Joshua Walker

This poem is about the hidden weight people carry—the quiet wounds, the unspoken fears, and the private battles that shape us far more than anyone realizes. The Things I Bury in Silence I keep a thousand tiny funerals tucked behind my ribs— names I never learned, wounds I never stitched, dreams I folded into smaller dreams until they disappeared. Most days I walk like nothing’s frayed, but every step remembers something I chose to swallow instead of speak.

This one is about survival after devastation—how people rebuild themselves from brokenness, not by returning to who they were, but by becoming something stronger and stranger. What We Become in the Ruins When the world caves in, we don’t rise— we crawl, we bleed, we stitch ourselves from the scraps of yesterday. But there’s a power in ruins— a clarity that comes when nothing is left but the truth we feared to face.

This reflects that volatile mix of hope and danger inside someone who feels too deeply—how love, anger, longing, and purpose can ignite at any moment. Lit Fuse Heart My chest is a matchbook— one strike and I’m burning, one spark and I’m gone. I love too hard, hurt too quick, rise too fast, fall too far— a walking wildfire pretending to be calm

This poem is about being imperfect but trying—about stumbling toward better versions of ourselves even when we keep repeating old mistakes. Halfway to Redemption I’ve crawled through my own shadows more times than I’ll admit, tripped on the bones of who I swore I’d stop being. Still— I drag myself forward, hand over trembling hand, toward a future that forgives what the past never would.

When you’re lost in winter’s grip, let your soul be the fire—
and guard that heat like your last breath.

Here’s some poems. 💙 💙 💙

#poetry #poems #writing #poem #poetrycommunity #blueskypoetts

New Poetry! poster with a snipper of the poem "My hands were not meant for prayer but they fold anyway not to God, but to gravity. Ash collects..."

Read our new poem by Joshua Walker! Follow him over at @bigjosh84.bsky.social! We're really excited to have his work over in our yard!

A poem about defiance, self-determination, and refusing to be constrained by fate or authority. The speaker asserts their power and identity, refusing to kneel or compromise. Claiming My Stake- I carve my name in the marrow of time, not in whispers, not in dust— but in fire that licks at the sky’s cold spine, in echoes that never rust. I take what fate would dare withhold, drag it, kicking, through the night— no man was born to beg for gold, nor dim his spark for softer light. They’ll call it madness, call it sin, but I won’t kneel, I won’t break. If destiny won’t let me in, I’ll burn the door and claim my stake. No grave nor government will set my place— I carve my name. I leave no trace.

A poem about heartbreak and the struggle to let go of someone who once mattered. It explores memory, loss, and the tension between forgetting and feeling. Things I Choose to Forget- I choose to forget how your voice used to sound, A melody lost in the hush of the air. The echoes still linger, they circle around, Yet I swallow their whispers—I no longer care. I choose to forget how your hands fit in mine, The way that you mapped every fault in my skin. Your touch once felt sacred, a shimmering sign, Now faded to nothing, where warmth had been. I choose to forget all the dreams that we made, The futures we painted in colors so bright. They blacken like paper that burns as it fades, Collapsing to embers that die in the night. Yet still, when the dark presses hard on my chest, I cannot forget how you made me feel less.

A modern, cinematic poem about movement, uncertainty, and chasing hope. The speaker navigates life’s chaos while holding onto the possibility of something better. Zigzagging Towards the Light- We ride the neon arteries of an endless night, headlights flickering like distant morse code— a gas gauge quivers, caught between hunger and hope. Billboards flicker their hollow prophecies, shadows stretch long over pavement’s breath, the road unraveling in whispers and wagers. Between exit signs and restless laughter, we navigate by the glow of what won’t die. A promise flickers in the void, untethered, but still burning like a slow-dying star. This is the kingdom of almost and not yet, where emptiness hums with the weight of possibility, and fullness slips through our fingers like wind.

An uplifting poem about resilience, hope, and moving forward despite hardship. It emphasizes that even small, quiet perseverance can guide us through life’s storms. What Still Rises- After nights that swallow whole the breath we keep, something in us still rises—quiet, unbroken. We gather the wreckage of who we were and shape it into something we couldn’t be before. We’re not defined by the weight we carried, but by the fact we kept moving under it. Hope isn’t loud, and it isn’t pure— just a stubborn ember refusing to die. And somehow, even against the storm, that small, defiant light is enough to lead us home.

Moments slip through us faster than we want to admit.
Hold onto the ones that matter—there’s no second run, no rewind.
Just now.

#poetry #writingcommunity #blueskypoets #poems

That truly means a lot—thank you for taking the time to read them.

I’m really glad it resonated with you—thank you for taking the time to say that. 💙

Thank you so much, I really appreciate that! 💙

Of course, I’m honored they spoke to you. That’s all I ever hope for with these—to leave something worth returning to. 💙

A poem about fleeting love and the hollowness left behind when something burns bright but never roots itself. It’s about how intensity can’t replace depth. Quick and Easy A moment passed, and here we are— two hearts that burn, then fade too fast. We chase the thrill, we name the star, but nothing real was made to last. We speak our truths, then walk away, like promises that never stayed. The rush is sweet, but hard to say what parts of us were truly swayed. It’s easy now, but hard to see what hides beneath the hollow grin. We play the game—pretend to be unchanged by where it’s been. Quick and easy—still it stings, this fleeting love that never clings.

Written for the quiet ones who endure unseen battles. It’s about the strength inside those who appear calm but are fighting to hold themselves together. A Man Who is Not A man who is not broken, but betrayed, his soul worn thin by scars unseen. He stands in silence, half-afraid— a shadow of the might he’s been. A man who is not hollow, but withered, his spirit crushed beneath its weight. He speaks no words, though every shiver’d thought defies the hand of fate. A man who is not lost, but bound, his heart a garden, overgrown. He walks where only echoes sound, and grief has made its home. A man who is not what eyes believe— a quiet truth the night won’t leave.

A reminder for anyone feeling isolated or unseen. This one’s about quiet companionship, and the unseen threads that connect us through pain and healing. Remember That You Are Not Alone When shadows fall and hope feels far, remember—you’re not on your own. The world may shift, but still you are a voice that trembles, not unknown. In darkest hours when hearts despair, someone is near, though out of sight. A presence breathes within the air, whispering peace into the night. The weight you carry doesn’t bind your spirit down, though it may try. For every tear, there’s someone kind who sees your pain, who won’t deny. So when you falter, pause, and know— you’re never lost; you’ll always grow.

This poem is about the erosion of love and the quiet acceptance that follows. It’s not about blame—it’s about what remains when the promises are gone. Oaths We Break We swore to stay, to never drift apart, yet here we stand—two ghosts, estranged. The vows once carved so deep in heart now splinter, cold, and rearranged. We promised trust, but trust is ghost, a shadow slipping through our hands. Each word we spoke now haunts the most, unmoored from what it understands. We swore to love through storm and trial, but storms can tear what roots can’t save. The love we held now fades to mild— a dying flame we couldn’t brave. Oaths once sacred—softly broke, like smoke that rises, lost in hope.

Forgiveness is the hardest thing we ever do.
If you can, do it—but never forget.
Hate rots the soul faster than grief.
Whatever we’ve done, I forgive you.
And I hope, somewhere in the quiet, you forgive me too. Without further ado here’s some new poems. 💙 #poetry #blueskypoets #writingcommunity

The Rapture Machine by Joshua Walker They buried God in a vending machine behind the old roller rink... The Rapture Machine by Joshua Walker

Dog Throat is pleased to announce that we've nominated The Rapture Machine by Joshua Walker for Best Micro Fiction (under 400 words) 2026. Thank you Joshua for sharing this piece with us. @bigjosh84.bsky.social

dogthroat.com/post/the-rap...

Thank you so much, Dog Throat! I’m honored to be nominated for Best Micro Fiction 2026 — it means a lot to have my work recognized by you.

A lone figure standing on a cliff at dawn, wind in their hair, wings made of scars and sunlight. The air hums with defiance — proof that even the broken can rise when the world expects them to crawl. How the Broken Learn to Fly They said the sky was too far, but my bones remembered the wind. They said I’d fall again, but falling taught me balance. They said I’d never heal right, but the scars became my wings. I don’t need perfect flight— I just need the will to rise.

A quiet morning kitchen, coffee steam curling like ghosts of yesterday. The flame on the stove flickers — small, steady, human. The kind of light that refuses to die, even when no one is watching. Ordinary Fire I wasn’t built for glory, but I still burn steady. No banners, no crowd, just the hum of survival. The world turns cold, but I keep my own flame. Some nights, that’s all it takes to keep the dark from winning.

A crowded street of blurred faces; one person stands still, eyes closed, hearing a different rhythm. The poem hums with quiet rebellion — the unseen soul who refuses to fade into the noise. Song of the Unseen They don’t see us in the crowd, but our silence is thunder. They don’t write our names down, but the earth still remembers our steps. They don’t hear us breathe, but every breath defies them. We are the miracle unseen— louder than their forgetting.

A figure walking into a storm, coat whipping, unbowed. The sky breaks open, but they don’t turn back. It’s not about the victory — it’s about the refusal to stop moving forward. Against the Wind They say dreams are fragile, but so are stars before they burn. They say hope is foolish, but so is life without it. They say resistance breaks you, but it’s the only thing that builds. Every bird that soars was told it couldn’t fly.

They tell us we’re ugly, that we’re nothing special. Why? Because birds with broken wings can’t stand to see others soar. Never listen. Believe. Hope. Resist. 💙
#poetry #writingcommunity #blueskypoets #poems

Ash of the Oathbreaker, a poem in alliterative verse by Joshua Walker Blades brood over / the broken promise. / Steel does not sleep. / Storms find the false; / fangs find the soft: / No hall holds lies.

@bigjosh84.bsky.social has a short poem in the current issue of Forgotten Ground Regained: Ash of the Oathbreaker. Think of it as a quick dose of Viking/Old English spirit. It uses a Norse stanza form, ljoðaháttr (song meter), a close relative of the ballad.
alliteration.net/poetry/ash-o...

A poem about the space grief leaves behind, and how silence becomes its own kind of memory. The Last Breath of Silence I waited for your voice, but it never came, The echoes of your absence call my name. The room is full of shadows, cold and wide, Where once you stood, now there’s only pride. I loved you with a depth that tore me apart, A love that bled from the cracks in my heart. But you slipped away like a whisper in the breeze, And I was left to drown in memories. Your eyes, once full, now empty and dim, The smile that was mine, now a distant hymn. You were the sun that never rose, Leaving me in a world where no light grows. Now I stand alone, with nothing to hold, A story unwritten, a love grown cold.

A poem about the voices we forget, and the way the earth remembers what we try to bury. Whispers in the Dirt The earth hums softly, secrets buried deep, Whispers in the dirt, where restless shadows weep. A lover’s name etched cold in fractured stone, A promise lost, now silent and alone. Hands once clasped now vanish with the light, Fading traces swallowed by the endless night. Roots clutch tight, tangled in sorrow’s grasp, Silent words forgotten in the past. Each footstep stirs the ghosts beneath the ground, Their muffled voices, haunting without sound. Beneath the soil, their stories intertwine, A timeless chorus, both cruel and divine. We walk above, unaware of their cries— Whispers in the dirt, where memory dies.

A poem about feeling out of step with the world, and the noise that follows when you just want quiet. That Song Oh, that song again—why can’t they see? It slithers and screeches through my every vein, a dirge in my skull, a maddening spree, but they dance like it’s joy, like it’s not pain. The beat’s a plague, it’s a constant invasion, each note like a wound, a dull, endless ache, and yet they all grin, with no sign of persuasion, as if I’m the crazy one, for sanity’s sake. Their voices rise, they’ve memorized every word, like this cacophony is some kind of grace, while I’m drowning in noise, my thoughts blurred, longing for silence, for any kind of space. I’m cracking, but no one hears me retreat— they think I’m the one who’s lost the beat.

A poem about love that softens the edges of the world and makes even the smallest moments radiant. The Brightest of Tomorrows I wake with the sun, and it smiles for me, A promise of joy in the air, so free. The world hums a tune that only I hear, And every step forward feels light, not sheer. You’re by my side, and the whole world fades, Every color more vivid, every shade. We dance through the hours, no need to ask, Our hearts in sync, a love unclad of mask. The sky is so wide, it can’t contain, The dreams we share, the joy, the gain. Laughter spills like rivers that flow, And time stands still as our hearts glow. Today is the day we make it all real, For every moment, this love is what I feel.

People ask why I always post poems on Tuesday—such a mundane day. That’s the point. We fight the good fight, speak truth to power, burn bright—but it’s who we are in the quiet, ordinary moments that defines us, that tells the story of our lives. 💙
#poems #writingcommunity #blueskypoets

Thank you for feeling it with me, and for reading. Always great to hear from you.

Thank you — I’m really glad that one struck a chord with you.

That means a lot — thank you for really feeling the pieces and not just reading them. I’m glad “The Pawn Shop” spoke to you; that one came from a very raw place.

Thank you so much — that really means a lot to me, and thank you for reading.

A poem about carrying what the rain can’t wash away—grief, memory, and the quiet resilience that keeps you standing. The Weight of Rain It falls the way old grief returns, Soft at first, then sharp and deep. The sky forgets, but the earth still learns The names of what it cannot keep. Each drop recalls a buried plea, Each echo hums through hollow bone. The ground absorbs the memory, And I walk soaked, but not alone. I used to beg the storm to end, To let me dry, to let me mend. Now I let it wash, unmake, restrain— There’s peace in being broken by the rain. Let the clouds cry what I cannot say— The flood remembers me anyway.

A poem about breaking your own silence and finding truth in the shards. Glass Tongue I’ve bitten words till they bled red, Polished lies till they gleamed like grace. I learned to love the things unsaid, To hide the hurt behind my face. The truth is fragile, sharp, and small, It cuts me even when I kneel. I drink its edge, I take it all, And call that ache the way I heal. Each sentence costs a piece of skin, Each poem’s just confession’s twin. Yet still I speak, though silence pleads— To bleed with meaning is all one needs. I’d rather shatter than stay contained— Glass only shines when it’s been strained.

A poem for anyone who’s held themselves together when everything else fell apart. Kingdom of Cracks I built my altar out of stone, Each prayer a scar, each vow a chain. The gods were silent, cold, alone, Their eyes unlit, their thrones insane. I begged for signs, for some return, A voice to mend my shattered creed. But all I found was what I burn— The faith that bleeds is faith I need. Through every fracture, light still came, Unasked, unholy, without name. I learned the truth the ruins lend— We break, but that’s not where we end. In the cracks, I see my reign— A crown of loss, but not of pain.

A poem about losing what once defined you, yet still finding a flicker that refuses to die. The Fire That Forgot Its Name The Fire That Forgot Its Name Once it burned with holy might, A storm of gold, unbound, alive. Now it flickers in the night, Too tired to flare, too weak to thrive. I feed it words, I feed it sin, I whisper love it can’t recall. Its glow lives deep beneath my skin, A ghost that answers every call. It hums like faith turned faint with time, Like ash still dreaming of the climb. I guard it close, this nameless flame— It’s me, without the need for name. Let darkness take what it may claim— I’ll burn, if only to remain.

There’s beauty in what breaks, light in what endures.
These poems come from the quiet after the storm—
where truth cuts, fire flickers, and faith rebuilds itself from ruin. 💙 💙 💙
#poetry #poetsofbluesky #writingcommunity

A poem about the hum of anxiety—the sting that never leaves and the thoughts that won’t rest. The Bee in Your Bonnet There’s a hum that rattles beneath your skin, A restless sting that claws at your mind. It circles your thoughts, a creeping sin, A restless buzz you cannot leave behind. It thrives on the tension, feeds on your doubt, A whisper of chaos that won’t let you breathe. It claws at your sanity, turning you out, A thought that refuses to let you reprieve. It stings in silence, it stings when you scream, A constant ache, a poison in your chest. It drives you to madness, distorts every dream, Until you’re a prisoner, unable to rest. So let it settle, build its twisted nest— The bee in your bonnet will never let you forget.

A dark dance between desire and destruction, where masks hide the truth of what we crave. Waltz of Ruin In shadows I move, where the light cannot find, A raven’s wing brushing close to the flame. The mask is my refuge, my peace of mind— A monster you crave, but you won’t speak my name. A twisted waltz, I lead with no shame, My hands on your throat as your breath turns to sighs. Whispers of ruin are all that I claim, Every word I speak is a thin, poisoned lie. The floor is a graveyard, each step I take, Your skin, cold beneath the weight of my touch. In the dance, I burn, but for nothing’s sake— I never wanted you—just wanted to clutch. At the ball, I laugh—but it’s death on my tongue, For the masquerade ends when your soul is wrung.

A reflection on lost faith and the quiet ache of seeing your own fall in someone else’s ruin. The Pawn Shop I saw an angel pawn her halo, dim, A tarnished wreath once forged of fire and grace. She sold it cheap—her light, her seraph hymn— For silence filled devotion’s vacant place. She stood outside, her hands as bare as bone, Where once the embers of belief had burned. The sky behind her shone, but not her own— No voice from heaven called for her return. She drifted on, a shadow lost in light, A ghost of oaths too broken to defend. Her prayers fell mute, devoured by the night, No god to mourn, no faith, no soul to mend. And as she vanished, stripped of all but pain, I swore I saw myself within the stain.

A poem of defiance—the will to keep going when everything else has fallen to dust. The Last Beating Heart The clocks lay shattered, hands undone, Their hollow faces lost to time. The wind that once held songs has spun To whispers drained of breath and rhyme. Yet something pounds beneath the dust, Defying rust, denying rest, A heartbeat forged in ash and crust, Still raging in a world undressed. The walls have crumbled, light has fled, Yet here it beats, untamed, unbowed, A whisper where the lost once bled, A fire no ruin’s hand has doused. Let silence drown what breaks apart— It cannot still the final heart.

There’s a hum beneath the silence, a sting beneath the calm. These poems come from that place—where faith burns, masks slip, and the heart still beats. 💙 #poetry #blueskypoets #poems#writingcommunity

That means a lot ❤️ It’s been a gentle, needed pause.

Thank you 🙏 I’ve missed this space while I’ve been away.

Thank you — poetry lives because of readers like you.

Namaste 🌿 Wishing the same to you.

I wrote this during a moment when I felt emptied out by silence, like even time had turned its back. It’s about the numbness that follows despair. The Lost and the Hopeless I don’t remember when the light went out just woke up cold and didn’t ask it back. There’s no one left to comfort, curse, or doubt, just empty walls and shadows going slack. I speak, but even silence doesn’t stay; it slips like breath through holes I didn’t mend. The clocks all tick, but time won’t look my way— it’s tired of watching me pretend to bend. I used to dream of something past this pain, a softer night, a name to whisper through. But hope is cruel—it never leaves a stain, just floats above like stars I’ll never view. So here I sit, this lost and hopeless thing, too numb to break, too dead to feel the sting.

This one is me poking fun at myself- a reminder not to confuse the poet with the prophecy. It’s about laughing at my own mess while still making art out of it. Don’t Take Me Too Seriously- I wore my heart like an oversized coat, Flashing my grin just to see who would blink. I told the world I was a saint, but nope I’m just a poet with too much to drink. I’ll flirt with chaos, but don’t get too near, I might trip on a metaphor and fall. But don’t mistake me for some kind of seer I’m just a mess with a pen, that’s all. I like my coffee bitter, like my jokes, And sometimes I’m the punchline in disguise. But laugh with me—let’s light up the smoke, And toast to truths wrapped in clever lies. So here’s my rhyme, don’t think too hard on it I’m just here to dance and laugh a little bit.

This poem contrasts the rush of the present with the stillness of the past. It’s about longing for the quiet moments that once gave life more depth. Now and Then Now, the world pulses in a frantic hum, its thrum a rush, relentless through the air. Then, silence swept the earth, a stillened drum, time paused, suspended in a breathless prayer. Now, we chase the fleeting light of days, a blur of steps, a race we cannot win. Then, we stayed in moments, soft and dazed, where calm dissolved the chaos deep within. Now, our voices clash in wild refrain, each word a sword, unsheathed and sharp with scorn. Then, we spoke in silence, free from pain, a language warm, where hearts were softly born. Now and then, the space between persists, where fleeting peace, in shadows, still exists.

Things She Don’t Understand This one speaks to the tension between being loved and being haunted. It’s about how inner battles can make connection feel impossible. Things She Don’t Understand She thinks I vanish just to cause her pain, not knowing silence is the way I scream. She chases thunder, curses at the rain— but storms don’t answer when they’re lost in dream. She says I’m distant, cold, or out of touch, as if I wanted to forget her face. But some things rot because we love too much, and wounds don’t heal just ‘cause we call it grace. She sees the ashes, asks me why I burned, like I lit matches just to watch them fall. But some men learn the fire can’t be turned— it eats you slowly, torching soul and all. She don’t see ghosts that whisper in my skin. She only asks why I won’t let her in.

It’s been a while. I stepped back, healed, and let silence do its work — but through it all, you stayed, and I carry that with me. Tonight I return the only way I know how: in four poems.Thank you all for your support and here’s the poems. 💙 💙 💙
#poetry#poems#blueskypoetts#writingcommunity

I think pressure doesn’t just expose character- it shapes it. Who we are is revealed not in the calm, but in how the heat of the moment morphs us. Absolutely love this- thank you for reading and for such a powerful, thought-provoking question.

In the wake of rampant online mobbing, cancel culture, and attacks on those who speak their truth, I wrote this poem as an urgent declaration: words are not crimes, courage is not punishable, and no one has the right to silence another. This is a stand for free speech, defiance against digital fury, and a call to remain unbowed in the face of threats, shaming, or dismissal. Written now, because the attacks are happening in real time, and silence would be complicity. No They swarm in pixels, pitchforks in hand, Dragging lives through mud for a single truth spoken. No. You speak—bold, raw, human—and they descend. Fired, threatened, shamed. No. Some, they cheer in whispered mobs. Some, they roar, claws bared, But this isn’t a game of sides. No. Truth is not a crime. Courage is not a felony. Words are not weapons for the faint of heart. No. Jimmy spoke. They took his show. Others fell. And you—watching, waiting—think it’s normal? No. I see the pitch, the drag, the callous delight. I see your digital mobs gnawing at flesh and name. And I will say it: No. No one silences truth with fire and fury. No one bends courage with threat and shame. No. Speak. Speak. Speak. And if they come for you, let them meet the echo of defiance. No.

So, friends: I was going to take a few days off to mourn my dog. But I’ve got a reputation for speaking when I must. So, I will speak—consequences be damned.

Before the poem: This poem defends free speech and criticizes mob mentality. It is not a threat to any person or group.#resist#poems#poetry

A poem about the raw, chaotic energy of life and the small, sacred flashes of beauty within it. I wrote this to capture the way color, light, and sensation can feel alive and holy even in dark moments. It celebrates being fully present in the moment, embracing intensity without apology. “Electric Mercy” The streetlight flickers and I remember I am neon— green flame drunk on rain, pink vein pulsing against the night’s throat. Lightning writes its gospel across my back, and I shout hallelujah in ultraviolet. Colors do not explain themselves. They riot. They bless. They tear their shirts open and demand you watch as they glow themselves holy.

A confessional poem exploring identity and the layers of self we wear like masks. I wrote this to examine how much of who we are is hidden beneath social expectation, survival, and the roles we are forced to play. It reflects vulnerability, isolation, and the struggle to be seen for who we truly are. “Matryoshka” They ask me who I am. I start to speak, but find the tongue belongs to someone else. The mask I wear was crafted to be meek, but underneath’s a mask that’s just as false. I’ve worn so many faces I forget if there was ever skin beneath the shell. Each smile’s a trick, each tear a silhouette— a ghost who learned the shape of how to dwell. I’ll carry masks until the final slip— the stumble into soil, dark and wide. And someone kind will paint my lips and grip my jaw shut, so the lie stays locked inside. You’ll say you knew me. Say it with a shrug. You only knew the shape that wore the plug.

A manifesto-like poem about collective power, solidarity, and breaking silence. I wrote this to give voice to the ignored and oppressed, celebrating the strength that emerges when people speak and act together. It’s about transformation, rebellion, and unity in the face of neglect. “Floodgates” Raise the floodgates, let them roar— The voices of the ones ignored. They rise, like water from the deep, Unbroken, unsilenced, they will speak. Each word a wave, each breath a sea, In unity, we’re finally free. No longer drowned in apathy, We carve the path we’re meant to be. Torrents rush where silence died, We lift each other, side by side. The winds will change, the earth will quake, And history, in our hands, will break. This world is ours, and we will take The silence that they tried to make.

Friends, I won’t lie — I’m shattered. My dog, Sugar Ray, passed suddenly. But grief has its own strange light. In our darkest moments, something in us still burns. Believe in your light, always. Here are new poems.
#poetry#poems#blueskypoets#writingcommunity

Just my opinion—reading the article and based on my experience writing in ljóðaháttr for your call, I think the trap in Nordic forms is overthinking. It’s more about learning the structure and then doing it. From what I’ve seen of Nordic poets, they have a flexibility many modern poets don’t.

Excerpt from Joshua Walker poem.

After the sweltering it’s cool and cloudy here, threatening a downpour, the hazy stickiness of summer already washed off. A perfect mood to read these three gorgeous, dripping @bigjosh84.bsky.social poems. We bet wherever you are the weather is perfect for it too. templeinacity.com/three-poems-...

A poem about longing for a past that never existed, where love and promises were whole but always just out of reach. Fiction of Yesterday- I dream of a past I never lived, where warmth was constant, skies never gray, where promises were more than hollow words, and love stayed, never slipping away. I see a face I never held close, eyes that spoke truth without the pain, a touch untouched by all that’s broken, a bond that would not wither in the rain. I clutch this fiction, letting it burn, but it flickers out when I reach for it— like smoke on the wind, it fades and churns, leaving only ash and a bitter grit. A yesterday that never was, a dream built from the ruins of my heart.

A poem about shame, survival, and addiction — the cost of living when the world has forgotten you. The Last Change in My Pocket- I wake on cracked cement, sidewalks that smell like last night’s regret, stale whiskey on my breath, a thief stealing tomorrow from today. They look at me like I’m invisible, like they can’t see the man who once held promises in his hands and let them slip between cracked fingers. A dollar pressed into my palm, a gift for the forgotten, the ones who wake in other people’s worlds, the ones who drink their yesterday and swallow it whole. I tell myself I’ll find the road home, but it’s easier to sleep under the weight of their pity and my shame. They don’t know that the price of living is wrapped in a bottle, and I’ve already paid for every drop.

A poem about wearing masks of joy to conceal despair, and the emptiness beneath the painted smile. Hiding in Clown White- I wear the painted smile, an armor of white, Cracked beneath, a hollow laugh rises, strained. They don’t see the tremor—only the light, A façade so perfect, but I am unclaimed. Each joke, a jagged line, a desperate plea, For attention, for warmth, for love I can’t buy. Behind the mask, I am swallowed in sea, Silent as laughter splits open the sky. The red nose, the perfect clown in full bloom, Hides the chasm, the scars they won’t know. I dance, I twirl, in my painted costume, Numb to the sting of my insides below. I am not what you see—just a ghost in the fight, Wearing smiles that are lost in the dead of night.

A poem about regret that lingers past the night, revealing the stains that can’t be washed away. Walk of Shame- The streetlights flicker like judging eyes, Each step an echo I cannot outpace. The night clings heavy, the neon lies, Masking the wreckage I dare not face. My breath is stale with the taste of regret, Hands still shaking from choices I made. A moment of hunger, a promise unmet, Now dragging me home through the mess I’ve laid. I swore I had standards, I swore I had pride, Yet here I am, soaked in last night’s sin. No one to blame, no alibi— Just me and the ghost of where I’ve been. The dawn doesn’t cleanse, it only reveals— Some stains don’t wash, and shame never heals.

It’s been raining since yesterday. Water washes the past away, leaves the streets clean. But these poems are for the soul that refuses to drift, and the heart that will never be clean 💙 #poetrycommunity #blueskypoets #poems #poem