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Announcing the GRAND PRIZE WINNER of our 2025 October Project Poetry Contest, SAM AURELI, for his poem “A Soft Unfolding.”
Sam originally from Italy and now based in Boston, is a design and construction professional working in real estate development. When he’s not immersed in concrete and steel, he writes poetry rooted in the elemental textures of the world. He came to poetry later in life as a refuge from the noise, a way to pause and listen more closely to what the world quietly offers. His poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in The Atlanta Review, Sontag Mag, Underscore Magazine, Prosetrics The Magazine, Stanchion Magazine, Humana Obscura, among other literary journals.
A Soft Unfolding
The crows lift—
sharp, sudden, a clamor against the sky.
I hear it: the hurt of the world, an ache
in the earth’s bones, the thin cries
of children under war’s shadow.
A raven sits on the morning’s branch.
I don’t shout back.
My quiet isn’t retreat—I’ve watched
the wind turn the grass, seen the river
carve its slow way through stone.
The weight stays, a pebble in my hand.
Look—
the world doesn’t close its eyes.
Rilke saw it: the panther’s gaze,
a pulse behind bars.
Whitman sang it: life rising
through war’s red haze.
And Oliver—her voice unbound,
calling with the wild geese,
harsh and clear over a muffled earth.
I don’t say this to hush the grief,
or step past the shadowed ones,
but to show you something stubborn,
something green.
Yesterday, by the hawthorn—its trunk
scarred from winter—a sprig pushed
through, tender, new, a question, a promise.
Isn’t this hope? Not loud, not a cry to cover
fear, but a root, a leaf unfolding, saying,
“Stay.
Look.
Keep going.”
#poetry #poem #OctoberProject #grandprize #prizewinner #nature #hope

Today we feature the SECOND PLACE WINNER in our 2025 October Project Poetry Contest, Elizabeth Johnston, for her poem “To All Our College Boyfriends, Who Ought to Know.”
Elizabeth is a widely published poet and the author of two chapbooks: Wild Things, (Main Street Rag, 2021) and Imago, Dei (winner of the Rattle Chapbook Poetry Prize, 2022). Coordinator of the Creative Writing Program at Monroe Community College and co-founder of Straw Mat Writers, she also leads trauma-writing workshops for the Breast Cancer Coalition and for survivors of sexual assault. She lives in Rochester, NY with her partner, Brian, daughters, and four unruly rescue animals.
Elizabeth ALSO writes, “October Project was my favorite band in college!” Find her at www.elizabethjohnstonambrose.com
and on Bluesky @poetlady74
To Our College Boyfriends, Who Ought to Know
“If I had known, would I have still made mistake after mistake?”
–Ada Limon, “After Nostalgia”
We were certain you’d marry us. So said the Magic 8-Ball
we picked up at Spencer’s shopping for edible body
paint and Cherry-Coke condoms. So said Rock Island’s Happy
Hour psychic. Even our girlfriends agreed as they held back
our hair while we puked. When you cheated, we said we were
nobody’s fool. We’d swear you off. Play Alanis on loop.
But come closing time, we’d call from a bar in El Paso,
from Drink & Drown in Juarez, a house party on Los Alamos
because we knew, yes, we’d bet our life, you’d always pick
a drunk girl up. Mini-skirt and fuck-me boots, we’d stumble
into your car, play “Crazy for You”– #6 in the queue. We knew
the moves, how to offer ourselves up. Unbuttoned, unbuckled
untamed, we squeezed between you and the wheel. Sexy
as Alicia Silverstone on MTV. We thought you wanted us
wild. Girls who’d go down on you in a theater, in a public stall, a
t three a.m. careening 90 miles an hour under a cloud-sutured
sky. We’d let you do anything you wanted. Let you in our beds
after you left the bar with some other girl. Let you leave
the condom off. Let you put your hands where we didn’t want
them. Let you and let you, your lips sugared with Cuervo
as you carved us through bruised mountains, break-neck speed.
True, we could have been undone, disintegrated into dust,
what with the sandstorms, what with the tumbleweeds and
tequila. What did we care for caution? What did we care
for the world? We cared only for the salt-slick turn
of your throat, the river-bed grit of our thirst.
It all seemed so urgent,
how to make you want us.
We thought our hearts, our bodies were doors
in need of breaking. When you called us beautiful,
we bowed our heads to the axe, to you
who were trained to honey the blade.
#poetry#poem#OctoberProject#prizewinner#boyfriend#college


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The final poet of the four who tied for THIRD PLACE in our Poetry Contest is Anne Marie Wells, for “Postpartum Abecedarian In Front of the Bathroom Mirror.”
Anne Marie is the author of two poetry collections: Survived By: A Memoir in Verse + Other poems, and Mother, (v) [pronounced Mother comma verb]. She is a certified Listener Poet and the content and copy editor for Mama’s Kitchen Press and Alegria Publishing. To find out more, visit AnneMarieWellsWriter.com.
In order to maintain the structure of the poem as Anne Marie laid it out on the page, we have attached an image of it here.
#poetry#poem#OctoberProject#prizewinner#truth


Today we feature “Let the Line End Here,” by Katie Ruffing, which tied for THIRD PLACE in our Poetry Contest.
Now only were we amazed to learn that Katie is only 18 , she writes “This is my first time ever writing poetry!” She plans to pursue a degree in Neuroscience with a minor in Philosophy.
Katie’s poem is a vivid, courageous, and personal story, the first of what we hope will be many poems to follow.
Let the Line End Here
They ask if I will ever want children,
as if the question is soft.
As if the answer is not already
lodged in the back of my throat
like a splinter I never learned to swallow.
They do not see the name stitched beneath my skin,
Clouston’s Syndrome,
a title passed down like a psalm
no one meant to sing aloud.
It hums in the nailbeds,
echoes through the scalp,
carves its history into the mirror.
No one ever said “unlovable,”
but I heard it anyway,
in the pause before touch,
in the look that did not linger,
in the way the world taught me
to fold myself smaller
before I even knew why.
This body is not broken.
But it has been treated like a warning.
Hair like smoke,
nails like splinters.
And still, I learned how to smile
with the lights off.
So when they ask,
“What if it skips?”
“What if they are lucky?”
they mean well,
but they are asking me
to roll a child into the dice
and pray the world has changed.
I do not fear the child.
I fear the world.
I know how it studies
difference like a crime scene.
How it teaches shame
before it teaches language.
What if they have my hands,
and learn to hide them before they speak?
What if they get my skin,
and wear it like a bruise?
What if they carry this quiet war
I have spent years dressing in lace?
Even if I dream of lullabies,
of names and tiny socks,
even if I know I would love them
like the sky loves its storms,
I will not place them on an altar
and hope the gods have softened.
I have seen too many offerings burn alone.
Call it grief.
Call it fear.
Call it selfish, if you must.
But I call it reverence.
A kind of love that does not ask
someone else to carry its weight.
That does not pass down
a name that has always fit me like a wound.
Let the line end here.
Not in shame.
Not in bitterness.
But in mercy.
This is what I will not give.
Not because I have nothing,
but because I have carried enough.

In alphabetical order, here is the second of the four poems that tied for THIRD PLACE in our Poetry Contest this year – “Inheritance,” by Diyora Kabilova from Uzbekistan! Imagine our surprise to learn that the author of this breathtaking poem is only 15 years old.
Diyora writes that “she uses poetry to make sense of the world and everything I feel too deeply to say out loud. My work often explores memory, emotion, and the quiet moments that leave a lasting mark. I write to remember—and to be remembered.”
Her winning poem is ASTONISHING.
INHERITANCE
I have inherited the silence.
The kind that grows teeth in the dark
and chews through the corners of rooms.
My mother left me her tremble,
a subtle ruin behind the ribs,
like a house that creaks long after it falls.
I wear her grief like a second blouse,
buttoned wrong,
so the world doesn’t notice how it fits.
My father gave me the habit of leaving.
Of vanishing inside a sentence
before it finishes saying “stay.”
He taught me how to fold an ache
until it fits inside a smile.
What is survival but unfinished mourning—
a quiet hum beneath the chest,
a pulse that doesn’t know it’s still alive.
Some nights, I walk into mirrors
and see only the people who named me.
Their voices stitched behind my eyes,
telling me how to cry without sound,
how to rot gracefully,
how to carry a scar like it’s heirloom.
I do not know how to be clean.
But I know how to sit in a storm
and call it home.
So I light a candle for what I couldn’t save—
the small, breakable girl in my throat,
the hymn of softness I strangled to stay.
I kiss the ghost I became
and call her mine.
Some inherit gold.
I inherited the hunger
of being alive.
#poetry #poem #OctoberProject #prizewinner #inheritance

Remarkably, FOUR POETS were tied for THIRD PLACE in our Poetry Contest this year. In alphabetical order, we begin with a deeply powerful poem from Canadian poet Dean Gessie entitled “on the consolation of elegy.”
Dean Gessie is an author and poet of global renown who has won dozens of international poetry awards and prizes. He was twice selected for The Best 64 Poets by Black Mountain Press in North Carolina and he was one of twenty international poets included in the Poetry Archive NOW! World View video anthology in England. Dean’s poetry collection, goat song, won the Seven Hills Literary Competition in Florida.
“on the consolation of elegy”
1
today, I looked at my son
in his casket
I stared at his beauty mark
and I gave thanks to God
for a non-cancerous tumor
today, I looked at my son
in his casket
I admired his jet black suit with
the Walmart sticker that read:
Save more. Live better.
today, I looked at my son
in his casket
I saw the record of an absent father
whose investment included one very
small deposit and zero interest
2
today, the psychologist asked me
if I wanted to cut
the umbilical cord and I said that
I imagine a timeless exchange
between oxygen and shit
today, the doctor spoke to me
about rope and
auto-erotic asphyxia and I said that
my son’s erection a few inches from
my nose had already made the point
today, the nurse offered a vaccine
against COVID
and I refused to take it because I am
not against anything at all except
the contraindication to death
3
today, I collected my son’s personal
effects at school
I took the clay ashtray that he
had made for his father and that
I now use exclusively for him
today, I collected my son’s personal
effects at school
I bagged his princess hat and his
Juliet Capulet costume [without, of
course, the cord already at home]
today, I took my son’s diary from
his locker at school
I found one hundred pages written in
invisible ink: ironically, my son had
not cracked the spine of the book
4
today, I met my son’s boyfriend
at McDonald’s
I bought a Happy Meal that came in
a red box and included a toy clown
with a thrill kill smile and a body bag
today, I whispered into the ear of
my son’s boyfriend:
why wasn’t it you standing on
that rolling chair? with a straight
face, he said, my balance is poor
today, my son’s boyfriend said that
my boy loved the temporary
nature of Snapchat and he cried into
his French fries because my son no
longer existed in his virtual world
5
today, I was guest of honor at my son’s
celebration of life
on the big screen, I saw a million photos
of he and his aunt laughing it up while
I scrubbed toilets at the Holiday Inn
today, I was guest of honor at my son’s
celebration of life
a tearful secessionist in a grey uniform
sang “God Save the South” to make the
link between two beautiful cold corpses
today, I was guest of honor at my son’s
celebration of life
I received a multi-colored pride flag that I
wore like Joseph’s coat dipped in the blood
of all the animals that had tormented him
6
today, poetry chose me like a Nazi
a POW at Buchenwald
in the gas chamber, I was kilned into
the shape of a mythic bird [a Phoenix in
mourning with a feather pen in its beak]
today, poetry chose me like a Nazi
a POW at Buchenwald
in the fire, she mixed my ashes with
the ashes of my son to resuscitate
both of us and to extend my suffering
today, poetry chose me like a Nazi
a POW at Buchenwald
because my son’s life and my anguished
verses will always ring hollow in a world
whose holy bells clap easy victimhood
7
and, to summarize, poetry chose me like
a Nazi a POW at Buchenwald
because my son’s dead body remains in my
mouth like an elegy baited with barbed hooks
that I must perforce chew and spit eternally
#poetry #poem #elegy #OctoberProject #prizewinner
