about fostering a thriving community of poets, artists, and creative souls, reach out! We encourage you to contribute your energy and enthusiasm.
For more information and to express your interest, please email us at poeaxtry@gmail.com.
🚨Don’t want to mod and just want to join? Or Do you want to see the server before you apply ? Click here to join.
We eagerly await to hear from individuals who are passionate about our community. We are ready to help shape its future with them!
🏳️⚧️ Trans Guy Poets:
Let Us Come Together & Ink Our Truths.
Trans masculine verse alchemists, this call is for you. Explore the spectrum of manhood and the nuances of identity. Experience the weightlessness of freedom. Discover the power of self-discovery through verse. As a fellow traveler on this self-guided path, I’m envisioning a collaborative collection. This will be an ebook. In it, we can lay down the raw, unfiltered poetry that emerges from our unique experiences. Let’s share the quiet moments of self-recognition. Let’s move into the bold declarations of identity. We will journey from the joys of affirmation to the battles fought and won. We can craft a tapestry of trans masculine lives in ink. A brand-new collaboration and fresh project, not a part of my minority based project “voices for the Voiceless”. If your poetic voice resonates with the multifaceted reality of being a trans guy, reach out to me at poeaxtry@gmail.com. Together, we can create something powerful and authentic. Connect with me on any of my social platforms. Let’s make this collection a testament to our strength and our stories. Non-binary people who identify as masculine also are welcome.
The last risk I took was two weeks ago… I sent out submissions for the first time to literary magazines. As of today 4/25/25, at approx. noon eastern standard time I Have received back 2 approvals and 1 rejection. With a success among poets being a slim 5-20% I would count that as a win. Since receiving my first approval I have started a poetry discord to create and grow with other poets and artists, and started this word press. I plan to continue to seek publications as well as still self-publishing. Thank you for reading.
🖤 what do you think about the risk I took? Would you or have you taken it? How did it turn out? Axton N.O. Mitchell @poeaxtry_
