Adam Fenner's Blog, page 7

«HOURS» – Reviewed

Francisco Bravo Cabrera

Hours filled with thoughts roll before me…
I’m dreaming of traveling north,
as I watch silver trains roll on by me,
floating like ghostly silver smoke.
But this stale, clingy south surrounds me like flowers,

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

#poem, “HOURS”

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“HOURS” captures the feeling of being caught between two places—physically in one but mentally reaching for another. The speaker isn’t just waiting for time to pass; they are actively imagining something different, but without taking action. The poem moves in the same way thoughts do—drifting, circling back, blending reality with imagination. It doesn’t follow a rigid structure but mirrors the wandering nature of daydreaming, where small moments turn into something bigger, and reality shifts into something more uncertain.

The poem starts with time slipping away. “Hours filled with thoughts roll before me…” sets the stage for a drifting, passive experience. The speaker isn’t moving, but their mind is. The hours don’t feel meaningful; they just pass, filled with thoughts instead of action. This sense of inaction is reinforced by the next few lines, where the speaker dreams of traveling north while watching silver trains roll by. The trains become a symbol of escape, but they are not solid or tangible. They “float like ghostly silver smoke,” making them seem distant, unreachable, almost unreal. They exist in a space between reality and imagination, just like the speaker.

The contrast between north and south adds to the tension in the poem. The north represents movement, possibility, something unknown but desirable. It’s a place the speaker longs for but hasn’t reached. The south, on the other hand, is familiar and comforting but also confining. “This stale, clingy south surrounds me like flowers.” The flowers are bright and present, suggesting beauty, but they also hold the speaker in place. “Trying to provoke me to stay and to keep me” makes it clear that the speaker feels tied to where they are, even as they dream of leaving. This reflects the nature of daydreaming—there is always something pulling a person back to reality, some reason not to leave just yet.

Sitting in the street is a key moment. “So I sit in the street where my hope is my chance.” The street is neither here nor there—it’s not home, but it’s not a destination either. It’s a place where the speaker is caught between wanting change and staying still. Sitting and thinking becomes its own kind of journey. The speaker isn’t running toward something, but they also aren’t giving up. They are in an in-between space, watching, waiting, imagining.

As the poem moves forward, the imagery shifts. The speaker begins to “float in the smoke” and “run through wind.” These aren’t physical actions; they are part of the daydream. The real world and the imagined one blur together, just like in deep thought. The speaker is no longer just watching the trains or sitting in the street—they are inside their imagination, moving without moving, escaping without actually leaving.

The final lines bring the poem full circle. “And my thoughts roll before me, and the hours fill my mind.” Time continues passing, thoughts continue drifting, but nothing actually changes. This is what makes the poem feel so real. Daydreaming doesn’t always lead to action. Sometimes, it’s just a cycle of wanting, picturing, and returning to the same place. The trains will keep rolling by, the flowers will keep surrounding the speaker, and the feeling of being caught between two places will remain.

“HOURS” captures the way thoughts pull in different directions, how imagination can feel real for a moment but never quite lasts. The poem doesn’t push for resolution or transformation. It just sits in the experience of waiting and thinking, where time moves forward, but everything else stays the same.

Photo by Roland Lösslein on Unsplash

Extra Venom – Reviewed

Laura

Conjuring the darkness, in shadows of night 
A kiss filled with venom, a viper’s fanged delight
Revenge is ever sweet, flowing hot through my veins
To expose a liar, and bring an end to your games 
The serpent has awakened, filled with a dangerous fire 
In flames of my sultry gaze, a dance of passion and desire
To slay you once and for all, a void filled with deceit 
Bow your head down, accept your ultimate defeat

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Extra Venom

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“Extra Venom” is a poem built on power, revenge, and transformation. It carries a tone of controlled fury, turning anger into something sharp and deliberate. The speaker is not just reacting to betrayal; she is taking charge of it, turning pain into strength. Every line is direct and forceful, pushing forward with striking imagery that blends darkness, fire, and serpents to create a vivid sense of danger and dominance. There’s no hesitation, no doubt—only the certainty of victory.

The structure of the poem reflects its intensity. The short, impactful lines build momentum, mirroring the speaker’s rising power. The rhythm is tight, making every word feel deliberate. The poem doesn’t linger on sadness or self-pity; it moves with purpose, cutting straight to the core of its message. The transformation from wronged to ruler happens line by line, culminating in a final declaration of dominance.

Serpent imagery is central to the poem, reinforcing themes of transformation and control. “A kiss filled with venom, a viper’s fanged delight” sets the tone early, blending seduction and danger. The snake is more than a symbol of deceit; it is a source of power, something the speaker embraces rather than fears. “The serpent has awakened, filled with a dangerous fire” makes it clear that the speaker has not only survived betrayal but has been strengthened by it. The shedding of snakeskin later in the poem flips the usual meaning of transformation—it is not the speaker evolving but the deceiver being stripped down and exposed.

Fire and darkness work alongside the snake imagery to create a sense of destructive passion. “In flames of my sultry gaze, a dance of passion and desire” suggests that anger and desire are intertwined, making revenge feel almost seductive. The idea of a “dance” adds a layer of elegance to the destruction, as if the speaker is fully aware of her power and how to wield it. “Wrath upon rage, my favorite of deadliest sins” makes it clear that this is not about restraint. The speaker is fully embracing her emotions, making no apologies for the fire she brings.

Deception is another key theme. The speaker is not just angry—she is exposing a liar. “To expose a liar, and bring an end to your games” is a straightforward mission statement. This is not just about revenge but about unmasking the truth. The imagery of shedding snakeskin ties into this, symbolizing the peeling away of a false identity. The lines “cut by agonizing cut, shed your vapid snakeskin” reinforce that this process is intentional and relentless. The speaker is not just tearing away the lie; she is making sure it cannot return.

The poem plays with contrasts—masks and exposure, deception and truth, strength and fear. “Hiding behind a mask, a vacant heart with no soul” strips away any illusion of power the deceiver once held. The speaker sees through the act, calling out the emptiness beneath the surface. “Your fear in my hands, quivering as you shake” flips the dynamic completely. Where the deceiver once had control, they are now powerless. The roles have fully reversed.

By the end, there is no doubt about who holds the power. “Only one witch worthy wins this final fight” makes it clear that this is a battle, but the outcome has already been decided. The word “witch” ties back to power and mysticism, suggesting something both feared and respected. “That’s me, never forget – I’m The Queen of the Night” is the final claim to dominance. It isn’t just about winning; it’s about owning the night, ruling over the darkness instead of being consumed by it.

“Extra Venom” is fueled by raw emotion, but it never spirals out of control. It sharpens anger into something precise and unshakable. The imagery keeps the tension high, making sure every word lands with impact. The speaker is not asking for justice—she is delivering it herself. There is no hesitation, no uncertainty, only fire, venom, and the certainty of victory.

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash

Ripples – Reviewed

Maggie Watson

On the banks of the canal, there are many tales to tell.
Every story has two sides.
We never know the suffering of others.
Many wounds are still too painful to touch.
Hidden behind a fake, cheerful smile.
In the waves, between darkness and light, small
ripples are there if you pay close attention.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Ripples

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“Ripples” is a poem about hidden struggles and the way they affect the world, even when they go unnoticed. It focuses on how suffering is often invisible, buried beneath the surface, and how small signs—like ripples in water—can reveal the truth if someone takes the time to pay attention. The poem uses water as a metaphor for unspoken emotions, showing how pain lingers and how even small moments of acknowledgment can have a lasting impact.

The poem starts with a place: “On the banks of the canal, there are many tales to tell.” A canal is a place of movement but also of stillness. It holds stories, but they aren’t always obvious. The line suggests that there is always more happening than what is immediately visible. Then it moves to perspective: “Every story has two sides.” This is a simple statement, but it challenges the way people often judge what they see. If every story has two sides, that means there is always another layer, something unseen. This is important to the rest of the poem because it keeps returning to the idea that what people show on the surface is not always the full truth.

The poem then shifts to how people hide their struggles: “Hidden behind a fake, cheerful smile.” This is a familiar image—someone smiling while feeling completely different inside. It’s something most people have done or seen in others, but the poem brings attention to it. The word “fake” is important because it acknowledges that the smile is a choice, a way to cover what’s really going on. It’s another reminder that what people show isn’t always what they feel.

Then the focus moves back to water: “In the waves, between darkness and light, small / ripples are there if you pay close attention.” The image of waves moving between darkness and light mirrors the way people exist between pain and healing, between silence and expression. The ripples are subtle, not obvious, requiring effort to notice. This connects back to the idea that suffering is not always loud—it is often quiet, present in small signs.

The poem deepens this idea with: “Within the ripples is a story untold, waiting to burst into life. / An ocean of unshed tears.” The shift from small ripples to an entire ocean expands the scale of emotion. What seems small—a ripple, a moment of hesitation, a quiet sadness—can actually be part of something vast and overwhelming. “An ocean of unshed tears” suggests deep grief, unexpressed but always present. The word “unshed” is important because it means the tears have not been released. They exist, but they have not been given space to fall.

The closing lines bring the poem’s main image back: “Still water runs deep, but the ripple effect / lasts longer than any pebble thrown if you / take the time to listen.” The phrase “still water runs deep” is a familiar one, suggesting that there is always more beneath the surface. But the focus quickly shifts to the ripple effect—the way even small actions can spread, creating lasting impact. The mention of a pebble being thrown suggests that some disturbances fade, but the deeper emotional ripples remain. The final words, “if you take the time to listen,” reinforce the idea that understanding and acknowledgment require effort. The poem does not demand attention; it asks for it, quietly but firmly.

“Ripples” is about what goes unnoticed. It’s about how people carry their own struggles, their own histories, and how most of them stay unspoken. The poem doesn’t just say this outright—it builds it through the image of water, through movement and stillness. Some pain is quiet, some stories are never told, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. The poem leaves the reader with a responsibility—not just to look at what’s on the surface, but to notice the small changes, the small signs, and to take the time to listen. Hidden struggles don’t just stay with the person who carries them. They move outward, shaping the world in ways that aren’t always obvious. Just like ripples in water, pain and hardship spread, affecting others in unknown ways. The poem suggests that noticing these ripples—paying attention to the small things—can make all the difference. It is a reminder that no one’s story exists in isolation and that even unseen struggles shape the world in unexpected ways.

Photo by radwan skeiky on Unsplash

If I Stood – Reviewed

 Merril D Smith

a monument still and silent,
situated on the shoreline,
I might become aware
of how midnight blue dissolves

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

If I Stood

© Merril D. Smith and Yesterday and Today

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Claude Monet, Cliffs of Etretat

Analysis

“If I Stood” takes a painting and turns it into something to be felt, something that moves beyond just looking. It is about stillness, but not the kind that is empty or lifeless. The poem imagines standing in one place, unmoving like the cliffs in Monet’s Cliffs of Étretat, and instead of describing the rock itself, it focuses on everything changing around it—the shifting sky, the movement of the sea, the way light transforms darkness.

At first, the poem is solid, like a foundation. “A monument still and silent” is the starting point, something that does not move while everything else does. It feels heavy, like something that has been in place for a long time. Monet’s cliffs have that same weight, shaped by time but not changed in an instant. The idea of being a monument makes it seem like the speaker wants to be part of that stillness, to see what happens when they do not move.

Then the change begins. “Midnight blue dissolves into azure then cyan.” The colors do not shift suddenly—they dissolve, like something melting. It is a slow process, the way a deep, dark sauce spreads over something lighter, or the way a night sky fades into morning. The word “dissolves” makes it feel natural, like it was always going to happen this way. This mirrors Monet’s painting, where no color is solid or flat, but everything blends together.

The poem does not just describe what is seen. It moves into sensation. “Brightening the black caves of the mind” makes the change feel internal, as if the way the light spreads across the sky also reaches inside. The cliffs in Monet’s painting have deep shadows, places where light does not reach, but in the poem, those dark spaces are being opened up. It is like the way a rich, bitter flavor can make something sweet stand out more—contrast making the experience more vivid.

Sound enters next. “Sea-sough serenades” makes the waves feel like part of the atmosphere, not something loud or crashing but something rhythmic, like the soft fizz of carbonation or the quiet crispness of a thin layer of sugar breaking under a spoon. The word “sough” gives it a breath-like quality, something that fills the space without overwhelming it. It is a background presence, shaping the scene without taking focus.

The poem builds upward. “An infinity of wave-curls” suggests something delicate, continuous, like soft swirls on the surface of water or the carefully layered peaks of a dessert. “Spindrift flying” adds lightness, movement that does not stay in one place. This is not a static image but one full of motion, even though the speaker remains still.

Then the final image: “the sky of blueberries and cream.” The painting, the moment, the entire scene becomes something almost edible, something that could be tasted. The blues and whites of the sky are not just colors—they have a texture, a richness, like a dish carefully put together to balance depth and softness. It changes the way the whole poem feels. This is not just about looking at a painting or a landscape; it is about experiencing it with more than just sight.

Throughout the poem, there is a balance between movement and stillness, between weight and lightness. The cliffs are steady, but the world around them is always shifting. The poem does not tell the reader what to take from this—it simply shows the transformation, the way awareness changes what is seen. It does not rush, does not force meaning. It lingers, letting colors shift, letting sound settle, letting stillness be something full rather than empty. By the end, the speaker has not moved, but everything around them has changed.

Photo by Laurent Gence on Unsplash

Pound by Pound – Reviewed

Paul Vincent Cannon

Then, I wondered
if other homes were habited by
such darkened men of trades
whose words were viscous blood
and, though for the lack of detonator,
their fuses sparked and took their toll
as blows of steel on iron clanged,
who was this leathered blacksmith

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Pound By Pound -a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“Pound by Pound” is about force. It’s about being shaped by something bigger and stronger, about being caught in a process you don’t control. The poem gives us the image of a blacksmith, but it’s not really about a blacksmith. It’s about someone who changes people the way a blacksmith changes metal—through heat, through pressure, through repeated blows. It’s about survival, exhaustion, and finally, a moment of relief.

The theme is transformation, but not the kind people choose for themselves. It’s about being changed by someone else, whether you want to be or not. The blacksmith in the poem isn’t just making things; he’s remaking people. The line “whose spells moulded the very flesh of us pound by pound” makes that clear. This isn’t gentle guidance. It’s reshaping through force. There’s something mechanical about it, something that feels more like breaking than building. The person being shaped doesn’t have a say in it. They’re just material being worked on, something to be pounded into a different form.

There’s also a theme of power. The blacksmith has it, and everyone else doesn’t. He doesn’t just speak—his words are “viscous blood,” something thick and heavy that lingers. He doesn’t explode, but his “fuses sparked and took their toll,” which means he doesn’t need to explode to do damage. He is relentless, and the process of his work isn’t something that happens in a moment—it happens over time, piece by piece, hit by hit.

The structure of the poem matches this slow, grinding transformation. It doesn’t follow a strict pattern, but it moves forward in a steady, deliberate way, like the sound of hammering itself. The lines stretch out and then cut off, making the rhythm uneven, like breath being held and released at the wrong times. The lack of punctuation in some areas makes it feel like thoughts running together, like exhaustion. There are no stanza breaks, which means there’s no pause, no real place to stop and rest. It just keeps going until it doesn’t.

The tone is heavy, like metal, like smoke. There’s no warmth in the descriptions. The blacksmith is “leathered,” his work is all fire and steel, his presence is something that takes and takes. The final moments of the poem are the first time we get any kind of release. “Until at last he collapsed as bellows void of air, the flames dying, his work completed, and we could breathe again.” He stops, and only then does anything else begin. The tone doesn’t shift to joy, though. It’s just a breath, a pause, not necessarily freedom. The damage has already been done.

The way this poem is written makes it feel like a memory, like something being looked back on rather than something happening in real time. There’s distance, but not detachment. The words don’t ask for pity or try to make sense of the experience. They just lay it out as it was. That’s what makes the poem hit so hard. It doesn’t explain itself. It just tells you what happened, and you feel it.

Photo by Jonny Gios on Unsplash

A Poem for You – Reviewed

Britta Benson

In, out, the shadow of doubt,
in the shadow of out. In this ever expanding darkness,
in the shadow-shadows of silences, rest and cooler still, there’s a new, softly, softly. I stretch
in the snakeskin shadows of my older certainties, and something cracks open almost unnoticed

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

That moment after a light leaves, or: A poem for you

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

A Poem for You is about trust, doubt, and the way love exists in uncertainty. The speaker moves through shadows, silence, and sleepless thoughts, circling around their own insecurity while trying to hold onto a connection that feels both deep and uncertain. The poem does not move in a straight line but loops back on itself, reflecting the way doubt lingers and returns, never fully answered. There is no clear resolution, no moment where the speaker decides whether their fears are misplaced or if their mistrust is justified. Instead, the poem stays in that space between certainty and hesitation, showing how love is not always about knowing for sure but about continuing to exist within the unknown.

The structure mirrors this uncertainty. The poem flows without strict breaks, moving between thoughts in a way that feels both restless and continuous. The repetition of “in, out, the shadow of doubt” acts like breathing, a rhythm that carries throughout, emphasizing the presence of doubt as something that cannot be escaped. The phrase “in the shadow of out” plays with meaning, making it unclear whether the speaker feels trapped inside their uncertainty or just outside of clarity. The lack of a clear resolution makes the poem feel like a moment caught in time—something unfinished, ongoing.

Shadows are a central image, shifting in meaning throughout the poem. At times, they represent uncertainty and the absence of clear communication. The phrase “shadow-shadows of silences” suggests that silence itself holds weight, that there are layers to what is not being said. At other times, shadows are tied to transformation. The line “snakeskin shadows of my older certainties” suggests shedding past beliefs, letting go of a trust that once felt solid. But this shedding does not bring relief—something “cracks open almost unnoticed,” as if the speaker is realizing something without fully confronting it. The poem does not say whether this realization is a sign of misplaced trust or well-founded doubt, only that it is happening.

The tension of the poem comes through most strongly in the line “in my shadowing of your pitch black trust.” The phrase “pitch black trust” could mean complete, unwavering faith, or it could mean something more troubling—trust that is blind, or a trust that hides something beneath it. “Shadowing” suggests both following and doubting, being close to trust but not fully within it. The speaker is near this trust, watching it, but they are not fully part of it. This is where the poem’s central question comes through—whether the speaker is simply afraid of being vulnerable or if their instincts are picking up on something real.

The tone of the poem is quiet but unsettled. The phrase “love deepens in this sleepless wonder” captures this—there is love, but there is also restlessness. The speaker is not pulling away, but they are also not at peace. The final lines, “in the shadow of your eclipse, I lick obscurity with all tongues,” lean into this uncertainty rather than resolving it. An eclipse blocks the light, but only temporarily. It does not erase what is there, only makes it harder to see. The act of “licking obscurity” is strange and intimate, as if the speaker is tasting the unknown, trying to understand it, but not rejecting it.

The poem ends as it began, with “in, out, the shadow of doubt.” There is no resolution, only the confirmation that doubt remains. There is no final decision about whether the speaker’s trust is misplaced or if their mistrust is justified. Instead, the poem lingers in that uncertainty, allowing both possibilities to exist. The speaker is still there, still moving through the same questions, still unsure of whether love is something to rest in or something to keep watching from a distance. The poem does not try to offer answers—only to capture the way trust and doubt move through love, shifting like shadows that never fully disappear.

Photo by Quin Stevenson on Unsplash

Autumn Delivers – Reviewed

Michele Lee

Born during a season
when the heat rescinds
cascading and tumbling
surrendering and delivering
coolness and transition
an occasion to draw in
an occasion to reflect
autumn’s mood and palette
suits her, an introspective one
more so than the unfettered months
that worship a spellbinding sun

An unwelcome fate 
almost arriving on a premature date
when the searing sun’s intent
did dominate, wilt, and fade

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Joy is watching my daughter walk her own path by Michele

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“Autumn Delivers” is a poem about timing, transition, and the connection between a mother and her child. It explores the idea that people are shaped not just by genetics or upbringing but by the world they enter. The mother expected her daughter to be like her, tied to the same season, but the child arrived in her own way, in her own time. The poem reflects on that shift in expectation—not with disappointment but with recognition and appreciation.

The poem opens with autumn as more than just a season. It is a state of being, a time of change, quiet, and reflection. The daughter is introduced as belonging to this season, her nature aligned with its cooler tones and shifting colors. This immediately sets up a contrast, as the mother seems to identify more with summer, the “unfettered months that worship a spellbinding sun.” There is an implication that the mother once assumed her daughter would share her own nature. Instead, the child arrives different, belonging not to summer’s boundless energy but to autumn’s steady transition.

There is also an undercurrent of uncertainty in the poem. The daughter was almost born too early, in a season that did not match her. The “searing sun” and the idea of a “fragile arrival” suggest a moment of real risk, not just of premature birth but of entering the world at the wrong time. The poem does not dwell on medical details, but the imagery of heat, wilting, and fading speaks to something that was narrowly avoided. The mother and child had to wait, to remain still together, delaying their meeting until the right moment. The phrase “becoming one heartbeat” suggests not just survival but a deep connection, a shared patience in letting time decide when the child was ready.

When the daughter is finally born, autumn is no longer just a season—it becomes part of her. The poem describes how she carries the qualities of fall within her, from the colors in her eyes to the way she moves and creates. This section is full of sensory details, making it feel inevitable that this is where she belongs. She was meant for autumn, and by waiting, she arrived in the right place.

The tone of the poem is steady, thoughtful, and full of quiet trust. There is no dramatic moment of realization, no lingering regret over what might have been. The mother does not try to change or reshape her daughter but instead recognizes and admires who she is. The poem suggests that love is not about control but about understanding, about stepping back and allowing a child to be themselves.

The final lines return to the mother’s role. Even though they are different, she will always be present, a source of wisdom and care, offering warmth from a distance. The contrast between summer and autumn is not framed as a division but as two forces that exist alongside each other. The mother may have once expected a daughter who mirrored her, but what she finds instead is something equally beautiful, something that belongs to a different rhythm of life.

“Autumn Delivers” is about identity, timing, and belonging. It is about how people do not always arrive as expected but as they are meant to be. It is a poem about trust—not just in love but in life itself, in the idea that things unfold as they should. It captures the patience of waiting, the relief of a safe arrival, and the deep acceptance that comes with seeing someone as they truly are.

Photo by Erik Witsoe on Unsplash

On my bedside table – Reviewed

Naïli Cheballah

There’s an eaten apple on my bedside table.
I can’t tell how long it’ll stay there.

There are no books—I can’t swallow any words.

There’s a glass of water I won’t touch,
for your lips have been on it.
I can’t get that close to you anymore.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

On my bedside table

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“On My Bedside Table” is about absence and the way it lingers in the smallest, most ordinary things. The poem takes a simple setting—a bedside table, a glass of water, a bed—and turns it into a space filled with loss. The speaker is surrounded by objects that should be meaningless, but each one carries the weight of someone who is no longer there. Instead of moving forward, they seem stuck, unable or unwilling to change anything in the room, as if doing so would make the absence more permanent. The poem doesn’t just describe loneliness; it shows how it settles into a space, how it turns into something that can be seen, touched, and felt in every corner.

The structure of the poem is restrained, with short lines that deliver just enough information without over-explaining. This gives the sense of someone speaking in fragments, struggling to process their thoughts. The lack of a traditional stanza structure makes the poem feel raw, like a train of thought rather than something carefully organized. There is no excess, no unnecessary detail—only what is essential. The speaker does not directly say how they feel, but their grief is present in the way they describe the objects around them. The missing books suggest a loss of engagement with the outside world. The speaker says they “can’t swallow any words,” making it clear that they are not just uninterested in reading but actively unable to take anything in. The apple, left uneaten on the table, suggests time has lost meaning. It stays there, unnoticed, just like everything else in the room.

The glass of water is another quiet symbol of the absence that fills the space. The speaker won’t drink from it because it still carries the touch of the missing person. It remains where it is, just like the emotions the speaker refuses to face. The scent of this person still lingers, making their presence feel strong even when they are physically gone. But as much as they are still felt, their presence is fading. The dent in the bed, a physical reminder of where they used to be, is disappearing. The speaker refuses to move from their own spot, as if staying in place might keep things the way they were. But even that isn’t working. The past is slipping away, and all they can do is plead for it to stay.

The box of belongings beneath the mattress is the most direct representation of what has been left behind. It holds everything that is still here but no longer has a place. The speaker wonders why these objects continue to haunt them, as if blaming the person who left for the way their absence lingers. The idea of opening the box is not about finding closure—it is about trying to bring back what has been lost. The speaker hopes that doing so might “unleash the spirit” of the missing person, as if the room could be filled again with their presence. This suggests a deep unwillingness to let go, a hope that maybe, if the right steps are taken, absence is not as final as it seems.

The poem does not say whether the missing person left by choice, by death, or by something else. It does not need to. What matters is the weight of their absence and how it fills every object in the room. The speaker is trapped, unable to move forward but also unwilling to erase the traces that remain. The grief in the poem is not loud or dramatic; it is quiet, woven into the details of everyday life. It is in the way things are left untouched, in the way time seems to have stopped, in the way the past refuses to let go.

“On My Bedside Table” is about how absence takes up space, how grief attaches itself to the most ordinary things. It captures the feeling of standing in a room where someone has just left, where their presence still lingers even though they are gone. The poem does not offer closure because there is none. The speaker remains stuck, surrounded by reminders, caught between holding on and letting go.

Photo by Ochir-Erdene Oyunmedeg on Unsplash

Some Twisted Brand – Reviewed

Violet Lentz

while we were diligently
swearing our allegiance
to becoming a part of the solution
our freedom was
very stealthily usurped
while we were dutifully recycling
minimizing, erasing, conserving,
modifying our destructive behaviors
in an effort to save the planet
while we were busy
reading the labels
on packaged foods
carefully screening

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Some Twisted Brand

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes 

Analysis

“Some Twisted Brand” is a poem about control, deception, and the way power operates behind the scenes while people are focused on their daily lives. It suggests that while individuals are making responsible choices—recycling, reading food labels, making ethical purchases—they are unknowingly being guided by corporations and special interests. These forces shape not only what people believe is important but also how they respond to issues, keeping them distracted while real power moves elsewhere. The poem argues that this is not an accident but an intentional strategy, where misinformation and selective truth create a false sense of control. People think they are making informed decisions, but in reality, those decisions are shaped by the very institutions they trust.

The structure of the poem reflects this sense of being caught in an ongoing, overwhelming system. The lines are short and choppy, with no clear stopping points. The repetition of “while we were” reinforces the idea of being constantly occupied, showing how life moves forward in a blur while unseen forces shape the bigger picture. The lack of punctuation creates a feeling of urgency, like a thought unraveling without pause. The list-like structure emphasizes how everyday decisions—things people believe are meaningful—are actually part of a larger pattern of distraction. The way the poem flows mirrors how modern information works: an endless stream of instructions, recommendations, and warnings, all presented as helpful while actually keeping people from seeing the full reality.

The tone is frustrated, even accusatory, but not in a way that blames the reader directly. It points out how easy it is to be misled when everything is designed to feel like the right choice. The phrase “we failed to notice” is key because it suggests that deception is not about hiding the truth completely but about controlling how it is presented. The line “feather their own nests / with our ignorance” is especially sharp, making it clear that this manipulation is profitable. Those in power—whether corporate leaders, politicians, or media figures—benefit from public confusion. The poem argues that misinformation is not just about money or control but about maintaining old structures of power, as suggested by the final lines about reclaiming “some twisted brand / of masculinity.” This hints at a deeper motive, a need to reinforce outdated ideas of dominance and authority under the guise of protecting freedom.

The poem’s theme centers on the struggle of navigating a world where the truth is shaped by those who benefit from confusion. People are encouraged to trust experts, follow recommendations, and believe that they are making progress, but the poem suggests that much of this guidance is meant to keep them busy rather than empower them. The idea is not that people are lazy or unaware, but that the system is built to make them feel informed while actually keeping them uncertain. The poem suggests that this uncertainty is intentional. By keeping people overwhelmed with conflicting messages, corporations and special interests can maintain control without ever needing to resort to force.

“Some Twisted Brand” does not offer an answer to this problem. It does not tell the reader what to believe or how to fix the situation. Instead, it leaves an uneasy realization—one that lingers long after the poem is read. It challenges the reader to reconsider whether the choices they make are truly their own or just part of a carefully controlled narrative. The poem does not dismiss the importance of caring about issues like the environment or personal health, but it asks who is really setting the terms of those discussions. In the end, it suggests that real freedom is not just about making choices but about understanding who is influencing those choices in the first place.

Photo by Beth Jnr on Unsplash

Tragedy on the Potomac – Reviewed

Sarah Baker

The explosion—
The moment that killed
67 people was the moment
Before I fell asleep. I slept
While the news
Ran with the loss of life,
The loss of innocence.

…

You may find the rest of the poem here.

Tragedy on the Potomac

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Analysis

Here’s a more comprehensive version of your review:

“Tragedy on the Potomac” is about disaster, loss, and how tragedy unfolds in the background of ordinary life. The poem describes an explosion that killed 67 people, but instead of focusing on the moment itself, it follows the speaker’s detached experience—falling asleep while the news reports the event. This contrast between catastrophe and routine highlights how people process—or fail to process—disaster as it happens. By the time the morning comes, the full weight of the event is clear, but life continues moving forward.

The poem’s structure is restrained, using short, fragmented lines that mirror the abrupt nature of tragedy. The explosion itself is given only a few words, introduced and then left behind, much like how major events are often reported—briefly acknowledged before the next story takes over. The lines move quickly from night to morning, showing how time doesn’t pause for grief. There is no traditional rhyme or rhythm, just a steady flow of images: the floating wreckage, the scent of fuel, the sound of helicopters. These details paint the aftermath without unnecessary elaboration.

The tone is subdued, almost indifferent. The speaker does not react with shock or sorrow but with quiet observation. “I slept / While the news / Ran with the loss of life” suggests both distance and awareness—acknowledging the tragedy without engaging with it. The speaker is not uncaring, just removed, much like the world at large. The loss is real, but outside of those directly affected, life continues as usual. Even as morning reveals the full scene, the reaction is not one of deep reflection, just the simple act of noticing. The final lines, with helicopters hovering over the wreckage, reinforce this detachment. The disaster is recognized, reported on, surveyed from above, but there is no real pause.

The poem’s theme focuses on how people experience tragedy, both personally and collectively. The explosion takes lives, but for most, it is something seen on a screen before bed, a headline before the next thing demands attention. The sun rises, the day begins, and the world keeps moving, even as the weight of loss lingers. The poem doesn’t try to tell the reader how to feel, nor does it offer comfort or resolution. It simply presents the reality of how disaster and daily life exist side by side, never fully separate from one another. “Tragedy on the Potomac” captures this tension—the way the world acknowledges loss without ever truly stopping for it.

Photo by R M on Unsplash