Adam Fenner's Blog, page 3

She asked – Reviewed

Princess Tami

If flowers can wither,
Why can’t love?
Is flowers often not a symbol of love .
If a heart can stop beating,

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

She asked

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Analysis

This poem questions love—not just whether it lasts, but whether it can be trusted at all. The speaker does not take love at face value. They break it down, comparing it to things that are known to end. Flowers wither. Hearts stop beating. Souls leave the body. And people lie. If all these things fade, then why wouldn’t love? The poem moves through these comparisons one by one, making love seem less like an unbreakable force and more like something temporary or even unreliable. The speaker does not say outright that they have been hurt, but their doubt is strong in every line. If they have not been hurt yet, they seem to be preparing for it.

The poem is built around repetition. Each stanza follows the same pattern: an observation about something that ends, followed by a question about love. The speaker does not make direct statements, only asks questions, which makes it feel like they are working through their own thoughts. The structure makes their argument stronger, each question reinforcing the last. If flowers, hearts, and even souls can leave or fade, then why wouldn’t love? The last stanza stands out because it moves away from natural cycles and into human actions. People lie, so why should “I love you” be believed? That shift makes the doubt more personal. Up until that point, the speaker is comparing love to things that end on their own. But this final question suggests love might not just fade over time—it might never have been true in the first place.

The tone is skeptical, almost challenging. The speaker does not assume love is special. Instead, they push back against the idea that it is eternal or trustworthy. The earlier stanzas feel like logical reasoning, listing facts about the world, but the last one is different. It is no longer about whether love can fade like a flower or a heartbeat—it is about whether it was ever real at all. The phrase “Then why should I believe it when you say I love you?” makes it feel like this is directed at someone specific. The poem suddenly feels less like a broad philosophical question and more like something personal, possibly even based on real experience. The speaker may not just be skeptical of love in general but of someone who once claimed to love them.

The poem also questions the symbols people use for love. Flowers are often given as a sign of love, but they die quickly. So why would something so fragile represent something that is supposed to last? The heart is connected to emotions, but hearts stop beating. If love comes from the heart, why should it be any different? Even the soul, something people often believe is eternal, still departs from the body. Every symbol of love is tied to something that eventually disappears. If that is true, then why wouldn’t love disappear too? The poem does not just doubt love itself; it doubts the way people talk about it.

The language is simple and direct. There are no long descriptions or unnecessary words, just a steady rhythm of observations and doubts. That fits the speaker’s perspective. They are not lost in emotion. They are looking at love like a problem to be solved, and every question leads to the same conclusion—love is not something that can be trusted. The final question lingers, not just about love fading, but about love possibly being a lie. The poem does not answer that question. It leaves the reader with the same uncertainty the speaker feels.

Photo by Michael Yuan on Unsplash

Quantum Mechanics – Reviewed

Ashmeet

We bumped into each other.
You smiled at me, and I smiled back.
In that instant, we shared a connection.
We both paused to let the other pass,
And that’s when it happened.

“Go on“, you signalled with your hand,
So gracefully, so beautifully.
And I bowed my head and walked ahead.
The smile on my face lasted for some time after.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Quantum Mechanics

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Analysis

This poem takes a scientific concept and applies it to something deeply human—small, passing moments of connection. Quantum mechanics, a field full of equations and theories, is often seen as cold and impersonal, focused on particles and forces rather than emotions. But here, the speaker treats it as something much warmer, something that can explain the fleeting but meaningful interactions between people. The poem doesn’t try to explain quantum mechanics in a technical sense. Instead, it plays with the idea that even the smallest encounters—like two strangers exchanging a smile—might be part of something larger and more fundamental.

The structure reflects the nature of the encounter. The lines are short and straightforward, moving quickly just like the moment itself. The turning point, “And that’s when it happened,” builds suspense, as if something dramatic is about to occur. But instead of a big revelation, it’s just a small gesture—one person waving another ahead. That’s part of the poem’s charm. It doesn’t overstate what happens, but it also doesn’t dismiss its quiet significance. The way the poem lingers on this moment makes it feel important, even if it only lasted a few seconds.

The humor in the poem comes through in the reaction of the physicists. The speaker applies quantum mechanics in a loose, poetic way, and the physicists immediately object—“No, no, no! That’s not it at all!” Of course, they’re right. Quantum mechanics doesn’t actually describe brief human connections. But the speaker isn’t concerned with scientific accuracy. The point isn’t about getting the theory right—it’s about recognizing a feeling. The speaker smiles at the physicists’ objection, as if to say, “I know, but that’s not the point.” In that moment, the poem invites the reader to smile too. It doesn’t demand to be taken seriously; it just asks to be understood in the spirit it was meant.

The final lines expand the idea beyond this one interaction. The speaker suggests that they have met this stranger before, in different places, in different people, over and over again. This could be a poetic way of saying that kindness repeats itself, that small, familiar moments of warmth happen all the time. Whether the speaker means this literally—as if human connections work like quantum entanglement—or just as a way of describing how these moments feel, is left open. The important thing is that they see something bigger in the experience. The poem takes a small, everyday moment and makes it feel universal.

At its heart, this poem is lighthearted but thoughtful. It makes something small feel meaningful without over-explaining why. It suggests that science, for all its logic and precision, might not be as separate from human emotion as we think. The speaker doesn’t try to prove anything, and they don’t need to. They simply notice a feeling, apply a scientific idea to it, and smile at the contradiction. Maybe the universe is held together by more than just physics. Maybe, in some way, human warmth is just as fundamental.

Photo by Thomas T on Unsplash

Church Cleaner – Reviewed

Carlee Godouski

I quit on a Thursday.
Left my key on the old woman’s desk.
She used to email me saying,
“There’s a stone on the RUG.”
And test me, leaving dimes in strange places. 

It wasn’t her fault.
Everyone grasps at power.
Hers came out in small ways.
Like emails and dimes. 

After two weeks, I went back.
“We’re glad to see you!” the office ladies sang.
“Dorothy prayed you would return,” one said.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Church Cleaner

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Analysis

The speaker in this poem exists within the church but never fully belongs to it. They are part of the space in a functional sense—they clean up after the congregation, maintain the building, and handle the mess left behind. But they are not part of the faith that defines the churchgoers’ lives. They quit the job, but they return. They reject the religion, but they accept the paycheck. This back-and-forth creates the underlying tension of the poem. The church wants them to convert, but what they really need is someone to mop the floors. The speaker understands this dynamic and doesn’t pretend it’s anything more than what it is.

When they quit, they leave their key on the desk, as if they are done with the place for good. No one stops them. But when they come back, the office ladies greet them cheerfully, as if their return was always expected. Dorothy even prayed for them to come back. Whether Dorothy truly believes her prayers brought them back or whether this is just something nice to say doesn’t really matter. Either way, it misses the point. The speaker didn’t return because of faith; they returned because they needed money. The church may frame their presence as something deeper, but for the speaker, it’s just a job.

The church members do their best to make the cleaner one of them. They leave pamphlets around, hoping one day they will believe. But belief doesn’t work that way. The speaker has seen the church in a way the congregation hasn’t. They know what’s left behind in the pews after service—crumbs, trash, the remnants of people who have already moved on. They know the urinal cakes wear down, that the waste bins fill with burnt-out candles, that even Jesus gathers dust. The sacred and the mundane mix together, and when they do, the sacred starts to look less holy. The speaker sees things clearly. This is not a place of miracles. It is a place where someone has to take out the garbage.

The way the speaker is treated as a worker says a lot about power. The old woman’s emails aren’t just reminders—they are small exertions of control. The dimes she hides around the church aren’t just loose change; they are tests, a way to make sure the cleaner never forgets they are being watched. The speaker understands this game. Everyone grasps at power, even in the smallest ways. The church members may believe they are spreading love and faith, but what they are really doing is maintaining a system. They want the cleaner to feel grateful, to feel something deeper about the work. But the speaker doesn’t. They see it for what it is.

The poem’s short, direct lines reflect the reality of work. The story is told without embellishment, like a list of observations. The tone is dry, almost detached, but the details speak for themselves. There is something almost ironic about the whole thing—the churchgoers see the speaker as someone who needs saving, but the speaker sees them just as clearly. They don’t buy into the religion, but they understand how things work. Faith is optional. Money is not.

The last lines make this clear. The church thinks the speaker might one day convert, but they won’t. They laugh at the idea. The only thing that connects them to this place is the paycheck. The church sees faith as an offering, but to the speaker, it is just another transaction. And in the end, maybe that’s all it really is.

Photo by John Cafazza on Unsplash

Until – Reviewed

Hebe Purdy

It’s not possible to
print the first words
unsaid: the lady with folding curls and
an echo that resounds
out in calling and blisters does
her husband’s ironing so he might
have a shirt for his work and

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Until

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Analysis

This poem moves in cycles, much like the woman’s work. She irons her husband’s shirt, hums a tune, and keeps going. There is no clear beginning or end—just repetition. The structure of the poem reflects this, with broken lines and unfinished thoughts that make it feel like something continuous, something done over and over. The repetition of “trill trilling” and “To till and into tomorrow” reinforces this idea. Her humming and her labor are connected, both ongoing, both part of her daily life. The final word, “Till —,” is left unfinished, suggesting that the work isn’t done and never will be.

The focus is on small, ordinary moments. The wife is making sure her husband is prepared for his day, ironing his shirt while her own stays wrinkled. That contrast says a lot. She smooths things out for him, but there is no mention of anyone doing the same for her. The poem doesn’t outright say she is overlooked, but it doesn’t have to. The imbalance is in the details, in the way her needs seem secondary. She hums through it, as if trying to lighten the weight of her routine, as if making the work seem less heavy.

The rhythm of the poem is uneven, which fits the subject. Her routine is steady, but there are things pulling at her, “tugging her out of place.” Some moments move smoothly, others snag. The way the lines break creates pauses, little stops and starts, like the rhythm of breathing, of working, of moving through the day. The repetition of “trill trilling” suggests movement, but not progress. It’s a habit, a sound, something done again and again. The word “trilling” is light, almost cheerful, but it also sounds like “tilling,” which connects it to labor, to effort, to something being worked over and over.

Light appears briefly in the poem—“pooling then sinking.” It suggests time passing, the way days slip by unnoticed. It also mirrors the woman’s work—her effort gathers in small moments, but then disappears. The light fades, just as her labor fades, unacknowledged. There is no grand moment where she stops and is thanked, no recognition. The work simply continues.

The first line, “It’s not possible to print the first words unsaid,” sets the tone for the rest of the poem. It hints at something that cannot be fully spoken. Maybe words she has never said out loud, maybe emotions she doesn’t have space for. The poem itself is full of what is left unsaid. There is no direct complaint, no open frustration, but there is weight underneath. She keeps working, keeps humming, but no one acknowledges it. The poem’s broken structure mirrors this—lines trailing off, thoughts left unfinished, just like the woman’s own feelings.

The ending doesn’t give closure. “Till —” could mean “until,” suggesting something might change, or it could simply mean “till” as in work, reinforcing the idea of endless labor. Either way, it leaves the reader in that space of repetition, where the wife keeps working, keeps humming, keeps going unnoticed. The poem doesn’t try to resolve anything because nothing in her life is resolved. The routine continues, and so does she.

Photo by Jim DiGritz on Unsplash

Let Me Linger – Reviewed

Michelle Ayon Navajas

allow me to linger a while
in the spaces that hold traces of you—
the gentle warmth of your smile,
the gaze that once lit my heart anew.
i find you in these echoes,
in the places we once knew.

let me linger a while
in the songs that softly whisper your name,
loving wishes of warm hellos,
melodies that spark the flame

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Let Me Linger

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Analysis

This poem is about holding onto something that’s already slipping away. Whether it’s a person, a feeling, or just the past itself, the speaker isn’t ready to let go. They know that time moves forward, that love changes or fades, but they want to stay in the spaces where it still feels real. They don’t ask to keep it forever—just for a little longer.

The repetition of “let me linger” and “allow me to linger” makes this need clear. The speaker isn’t simply remembering; they are resisting. Lingering is an act of defiance, a way of holding onto something that might already be gone. The tone isn’t desperate, though. It’s quiet, wistful. There’s a sadness here, but it’s not overwhelming. It’s the kind of sadness that comes from knowing something is slipping away but still reaching for it anyway.

The poem moves through different ways of remembering. It starts with physical places, where the presence of the past can still be felt. The warmth of a smile, the echo of laughter—small things that carry so much meaning. Then it shifts to music, where memories live in melodies, in songs that whisper a familiar name. Music has a way of keeping feelings alive, but the line “still dancing in the game” suggests that it’s just that—a game. A routine. The love isn’t the same anymore, but the speaker keeps moving through it anyway, pretending, remembering, holding on.

Then moves even deeper, into dreams. Here, love doesn’t have to obey the rules of time. The speaker can exist in a place where everything still feels whole. But even here, there’s doubt. “Where love is not as it seems” suggests that something is still off, even in sleep. Maybe the illusion is starting to crack. Maybe even in dreams, the speaker knows they are only holding onto a shadow of what once was.

By the last stanza, there’s an understanding that this can’t last forever. The speaker knows that memories grow cold, that time dulls even the most vivid moments. “Let me savor these moments, before time can make them chill.” They aren’t asking for the impossible. They just want a little more time before the warmth fades completely.

There is no resolution, no acceptance. The poem begins with a request to stay and ends the same way. There is no final moment where the speaker decides to move on. Instead, they stay in the in-between, holding onto what’s left for as long as they can. And that’s what makes the poem feel real. Sometimes, there is no closure. Sometimes, all you can do is linger.

Photo by Dave Hoefler on Unsplash

Punishment – Reviewed

Patrick “JP” Mosley

Animal chores.
Second dates with psychos.
Twenty bags of candy. Six boxes of coffee.
Web design and 1-on-1 coaching.

Careless flirting.
Cleaning dried blood off toilets.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Punishment

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

This poem is about endurance. It looks like a list, but it’s more than that. It’s a record of someone who keeps going, no matter how much it takes from them. For someone working in substance abuse counseling, this is familiar. It’s the routine of giving too much, staying too long, cleaning up after people who may never say thank you. It’s knowing that nothing you do will ever be enough to fix everything, and still showing up.

At first, the poem looks like an ordinary list of tasks: taking care of animals, buying candy and coffee, working on web design, coaching. It could be anyone’s life. But there’s something relentless about the way these actions stack up. The speaker isn’t just busy—they are in constant motion, never pausing, never stopping to process anything. Because stopping would mean facing whatever it is they’re pushing away.

Then the list takes a turn. A second date with someone dangerous. Careless flirting. These choices aren’t just random, and they aren’t innocent. There’s a reason people take risks like this. Sometimes it’s about numbing something, sometimes it’s about distraction, sometimes it’s just a way to feel something different. This is where the exhaustion starts to feel more like self-destruction, but it’s not dramatic, not loud. It’s quiet, almost like a habit.

And then, suddenly, dried blood on a toilet. The first clear sign that there’s something serious happening beneath the surface. The poem doesn’t explain whose blood it is or where it came from. It doesn’t have to. If you’ve worked around people struggling with addiction, you’ve seen it before. Withdrawal, overdose, injury—this line holds all of that without saying a word. The fact that it’s dried means the moment of crisis has passed. There’s no panic, no emergency. Just another mess to clean up. Someone has to do it.

The poem shifts again: “More time, more smiles, and more silence than you should really offer.” These are the sacrifices that come with this kind of work. The exhaustion isn’t just physical; it’s emotional, mental. Time given when you don’t have enough of it. Smiles forced when you don’t feel like smiling. Silence kept when speaking up might push someone away. The speaker knows they are giving too much, but that doesn’t stop them.

Then, the hardest line: “Your heart again.” Not the first time. Not the last. The repetition is what makes it hurt. It’s the quiet truth of working with people who are struggling. You know better. You tell yourself you won’t get attached this time. But then someone comes along who reminds you why you started, and before you know it, you’re all in again. Even if you know how it ends.

And then the last lines: “The things the mind comes up with when the only jailor is yourself.” No one is forcing the speaker to live this way. They could walk away. They could do less, care less. But they won’t. Because this is who they are. This isn’t punishment. It’s resilience. It’s knowing the cost and paying it anyway.

Photo by Zhuo Cheng you on Unsplash

From Tsukiko, While Watching the Moon – Reviewed

Michael L. Utley

I have waited long enough
among midnight forests
and somnolent bamboo groves
the furtive whispers
of pensive yurei
a forlorn supplication
to dissolve further
into the rayless world
of lost souls
to seek the sleep
of bōkyaku

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

“From Tsukiko, While Watching the Moon”

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

This poem moves slowly, carrying the weight of someone who has been waiting too long. The speaker is steady but heavy, as if burdened by something unresolved. This isn’t just a personal sorrow—it stretches into something mythic. The speaker isn’t simply grieving; they are unmaking themselves. The poem follows that process, moving from longing to detachment to an ultimate rejection of self.

It begins in a world of spirits. Yūrei whisper in the bamboo groves, restless and unresolved. The speaker lingers among them, already half-dissolved into their world. There is no urgency, only a quiet pull toward disappearing. The mention of bōkyaku—forgetfulness—suggests a deeper loss, not just of life but of memory itself. The surrounding imagery adds to this feeling of in-between: reeds swaying, koi dreaming in the depths, kitsune slipping through the shadows. These creatures exist on the edges of things—between land and water, between human and spirit, between real and unreal. The speaker belongs in this limbo, not quite alive, not fully gone.

Then comes the red footbridge. In Japanese tradition, bridges mark the passage between worlds—between the mundane and the sacred, between the living and the dead. But this one is abandoned, leading to nothing. A ghost in a world of ghosts. The speaker stands before it, but there is nowhere to go. Beyond the bridge, emptiness. There is no sense of transition, no promise of what lies ahead, just the remains of something lost long ago. The past has been reduced to a buried memory, “the bones of a life once lived / once lost / forever regretted.” There is no reclaiming it.

The stars appear next, spinning above. They are ancient, unmoving, indifferent. They do not guide, they do not witness, they simply exist. The speaker sees them as proof of futility, a reminder that nothing matters in the vastness of time and space. This is where the poem expands outward, away from the personal and into something cosmic. There is no comfort in the stars, no answers waiting among them. They are only distant, untouchable, turning in their endless cycles.

When the moon arrives. The tone shifts. The speaker speaks directly to it, and there is bitterness here, rejection, accusation. The moon is not a gentle presence. It is arrogant, cruel, casting cold light but offering nothing in return. It watches, but it does not see. The speaker resists its pull, but at the same time, there is an obsession. A history. The scars mentioned—whether real or metaphorical—hint at wounds the moon either caused or refused to acknowledge. The speaker accuses it of judgment, of betrayal, of deciding fates without mercy.

And then the revelation. The speaker was named Tsukiko—moon-child. The connection to the moon is not imagined; it was given to them at birth. They have spent their life watching the moon, waiting for something—recognition, acknowledgment, the simple warmth of its light. But the moon has given nothing. The speaker’s waiting has been in vain. And now, they are done.

The final lines reject everything. “I am Tsukiko no more.” The speaker renounces the name, the identity, the connection to the moon. They let go of their longing, their sorrow, their need for recognition. This is the final break. Whatever the moon once meant to them, whatever power it held, is gone.

This is not a triumphant moment. There is no resolution, no transformation, no rebirth. Just the quiet acceptance that what they waited for will never come. The spirits, the river, the foxes, the bridge, and the moon—all things that should have led the speaker somewhere—only confirm that they are lost. The usual ideas of fate, karma, or belonging are absent. Instead, the poem ends with emptiness, with a final step into nothing at all.

Photo by Drew Easley on Unsplash

Dark Woods Rising – Reviewed

A. J. Dalton

Review

A.J. Dalton’s Dark Woods Rising is the kind of poetry collection that doesn’t sit neatly in any category. It moves between sci-fi, fantasy, horror, and something stranger—something that doesn’t fit a single label but weaves them all together. It’s dark, sometimes brutally so, but it also has a sharp, knowing sense of humor, sometimes teetering on the edge of absurdity. It can be grand and mythic in one moment, then intimate and unsettling in the next. It’s full of shifting perspectives—witches fleeing persecution, lost souls drifting through space, creatures lurking in the shadows, voices from the future, voices from the past…Cows. And at the heart of it all is a sense that everything is connected, even if that connection isn’t always comforting.

There’s an underlying feeling of inevitability in many of these poems as if the worlds they describe—whether ancient forests or deep space—would always swallow people whole. In Ecohorror, nature is no longer just a backdrop; it’s alive, predatory, and waiting for its chance to reclaim what civilization has taken: “nothing firm / of purpose / save in its determination to waylay, sink and drown / rude incomers and prey.” In Troll Territory, an old man warns his son about the dangers of the mountain passes, knowing full well he won’t listen: “Oh, they will feast upon us / in a tumult of screaming gore – / and all because you ignored me, son.” The poem gives the sense of living folklore, an old story that consumes you while you stand under that same bridge. In Abandonment, the last remnants of humanity are turned away from every place they seek refuge until the only shelter left is the underworld itself: “To Hel’s castle we arrived / and to our woe were not denied.” In The Telling Tattoo, religious fanaticism fuels oppression, twisting morality into an excuse for cruelty: “all those suspected must be summarily stripped / scrutinized, sorely tested, instructed and striated / till confession or their true selves be revealed!” Whether it’s the deep woods or the vast unknown of space, these poems return again and again to the idea that survival is never guaranteed—and even when it is, it comes at a cost.

But that doesn’t mean the collection is all doom and gloom. There’s a dry, almost mischievous wit threaded through many of the poems. Goblin Slaves reads like an old bigot ranting in a tavern, listing out all the reasons goblins are untrustworthy: “So you’d be wise not to disagree / or say they should go free: / they’re just not worth the bother / unless you’re a goblin-lover.” Cowfolk takes a ridiculous premise—humans turning into cows—and plays it out to its grim conclusion, treating methane buildup and excessive manure as the final undoing of civilization: “what a stinking way to go / at least the plants will grow / except they’re devouring / everything.” Space Crow imagines a future where crows, not humans, are the ones who escape Earth’s destruction, and they don’t mourn the loss of humanity in the slightest: “our vast Murder escaping / to seek the overarching obsidian ancestor.” They are crows, after all. There’s an edge to the humor, but it works because it’s never just for the sake of a joke. It always leads back to something darker, something worth thinking about.

The way the poems are structured adds to the unease. A lot of broken rhythm and lines cut off before they feel finished. The enjambment—where one thought spills into the next without a clear stop—makes the poems feel like they’re always in motion, pulling the reader deeper. Sometimes, like in The Newly Dead, that movement is slow and wandering, mirroring ghosts who don’t even realize they’re lost: “they carry on / hanging around / all over the place / troubling themselves, each other.” Other times, like in A Grave Case of Zero Gravity, it speeds up, thoughts breaking apart as the speaker loses control of their mind. Even when the poems are short, they leave a long shadow.

One of the most interesting things about Dark Woods Rising is how it feels both timeless and topical. A poem like The Zen Reality, which imagines people abandoning their physical bodies to live in a digital existence, feels like it could be set in some distant cyberpunk future—but it also reads like a commentary on how people already live half-online, slowly losing touch with the real world: “now digi-gods in denial of our origin / intercourse-predicated procreation blessedly unnecessary.” Resequenced explores identity in a world where bodies can be swapped like outfits, but beneath the sci-fi concept is something very human: the fear of never quite fitting in, no matter how many times you start over: “I just don’t know / Who I am yet.” The poems don’t just build new worlds—they reflect something about this one.

The collection’s strength in shifting tones and styles can also make it feel disjointed. Some poems lean heavily into their speculative elements. In contrast, others feel much more grounded, which can create moments of tonal whiplash—knocking the reader out of position and forcing deeper reflection. Moving from something as intense as Abandonment to the dry absurdity of Cowfolk can be a bit jarring. While many poems leave the reader with unsettling or thought-provoking conclusions, a few feel like they stop short of fully developing their ideas. Back to Front, for example, plays with a fascinating concept of time and death running in reverse, but it leaves some of its most intriguing questions dangling: “If I could learn to age backwards / like Merlin / and still age forwards / like normal / would I live forever?” That said, the unpredictability of the collection is also part of what makes it compelling—there’s always another strange, dark, or unexpected turn waiting on the next page. 

It’s hard to pin down Dark Woods Rising because it’s doing so many things at once. It’s speculative but deeply personal. It’s grim but sporadically hilarious. It’s full of witches, monsters, and cosmic horrors, but also bureaucracy, climate change, prejudice, and quiet existential dread. It doesn’t try to explain itself or hold the reader’s hand. It drops them into these worlds and moments and lets them sink or swim. And that’s what makes it work. Something unsettling about it lingers long after the last page—like a half-heard whisper in the dark or a crow’s caw echoing through the void as it flies past Jupiter, reminding you that something is always watching.

You may find more about A. J. Dalton at his website here.

Dark Woods Rising is available for purchase on Amazon here.

I had a tremendously fun time reading through and reviewing this collection. If you have a collection, whether newly published or a bit older I’d happily share my thoughts. Feel free to contact me.

I loved you forever – Reviewed

John Lyons

The silence out of which
the spider spins its web
an organic contraption
of deceptive silk
malice aforethought
though there is no malice
A poem spun from words
from dreams of a beach

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

I loved you forever

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

This poem moves in a quiet, careful way, like a memory being built in real time, something the speaker is shaping for themselves even though they already know where it leads. It begins with the image of a spider spinning its web. The web is “deceptive silk,” something delicate but designed to trap. The phrase “malice aforethought” makes it sound intentional, like a planned trick, but then the poem pulls back—“though there is no malice.” The spider isn’t cruel. It’s just doing what it does. This idea lingers, suggesting that the memory itself might be a kind of trap, something the speaker spins without fully realizing how inescapable it will become.

Then the poem shifts, and suddenly it’s not about the spider anymore. The web disappears, and the speaker is somewhere else, standing on a beach in the past. They recall walking hand in hand, the ocean moving around them, the sand smooth beneath their feet. The waves break white against the shore. The frigate birds hover over the water, searching. Everything in this moment feels untouched, perfect. The way it’s introduced—“a poem spun from words / from dreams of a beach”—makes it feel distant, something being reconstructed. This isn’t a memory the speaker is fully inside. It’s something they’re trying to hold onto.

The memory is almost too perfect. The speaker describes a time when life felt wide open, when they could “do with [their lives] as we pleased as we felt.” That kind of freedom only exists in hindsight. The poem doesn’t say what happened after. It doesn’t describe what choices they made, what changed, or how things ended. But the fact that the speaker is remembering it this way suggests that they no longer feel that sense of possibility. The past is fixed, unchangeable, and the way the poem lingers on this moment makes it clear that something was lost.

That’s where the trap of the memory becomes clear. It isn’t just about recalling something beautiful. It’s about getting caught in it. If this love had lasted, if the feeling in that moment had stretched forward, there would be no need for this reflection. The way the speaker looks back makes it clear that the relationship ended, though they never say it outright. There’s no bitterness, no blame—just distance. Just the sense that what was once endless has become something unreachable.

Then the last lines hit. “And in that moment / I loved you forever.” It sounds absolute, but it isn’t. Love that lasts forever shouldn’t be confined to a single moment. But that’s exactly what’s happening here. The feeling was real, whole, but it only truly existed right then. It’s not about love that endured—it’s about love that was complete in one fleeting instant. The contradiction makes it painful. The speaker isn’t just remembering. They are caught in this memory, unable to leave it behind.

The structure of the poem reinforces this. It starts small, almost detached, with the image of the spider and its web. Then it moves into something bigger, something human—a poem, a dream, a memory. It expands into a landscape, a relationship, a feeling of freedom. Then it contracts again, down to one moment, one undeniable truth. The last line pulls everything together, making the memory feel both fleeting and permanent at the same time.

The tone of the poem is quiet, reflective. There’s no dramatic emotion, no declarations beyond that final thought. The speaker doesn’t explain how they feel now. They don’t say whether they’ve moved on or if they’re still caught in this memory. The feeling is left to stand on its own. That makes the poem linger. It’s not about what was lost or what lasted—it’s about how love, even when it only exists in a single moment, can feel like forever.

Photo by Erick Chévez on Unsplash

No Who – Reviewed

Mary K. Doyle

The spirited who-who-who-who
from a chorus of owls
sang out my bedtime lullabies
and early wake-up calls.

Owls would call to one another
to protect and attract.
Their conversations were lively,
and responses, intense.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Poem–No Who

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

This poem is about loss, but not in a loud or dramatic way. It’s about the kind of loss that happens quietly, the kind you don’t realize is coming until it’s already settled in. It starts with something that feels solid—the sound of owls calling in the night. This wasn’t just any noise. It was a familiar part of life, something the speaker had lived with for a long time. The calls were both a comfort and a signal, something that marked time, something always there. The way the first stanza describes it makes it feel warm, even nostalgic, like a memory of something safe and steady. The repetition of “who-who-who-who” gives the call a rhythm, a sense of presence. It’s a sound that should keep going.

The second stanza shifts from memory to explanation. The owls weren’t just making noise—they were speaking. They were defending their space, finding mates, responding to each other. Their voices had meaning, not just for them but for the world around them. The word “lively” makes it feel active, full of movement and interaction. The calls weren’t just background noise; they were part of a system, something that kept the night alive. This makes the silence that comes next even heavier.

Then everything stops. The third stanza is blunt. Bird flu arrives, and the owls die. The words are short and harsh—“deadly,” “stole,” “leveled.” It’s not a slow disappearance. It’s fast, brutal, final. The chorus that once filled the night is gone, leaving only one owl behind. The poem doesn’t dwell on the details of the disease. It doesn’t have to. The absence of the other owls is enough. The loss isn’t just about the birds themselves; it’s about how their disappearance changes everything.

The last stanza returns to the owl’s call, but now it’s different. It’s not part of a conversation anymore. It’s just a single voice, calling into emptiness. The repetition of “who-who-who-who” is back, but now it feels lonely. The final line, “in search of friend and foe,” is where it really sinks in. Even conflict, even the presence of a rival, would be better than this silence. The owl isn’t just calling out—it’s hoping for an answer that will never come.

The way the poem is structured reflects this loss. It starts full—many owls, many voices. Then it moves to one. Then it moves to silence. The shift happens quickly, just like the loss itself. The owl’s call appears twice—first when it’s part of something bigger, then when it’s alone. That repetition makes the absence feel real.

This isn’t just a poem about owls. It’s about what happens when something that seemed permanent disappears. Bird flu didn’t just kill birds—it wiped out an entire soundscape, an entire piece of the world. The speaker noticed because they were connected to it in a way many people aren’t. They knew what the owl calls meant, understood that they weren’t just noise but conversation, life, presence. Now, they hear the silence. The poem doesn’t tell the reader how to feel, but by the end, it’s impossible not to notice what’s missing. It’s not just about what was lost. It’s about what it feels like to wake up one day and realize the world has gotten smaller.

Photo by Coed Pageant on Unsplash