We Raise our Voices

#haikuTuesday #JulieFlanders #poetry #haiku #songs #singingtogether

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The World Seems Smaller

#HaikuTuesday #haiku #poetry #JulieFlanders #octoberprojectmusic #OctoberProject #space #world #touch #smallworld

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Where do we exist?

#HaikuTuesday #haiku #poetry #JulieFlanders #octoberprojectmusic #OctoberProject #existence #exist #innerspace #outerspace

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GRAND PRIZE WINNER – OCTOBER PROJECT POETRY CONTEST 2025 – Sam Aureli, “A Soft Unfolding”

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

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SECOND PLACE WINNER – OCTOBER PROJECT POETRY CONTEST 2025 – Elizabeth Johnston, “To All Our College Boyfriends, Who Ought to Know.”

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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THIRD PLACE WINNER – OCTOBER PROJECT POETRY CONTEST – Anne Marie Wells, “Postpartum Abecedarian In Front of the Bathroom Mirror”

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

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THIRD PLACE WINNER – OCTOBER PROJECT POETRY CONTEST – Katie Ruffing, “Let the Line End Here”

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.

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A Mirror of the Seasons


#HaikuTuesday #haiku #poetry #JulieFlanders #octoberprojectmusic #OctoberProject #solstice #seasons

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THIRD PLACE WINNER, OCTOBER PROJECT POETRY CONTEST – Diyora Kabilova, “Inheritance”

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

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THIRD PLACE WINNER, OCTOBER PROJECT POETRY CONTEST 2025 – Dean Gessie, “on the consolation of elegy”

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

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