WILD & WONDERFUL
April Writings Bring May Tidings!
Throughout the month of April 2026, we posted daily poetry prompts to inspire creativity in our poetry community in celebration of Poetry Month.
All the poems published below were written during Poetry Month 2026, with inspiration taken from our daily prompts as well as other sources. Together, our poetry community has produced a wild & wonderful collection of words, in which poets near & far write in conversation with one another, exploring & expanding upon each other’s artistry & creativity.
To review all the Poetry Month prompts from April 2026 and read the poems that inspired them, head on over to our poetry prompts archive! We invite you to continue referring to these prompts for inspiration, and to submit your poems for publication if you feel so called.
Before you read Wild & Wonderful we have a friend of the Dandelion Scribes community who needs our help –
Help Reem access higher education in Ireland!
Reem is a dedicated student from Gaza who has been accepted into a specialized Master’s program at a prestigious university in Ireland. She needs our help to claim this opportunity and pursue her education.
Reem has an extraordinary academic record, and now with the chance to bring all that she has seen & witnessed into a specialized course of study, she is on track to do the work her heart desires & change the world for the better in the process.
In her own words: Through my studies in Palestinian Studies and English Translation, I have explored how language shapes political narratives and how historical processes continue to shape lived realities.
At university, I plan to focus on how civil society functions under prolonged conflict and militarized governance, and how identity and social relations evolve under these conditions.
This is not only an academic goal. It is something I intend to carry forward into long-term research, civil society work, and knowledge that can contribute both locally and internationally.
If you are able to give ANY AMOUNT to help Reem secure her student visa and begin her studies, please DONATE HERE. Then contact the Scribes to let us know; you’ll receive a handmade poetry gift as a thank you for your contribution. Every dollar counts!
If you are not able to give at this time, sharing the link to the fundraiser also helps immensely.
Thank you for your support.
WILD & WONDERFUL
Featuring the following poets:
Sheena Fry King
Joshua Walker
Cameron Lyric Cox
Liz Preston
Olivia Croley
Olivia Gilreath
Cynthia Robinson Young
Angelia Ross
little deer
Dane Osborne
Brandy Warren
Cari Lynne Wilson
Rhonda Kendziorski
Amber Sparks
Frances Denise
the dithyrambler
Blair Correll
Blue Heron
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
WHAT POETRY REALLY IS
*Written in response to the prompt “Poetry” – inspired by “Poetry, What is It?” by Angelia Ross. With further inspiration from the poetry of Amber Sparks, Amethyst Drake, Brandon Thorpe, Cheyanne Leonardo, Dane Osborne, and Frances Denise.
It’s the kind of thing you don’t just write.
It’s the kind of thing that walks with you,
Like gravel crunching under tired boots
On a road that knows your name.
It’s people, mostly.
Breath turned into language,
Lives pressed down into lines
So they don’t disappear.
I once knew a voice that carried fire in its chest,
Spoke like a mother turning to ash just to rise again.
Not born from creation, but from burning itself whole
And still calling that renewal.
That kind of speaking feelings like kneeling
In a place that ain’t quite holy
And ain’t quite broken either,
Like a body waiting to feel like a sanctuary
Instead of something carved by grief.
You don’t read it—you survive it.
Then there’s the kind that rolls gentle as a gravel road
Winding through a summer drive,
Where hills don’t ask questions
And the sky feels close enough to keep.
A voice that once found a rainbow
And tucked it away for when the dark came knocking,
Even while mixing colors in rooms
That didn’t always feel safe to sit in.
That kind of poetry knows
How beauty and hurt can share the same breath.
Some voices don’t speak loud at all,
They just listen long enough,
To hear directions in the quiet.
Follow the trickle of water past where folks stopped going,
Step through the overgrowth,
And you’ll find something alive in the stillness.
A kind of self-sacrifice lives there too,
Not loud, not praised.
Just a slow burn that gives more than it keeps.
That kind of poetry don’t ask to be understood,
Only noticed.
There’s a voice that feels older than the hills,
Like it remembers a time
Once upon a full moon
When everything knew how to belong.
It speaks in vows,
Not the kind you say out loud,
But the kind your bones keep anyway.
It’ll tell you the system is connected,
That every breath you take
Ain’t just yours.
That kind of poetry don’t separate—
It gathers.
And then there’s the one that looks up too far,
Asks what it means to be human
When we’re always reaching for something brighter
And falling all the same.
It’ll tell you such is the human condition,
To want the sun
Even knowing it’ll burn you.
It wanders past the skin,
Past what we think is real,
And sits with the mystery
Instead of running from it.
That kind of poetry don’t settle—
It searches.
Some voices come soft,
Like tunnels running underneath everything,
Connecting what we thought were separate.
They’ll sit with you slow,
Teach you not to rush through a moment,
To watch the way a sunrise
Can take rage and tun it into something warm.
They remind you loneliness
Ain’t as real as it feels,
That even the quiet
Is full of something reaching back.
That kind of poetry heals
Without making a sound.
So, what is poetry?
It ain’t just words scribbled down or thoughts dressed up nice.
It’s the people behind them.
Their wounds, their wonder,
Their trying again when it’d be easier not to.
It’s every voice that chose to speak
When silence would’ve been simpler.
It’s fire and road and creek and sky,
All carried in a human chest.
And if you listen close enough,
You’ll hear it plain.
Poetry ain’t something we write.
It’s something we live.
–Sheena Fry King
⚘
WHAT IT LEAVES
*Written in response to the prompt “Poetry” – inspired by “Poetry, What is It?” by Angelia Ross.
Most of it
doesn’t matter.
The line you liked.
The image you kept fixing.
The part that felt finished.
Gone.
What stays
is smaller.
Something you didn’t plan.
Something that slipped through
while you were trying
to get it right.
You don’t recognize it.
That’s how you know.
—
Everything else
was you writing.
That part—
that’s what’s left
after you stop.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
POET: LAMENT OF AN AGING THEATER KID
*Written in response to the prompt “Poetry” – inspired by “Poetry, What is It?” by Angelia Ross.
I used to wish life could be a musical
Because sometimes the emotion of the moment
Is just too big for words to express
You need the swelling of the orchestra
As your voice rises in song
The drum beat guides
Your feet and subtle harmonies
Join in to fully encapsulate
The depth of the feeling
But I'm not much of a singer
And I never learned to play
I forgot how to read music long ago
And my aching joints stop the dance
Cold in its tracks
So the best I can do is try
To string the words together
And hope that is enough.
–Cameron Lyric Cox
⚘
FIGHTING FOR WORDS
The words are sliding down to the tip of my tongue,
But I force them back.
I can’t let them escape and throw everything off track.
Instead they play on a reel in my thoughts,
Toying with my resolve.
You smile at me and I feel my wall dissolve.
You’re just out of reach,
Just a bit too far.
I long to meet you where you are.
Your smile reaches your eyes and I watch them ignite,
Two embers burning bright.
I want to tell you how worth it you really are,
Because I don’t think you know.
But I’m too scared to let this show.
Maybe I’m not worth it to you,
And finding that out is something I don’t need to do.
So I force the words down,
Away from being heard.
I force them back and don’t say a word.
–Liz Preston
⚘
THE UNBECOMING
*Written in response to the prompt “Death Makes A Change” – inspired by “The Change” by Chris Boyatt.
A thank you to the shadows, and a welcome to the light.
She thought the light came to break her,
but it only came to open the door.
With a heart bruised and broken,
yet still doing its best to beat,
she let the heavy weight of it all
slip into the tall grass.
The chains fell from her spirit.
The iron finally snapped.
For the first time, breath
did not feel like a struggle.
She buried who she was—
not with anger, but with a thank you.
The war against herself was over.
She did not vanish.
She just finally
became free.
–Olivia Croley
⚘
TRANSFIGURATION
*Written in response to the prompt “Transfiguration” – inspired by “Saint Kevin Goes to Waffle House” by Joshua Walker.
It didn’t happen all at once—
no lightning split, no choir flame,
just a quiet rearranging
of everything that held my name.
A loosening of edges first,
the blur between the what and the who,
as if the mirror lost its grip
and let me seep a little through.
My hands forgot their former shape,
my voice unlearned its borrowed sound,
and something older than my bones
rose from underneath the ground.
Not change like fire consumes the wood,
but like the dawn remakes the sky—
the same horizon, still and sure,
yet wholly other to the eye.
I was not lost in becoming,
nor was I left behind—
just opened like a hidden door
I didn’t know was mine.
And in the widening of self,
no grand declaration came,
only the softest knowing:
I had outgrown my name.
Now I move in quieter light,
no need to prove or figure—
what once was small and tightly held
has learned to live out bigger.
–Olivia Gilreath
⚘
WHAT KEEPS HAPPENING
*Written in response to the prompt “Manifestation” – inspired by “Blue” by Mellisa Pascale.
I thought
if I understood it
it would stop.
If I named it
it would lose whatever hold it had.
—
It didn’t.
—
It kept showing up.
Different room.
Different person.
Same result.
—
I told myself
I was learning.
Getting closer
to something better.
Closer
to what?
—
It wasn’t luck.
It wasn’t timing.
It wasn’t them.
—
It was me.
—
Not in a way
you can point to.
Just small decisions
that felt right
when I made them.
—
That’s the part
I missed.
—
You don’t manifest
what you want.
—
You manifest
what you allow.
—
And by the time
you see it—
it’s already happened
again.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
PHOENIX ENERGY
*Written in response to the prompt “Resurrection” – inspired by “Where the Old Stories Still Breathe” by Olivia Gilreath.
Be careful the energy you invite
So often I see girls at tattoo parlors
Getting a bird with wings of flame
Emblazoned on their bodies.
“I rise like a Phoenix from the ashes"
They say with stars in their eyes
And a lack of understanding
Because Rising is just one aspect of the Phoenix
And when you invite the Phoenix,
You invite its totality.
Which includes the burning, and the ash.
The rise, and the fall.
Do not be surprised
When you invite the Phoenix
That you then, too, invite a cycle
Of death and resurrection.
–Cameron Lyric Cox
⚘
INFINITELY NOW
*Written in response to the prompt “Infinity” – inspired by “Cosmic Memory” by Amethyst Drake.
For Dad—I found myself again the moment I realized that your strength is woven into mine.
I reached for you through silver hours,
And lost my way within the dark.
I drifted like the summer showers,
Searching for a steady spark.
I thought that I was lost for good,
In silence where your voice had been.
But then I finally understood—
I found the strength you sowed within.
You never left, you only grew,
Like golden light and mountain air.
In every dream, I walk with you,
I find your presence everywhere.
The storm is gone, the tide is still,
You’re waiting where the blue is deep.
And now I move with peace and will,
A promise that I mean to keep.
So wait for us where light stays bright,
Beyond the reach of salt and sea.
I’ll keep you here within the light,
As I carry you with me.
–Olivia Croley
⚘
AFTERWARD
*Written in response to the prompt “Death Makes A Change” – inspired by “The Change” by Chris Boyatt.
They said it was over.
Used that word
like things end clean.
Like whatever mattered
knew how to stop.
They explained it—
the body,
the cause,
the way it happens
when it’s finished.
It all made sense.
That was the problem.
Nothing missing
you could point to.
And still—
something didn’t leave.
I went home.
Same room.
Same light.
Same quiet.
Not empty.
Not exactly.
Just… taken up.
Like a chair
no one moved back.
I didn’t look for it.
You don’t have to.
It’s in the way
sound doesn’t travel right.
In the way
you stop mid-sentence
without knowing why.
In the way
you start answering
things
no one asked.
They talk about spirit
like it goes somewhere.
Up.
Out.
That would help.
This doesn’t.
This stays.
In the space
your body makes
when it expects someone
to still be there.
In the silence
that keeps its shape.
And after a while—
you don’t try to name it.
You just learn
where it is
and how to move around it
without disturbing
whatever never left.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
CONTAMINATION
*Written in response to the prompt “Contamination” – inspired by “Contamination” by Stephanie Duncan. With further inspiration from “The Return” by Christian Collier.
I have witnessed the recession of too many
black coffins and urns making their way down church aisles.
Seems like I’m losing so many of my friends, I have run out of them
and now moved to acquaintances – because if I’ve ever given them
a welcomed greeting or goodbye hug, I know them well enough
to not want them to be alone in an empty funeral home,
or be buried with one or two bystanders like that
of Ebenezer Scrooge, a scene that haunted him,
And still haunts me…
But I’m having trouble keeping up with all this dying,
Death giving no regard to their ages. They meet their demise
in all sorts of ways, surprising them the way it surprised us,
arriving so suddenly we had no time to imagine it:
a surgery that clotted their blood, a headache, the only sign that
a laying down to rest would become permanent.
Is it ignorant to ask
how death has suddenly contaminated this world
around me? Is it superstitious to be
terrified of what lies ahead
or keeps sneaking up from behind?
–Cynthia Robinson Young
⚘
MY WORLD IMPLODES
*Written in response to the prompt “Death Makes A Change” – inspired by “The Change” by Chris Boyatt.
You came into my life
When I was at my lowest,
And changed me into
A strong, courageous woman,
Who could take on the world.
That was until you were
Diagnosed with lung cancer,
And my world shattered
Into a million little pieces.
You had never vaped
Or smoked a day in your life,
So how could you
Have lung cancer?
It had to be a mistake.
The doctor had to be wrong.
We go for a second opinion,
And the doctor tells us
That the first diagnosis
Was correct except the cancer
Has spread to both lungs,
Lymph nodes and pancreas.
Nothing could be done.
He was very sorry.
On the way to the car,
You acted like everything was normal,
But how could that be the case,
When my insides felt like
Someone had ripped them out,
Wadded them up,
And shoved them back in.
On the way home,
Tears streamed down my face
Enough for the both of us,
Yet, you tried to comfort me
With your witty humor,
Which only made me cry harder
Because I should have been
The one comforting you.
And that night in bed,
You held me so tight
That I never wanted you to let me go.
Then when we awoke the next morning,
The sun was shining so bright
It almost hurt the eyes,
And the birds were singing
Beautiful little repertoires.
Except for the grey and white
Mockingbird who was perched
In the apple tree by the back porch.
He was doing renditions
Of so many birds so fast
That it made us laugh.
Oh, how I was going to miss
Your loving touch,
The feeling of your lips on mine,
And the resonance of your laughter.
Thoughts that caused yesterday's
Nightmare to slam into me
Like the waves of an angry ocean,
Causing tears to spring anew
And my heart to shatter once more.
Then you gently take hold of my hand,
Wipe away my tears with your left thumb,
And start telling me about
The things you want to do
And the places you want to see
Before you leave this world.
And without hesitation I
Agree to the itinerary.
Oh, what beautiful memories
Were made on that epic journey.
Yet, the time raced by so incredibly fast,
And here we are four months later.
You're lying in our queen size bed,
So thin, pale and nearly unrecognizable.
I hold your hand and try to be strong
Until you take your last ragged breath.
I kiss your lips one last time,
Whisper, “Goodbye my sweet prince,
Until we meet once more
On Heaven's bright shore."
Then my world simply implodes,
And I am never the same again.
–Angelia Ross
⚘
RESURRECTION
*Written in response to the prompt “Resurrection” – inspired by “Where the Old Stories Still Breathe” by Olivia Gilreath.
I never get nearer to God than when I wish not to join Him.
–from “Leaving the Earth” by Christian Collier
I think we are all born
with an innate desire to live forever,
with Eternity written in our bones, flesh, and heart. We fear
anything that might be the end of us, and when they say,
We have nothing to fear but death itself,
we search in those words where our comfort might lie.
Deathbed Conversions are real for a reason –
with another kind of Eternity looming ahead,
all static is gone, and we finally get the whole picture,
and everything God has been saying throughout Time
can suddenly be heard, temporary falling away like the ominous fog
I drive through on way up Lookout Mountain.
–Cynthia Robinson Young
⚘
UNBURIED
*Written in response to the prompt “Resurrection” – inspired by “Where the Old Stories Still Breathe” by Olivia Gilreath.
You thought
it would stay down
once you named it.
Once you said it out loud
and let it take its shape.
That’s what you were told—
that things brought into the open
lose whatever power
they had in the dark.
It worked
for a while.
Or maybe
you just stopped looking.
That’s easier—
calling something finished
because you’re tired
of carrying it.
But it doesn’t stay where you put it.
It waits.
Not buried—
just out of sight
long enough
for you to forget
what it felt like
when it was still moving.
And then—
something small
pulls at it.
A word.
A place.
A moment
that lines up just enough
to let it through.
Not all at once.
Just a shift.
Just enough
to remind you
it never left.
You call it memory
because that sounds better.
Because it suggests
distance.
But this isn’t that.
This is closer.
This is something
that learned
how to wait
for you
to believe
it was gone.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
INCONVENIENT TRUTHS
*Written in response to the prompt “Inconvenient Truth” – inspired by “Inconvenient Troops” by Cameron Lyric Cox.
I saved all the letters you wrote to me
Although I don’t know where they are
But I know I kept them because your children
Are in them, along with the belief in who we could be –
How life could be perfect if we righted every wrong,
And we planned to,
Your outline in your letters, a guidebook, a master plan.
I kept your letters after I lost you
Because I could still hear your voice in the legal pad paper
Folded in thirds, but so thick, you had to find special envelopes
That eventually disappeared from the Staple’s shelves
When you did.
Even after you metamorphosed into a stranger to me, I kept
The person you were. Your ghost is living right here
In your cursive letters written in ballpoint Bic.
And when my heart really aches with the loss that visits
More often as I age, I still can resurrect you
In your words
If I could just remember where I put them,
And what your name is again,
And who you are.
–Cynthia Robinson Young
⚘
SPIRIT OF OUR FORMER SELVES
In the days of our youth,
We fear very little,
So we're up to the challenge
Of being superheroes, adventurers
And conquerors of the world.
Paths that some of us continue
To traverse well into adulthood,
While others of us have encountered
Misfortune that has left us as wreckage,
And it is here at this point in time,
That the spirit of our former selves
Steps into the shadows
Of fear, doubt, loneliness
And the realization that our
Bodies are failing us,
And all we can think of
Are the things we did in our past,
Places we went, the people we met,
Trinkets in cedar boxes
And the sunsets long gone.
And we wish to be there again,
Until we take our last breath,
Leaving the spirit of our former selves,
Lingering in someone else's memory,
And photographs left behind.
–Angelia Ross
⚘
PROPHECY
*Written in response to the prompt “Prophecy” – inspired by “Memory” by Cheyanne Leonardo.
What if I told you the past is the future?
That we have already been replaced,
Each generation cyclically buried,
Bones and ashes scattered, decomposed already,
As the next generation steps forward, is if in battle lines,
Warring with a life existing outside of Time?
If we can hold onto our last living relative,
We can believe our line is not the next to move forward.
This is why we panic at each of her forgotten thoughts,
Every cough, every fall, every hint that we are next
To carry the family stories that will gird all that determines
Who our family will be
When only our names written in a family Bible
Have survived.
–Cynthia Robinson Young
⚘
TIME TRAVEL
*Written in response to the prompt “Time Travel” – inspired by “Staring at Kronos” by Amethyst Drake.
I tried to bend the clock once—
pried at its steady hands,
searched for the hidden hinge
between the was and stands.
No machine, no burst of light,
no fracture in the air—
just memories like open doors
and I was already there.
I walked through summers still alive
in dust and golden heat,
heard echoes of unfinished words
repeat, repeat, repeat.
I reached out to change a single thread,
to pull it clean and new—
but time is not a woven thing
that hands can wander through.
It holds you as it carries you,
a current, deep and wide,
and every past you try to touch
has already moved aside.
Still something in the drifting
lets moments overlap—
a voice, a scent, a fleeting glance
slips through the present’s gap.
So maybe time travel is this:
not forward, not behind,
but learning how eternity
is folded in the mind.
And every second lived becomes
a place you can return—
not to rewrite what’s written there,
but finally to learn.
–Olivia Gilreath
⚘
i’ve traveled all through
the past and to no
avail – stuck in time
loops keeping me hooked
to the karmic
wheel. they say
there’s a way to escape
the finitude of flesh –
a currency of exchange
that encapsulates the truth
and eliminates theft –
–little deer
⚘
ECHOES WRITTEN IN LIGHT
*Written in response to the prompt “Infinity” – inspired by “Cosmic Memory” by Amethyst Drake.
We stand beneath the same sky—
not new, not ours—
just borrowed starlight
traveling centuries to find our eyes.
Before us, they stood here too,
boots in Appalachian soil,
hands calloused from carving homes
out of stubborn mountains,
heads tilted back
toward a cosmos they could not name
but somehow understood.
They didn’t say light-years—
but they knew distance.
Didn’t say nebula—
but they saw birth in the haze.
Didn’t speak of gravity wells
yet felt the pull of something greater
holding them in place.
And now we whisper words like
Orion’s Belt,
Andromeda,
red giant,
event horizon—
as if naming the stars makes them ours.
But the sky does not belong to language.
It hums in frequencies older than speech,
a quiet radiation—
cosmic background—
echoing the first breath of everything.
Maybe our ancestors heard it
in the crackle of firewood,
in the hush between cicadas,
in the long dark stretch
between one hard day and the next.
Maybe they knew the stars were not just light
but memory—
burning archives of time,
each photon a messenger
carrying stories across vacuum and void.
We look up now
through phone screens and satellites,
through constellations mapped and remapped,
through telescopes that split light
into spectra—
hydrogen, helium, trace signatures
of something ancient still unfolding.
But still—
we are the same.
Standing in the same dark,
beneath the same expanding universe,
orbiting a middle-aged star
in a quiet spiral arm of the Milky Way,
pretending we are separate
from the story we’re inside.
What if the stars are speaking?
Not in words,
but in collapse and ignition—
in supernovae that scatter the elements
we carry in our bones,
in the slow fusion of hydrogen into helium
that mirrors the way we try
to become something more.
What if every constellation
is a sentence we’ve forgotten how to read?
And the mountains—
old as tectonic memory—
stand like witnesses
between us and the sky,
reminding us that time is not linear
but layered,
like sediment,
like story,
like us.
We are made of the same dust
that settled into these hills,
the same carbon that once burned
in the heart of a dying star.
So when we look up—
we are not observing.
We are remembering.
And somewhere, beyond perception,
past the heliosphere,
past the pull of our own small orbit,
the universe continues to write itself
in collapsing clouds and spinning galaxies—
waiting.
Waiting for us
to listen again.
–Sheena Fry King
⚘
DAYS OF A FUTURE NOT YET SPOKEN
In the days of a future not yet spoken into life,
During the final solar eclipse
That will ever happen
People as a totality won't care anymore
And they will be more frank and blunt
As to how they really think and feel
About each other:
The healing of secret hidden love and
The burning flames of fierce unknown hatred
Both profound and petty in scope.
Facing our end with all the tense drama
That comes along with the sudden birth
Of a daring final finale that was always inevitable
From the very beginning:
We're all going to be clean again.
We are all going to be clean.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
RESURRECTION
*Written in response to the prompt “Resurrection” – inspired by “Where the Old Stories Still Breathe” by Olivia Gilreath.
Before the dawn had found its voice,
before the stone was moved,
the world still held its breath in grief,
as if all hope had proved
too fragile for the weight of death,
too small for such a cost—
and Heaven, quiet in the dark,
seemed distant, sealed, and lost.
They laid Him in the borrowed tomb,
their sorrow cold and deep,
believing promises had died
in that unbroken sleep.
But death had never held a King,
nor sealed what God had planned—
for life was stirring in the grave
by Heaven’s own command.
And in that early, trembling light,
the silence split in two,
as the stone gave way and breath returned
and every word proved true.
Jesus Christ rose—not as a fading dream,
nor shadow thin and pale,
but flesh and glory intertwined,
alive beyond the veil.
The wounds remained, yet shining now,
no longer marks of loss,
but signs that love had conquered death
through sacrifice and the cross.
So every grave we stand beside,
each tear we cannot hide,
is met with resurrection’s hope—
the stone is rolled aside.
For what was buried is not gone,
and what seemed lost shall rise,
because He lives, the promise stands:
death never has the final prize.
–Olivia Gilreath
⚘
PINK ENCHANTMENT
Short-stemmed blooms—Pinkladies—
sweet and open, her wind-blown,
fluttering in clustered waves
alongside paths to giddy places.
Sprung up without thought,
without plan,
her April purpose to delight,
as if her show she knew
brought smiles, light to hearts
dark from naught of touch
from cold's layered skin.
Alone in his dry, earthy pod,
straight, leafless spike of green,
him topped with elongate, pink frills of
August's Surprise Lily.
Hot, pink love amidst summer's heat,
popping up, his male enchantment
enjoins a body to stare, to touch,
to smile again at his lusty pull
on a heart's rapid beat,
keeping memory fast,
till, again, April opens her sweet Pinkladies.
–Brandy Warren
⚘
A NEW LIFE
Backed into a corner.
Can't go up.
Can't go down.
Can't go forward.
Or so it seems.
Fight and fight,
Dig and scratch,
But nothing seems
To make a difference.
Disgust and aggravation
Makes for a short temper.
And the urge
To break something
Is so strong,
It takes every ounce
Of will power
To keep it tamped down,
And not have to pick up
The shattered pieces.
Please, someone save
This exhausted wretch.
Give her hope.
Give her a way out.
Give her a new life.
–Angelia Ross
⚘
i wasn’t made to be as bright
as the world wanted me to be –
expected of me –
drawn to darkness –
creature belonging to cruelty.
they ask you – demand that you
rise! – all the while – chaining
your limbs to the ground, looking
the other way, lying to your face
as they fasten the locks, as they
stack the rocks and wall you all
the way in. then they stand
outside and wonder why
you don’t seem
to shine
why you’ve lost
your light why
you want
to fight
against all their ungodly
influence.
i vowed never to become you –
even from the depths i knew
i would never take
your shape
as my own.
with my last breath
i will lift the curse
and until then
i will not allow you
to keep me low –
i am large! i will break
away and out and
through –
there is something brewing
in the background.
in the forest.
everyone makes fun of my lists
but there’s something out there
i don’t want to miss –
my mission is to capture it! –
to translate its essence,
dissolve the mist.
–little deer
⚘
TRAUMA
*Written in response to the prompt “Inconvenient Truth” – inspired by “Inconvenient Troops” by Cameron Lyric Cox.
Fight or flight
A matter of survival
A wounded wolf bites
Unable to tell friend
From foe from innocent passer-by
Caught in a trap it never saw coming.
A rabbit will find itself caught in wolven jaws
Not as food but due
To lashing out in pain.
That same instinct leads the wolf
To bite at gentle hands reaching out to help
The wolf must eventually choose
To stay trapped, suffering alone til death
Or to free itself it must
Chew through the leg, leaving behind
What's too damaged to be saved
So it can heal what can.
Only the wolf can make that choice.
It's not fair to the wolf
Who did not choose the maiming.
But it is solely the wolf's
Responsibility.
–Cameron Lyric Cox
⚘
THE LIGHT OF DAY
The nighttime whispers
shrouding secrets in darkness
A certain intimacy belongs
to the dusk until dawn
I call forth unto light
each sin you ever committed
Illuminate every time you crossed
all the lines I had drawn
–Cari Lynne Wilson
⚘
LIAR
Liar liar pants on fire
Quell your conscience with desire
Charming and attractive on the outside
But in the depths your darkness hides
So, fff…forget you
Lies roll off your tongue
Like breath from the lungs
Maybe you believe the words you say
Likely, they are only meant to sway
So, fff…forget you
You tell them all they’re beautiful
Making each one feel special and seen
But you’re not actually capable
Of truly beholding a queen
So, I will forget you.
–Rhonda Kendziorski
⚘
I AM FILLING MY CUP WITH LOVELY THINGS
More water
Fewer tears
Iced coffee just the way I like it
2am adventures for beef jerky and fudge
Kentucky blue SUVs that drive a
Tennessee orange love
Smiles born of calm instead of chaos
Big laughs from little boys playing with bubbles
The sound of the ocean
Assigned family
Chosen family
New family
A toothbrush in a drawer
Happiness overflowing
–Cari Lynne Wilson
⚘
WHOLE
Bits and pieces admired
They never love the whole
The sum of all my parts
Rooted heart and soul
Too much or not enough
They choose to let go
The choice is mine, now I see
To choose to love and nurture me
–Rhonda Kendziorski
⚘
How can you grow a garden
with water doped with arsenic,
with soil so toxic the logic
of trying to plant roots is
useless as the truth is
to someone who’s been
shown that love is nothing
but ruthless
and fruitless?
What I’m trying to say is,
I want to see this love bloom.
Fifty years from now I see us
sipping tea ‘cause I’m in awe
of the way sunlight dances
across the room,
illuminating the serenity
of my morning view –
an enchanted garden,
with a bountiful harvest
and a love that
relentlessly grew.
–Amber Sparks
⚘
UNEXPECTED PLACES
Storm clouds gather overhead
taking away the sun
a deafening darkness
washes across the land
Raindrops and teardrops
become one as they fall
soaking the barren land
pleading for a glimpse of growth
Fierce flames came raging in
scorching everything in their path
all hope for harvest
now turned to wasteland
Through the veil of smoke
silhouettes come into view
a glowing promise
of brighter days on the horizon
Sunshine and rainbows sometimes come
as bubbles and coffee
and the sweetest love
standing guard in the garden
–Cari Lynne Wilson
⚘
APOTHECARY
*Written in response to the prompt “Abandoned Apothecary” – inspired by “I am an abandoned apothecary” by Amber Sparks.
It always smells of fresh lavender in here
My favorite out of all the flowers and leaves
I've dried
I close my eyes and breathe in
Allowing the scent to clear
The restlessness stuck in my lungs
“This never gets old!" I say out loud with relief
And “thank you"
As my eyes take in
The day's first light pouring in through the east window
I hug the space like something
I lost one too many times
But wish to never again
I blow kisses to every rounded corner
Before I set down my usual offering:
A small vase of bright, fresh blooms
My voice is in every single one
Of the jars and bottles and boxes that surround me –
The main ingredient in every medicine that heals me
I laughed as I note the ones labeled
“Defiance" and “Dreams"
Right next to each other on my alphabetically arranged shelf
“Forgiveness" and “Grace" came after
My fingers scan every container
Until I pull out “Play" and “Rest"
The perfect pair for this fine Monday
When my children are home with me again
And we have nowhere to be.
As I make my way out
I speak a blessing to the days before this one
I leave the door ajar
And skip away
–Frances Denise
⚘
STARTING FRESH
I can’t sleep again tonight
so I’ve been laying here
thinking
as overthinkers tend to do
Grateful
A village of humans
all my own
have carried the dead weight
of a soul just attempting
rebirth
Which has proven to be even
more messy
than the first
–Cari Lynne Wilson
⚘
REVOLUTION AND THE CONSEQUENCE OF INFORMATION
Revolution is the mother of dictatorship.
Everything you see or touch or feel and thus think is only in relation
to what has already been created before you:
Information that teaches you to understand empathetic vibes
and to have a sympathetic heart.
We watch things blow up on TV
And we always hear the sound of things blowing up
And we think about things blowing up
And we all hope and pray and reason for a better future....a utopia of your own conscious will.....a beautiful and breezy reality you inherit through what you will so stoutly
Earn here today with violence and hope.
I can't kill the system because I am the system because if I did try to kill the system then it would succeed in killing me first with no effort because you can't kill the system and you can't even pay for the system without the price of your only one soul.
The realm of flesh and the music of the world’s temptation
OR a vow of silence for observance of
Your infinite soul
And taking all your money and setting it all on fire
Because golden idols strangle your spirit
Especially if you don’t understand them.
The entity of Love is
An experience often misunderstood
Because people are misguided about what
is called living frequency.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
JESUS WEPT
*Written in response to the prompt “Jesus Wept” – inspired by “Bible Belt” by Cari Lynne Wilson.
Mama told us not to stare
at the splinter
or the logs projecting out of eyes.
We all have them, obscuring our sight. Blindly
we feel comforted in creating a Jesus
who won’t ever judge our sins, not
as long as we can point out someone else’s.
But I think Jesus wept over all the logs
we try to ignore.
Jesus wept over our desire
to rename what He hates,
and to love those logs so much more,
we can’t unload them
at the feet of Jesus,
where He left more tears
on that now sacred
hill of Golgotha
than He even left
In the garden of Gethsemane.
–Cynthia Robinson Young
⚘
JESUS WEPT
*Written in response to the prompt “Jesus Wept” – inspired by “Bible Belt” by Cari Lynne Wilson.
He knew the stone would roll away,
the breath returned, the voice made clear—
still, in the shadow of the grave,
He chose to linger here.
Among the mourners dressed in grief,
with trembling hands and swollen eyes,
He did not rush to fix the world
or silence all their cries.
Instead, He stood within the ache,
felt every sorrow deeply kept,
and though He held the end in view—
Jesus Christ wept.
Not out of doubt, nor loss of power,
nor fear of death’s dark claim,
but love that would not stand apart
from those who called His name.
A tear that fell for broken hearts,
for all that death had torn apart,
for every quiet, aching place
in every human heart.
And maybe that’s the greater sign—
not just the grave undone,
but God Himself would share our grief
before the victory’s won.
So when the silence feels too loud,
and hope seems barely kept,
remember: in that sacred line—
our Savior wept.
–Olivia Gilreath
⚘
THE TRICKSTER
i troll the town with ballads
i hit the open mics
i say my piece and drop it
and then i take a hike
back to quiet corner
be it library or bar
to scheme another scandal –
inspired by the stars!
i’m certainly not perfect –
to that i’ve dropped my claim
and thus became more honest
in my quest to find the name
that matched the gnomic spirit
trapped within my mind:
the heart that held the holy key
freed unending rhyme
and filled my head with riddles
i had reason to write –
to resurrect the trickster
in the rapture of new sight! –
crossing fluid borders
over flowing, changing time –
we bathed within the rivers,
running, shifting paradigm.
and in the ancient hymnals
the future finds my words
preserving long-lost melody
belonging to the birds –
–the dithyrambler
⚘
PLAYIN’ THE FOOL
*Written in response to the prompts “Playing the Fool” & “Imaginative Fools” – inspired by “Playing the Fool” & “Imaginative Fools” by Frances Denise.
They say we play the fool
like it’s a birthright,
like it’s stitched into our overalls
and baked into our bread.
Like we don’t know the difference between silence and strategy.
So we lean into it—
tilt our hats low,
let our vowels stretch wide as the holler,
laugh a little too loud
at jokes we already understand.
We nod when they talk slow to us,
like we ain’t heard big words before,
like we ain’t read books under lantern light
or learned the land by memory
instead of maps.
We let them think
we don’t notice
how they come for the timber,
the coal,
the quiet things beneath our feet—
leave with pockets full
and stories about how we were too simple
to know better.
But there’s a knowing here
that don’t speak unless it needs to.
A kind of wisdom
that watches.
Waits.
Remembers.
We know how to play the fool
the way a fox plays dead—
still,
convincing,
just long enough
to be left alone
or get close enough
to survive.
Because it’s safer sometimes
to be underestimated
than to be seen
as something worth taking.
So we grin,
tip our heads,
shuffle our feet in the dust—
and all the while we’re counting,
learning,
keeping what’s ours
tucked just out of reach.
Call it foolish if you want.
We call it knowing
when to speak
and when to let the world
mistake your quiet
for ignorance.
We’ve been playing this part
for generations—
and somehow,
we’re still here.
–Sheena Fry King
⚘
PLAYING THE FOOL
*Written in response to the prompt “Playing the Fool” – inspired by “Playing the Fool” by Frances Denise.
I learned the art of laugher first—
not joy, but how to shape it,
how to stretch a grin like painted silk
and tie it neatly around a wound.
They clapped for every stumble,
every clever fall from grace,
never seeing how I measured
every misstep, every face.
A tilt of the head, a widened eye,
a joke just sharp enough—
I made a stage of silence
and called the echo bluff.
It’s easy, playing foolish
when wisdom’s dressed in rags;
when truth must wear a jester’s bells
and hide in brighter flags.
They think I do not notice
the way their whispers bend,
how under all the laughter
they wait to see me end.
But fools are often listening
when no one else will hear,
collecting every shattered word,
every hidden fear.
So I dance a little louder,
trip a little more—
not because I am the fool,
but I’ve been here before.
And when the curtain quiets,
and laughter turns to air,
you might just find the fool you loved
was the only one aware.
–Olivia Gilreath
⚘
TALE OF THE FOOL
*Written in response to the prompt “Playing the Fool” – inspired by “Playing the Fool” by Frances Denise.
A fool was I, and fool will ever be
A fool for love, in love with mediocrity
So sure was I, certain we would grow
Together forever, his river, my flow
Yet dashed against the rocks, I found myself adrift
Too many holes in drywall, his love: a grift
Under dark of night, away I flew
Fool's broken heart to start anew
A fool I stayed, and broke fresh ground
With old love lost, and now re-found
But time apart had done no favors,
This fool wrung dry be demanded labors
O foolsish one, do try again
Til all fool needed was a friend
And so I sought, far as eye could see
those of like mind: Community
And thus grew roots deep and branches high
Bark tough and thick, spread pollen wide
Until such time I found a fool
Who, much like me, survived the cruel
A foxlike grin meets feline grace
Together we build our home, our space
What future holds, we can only ponder
For two fools in love, yet fooled no longer
–Cameron Lyric Cox
⚘
I’ve never
wanted less,
I’ve never
wanted more,
than to see
your boots
hugging my
lab shoes
‘neath the “home”
sign on the door.
–Amber Sparks
⚘
I HATE THIS JOB (A GLORIOUS BALLAD)
*Written in response to the prompt “Transfiguration” – inspired by “Saint Kevin Goes to Waffle House” by Joshua Walker.
I hate this job—
the way it takes a man
and sands him down
to something polite enough
to keep.
I clock in
like I’m handing over
whatever part of me
still thinks it matters
what I do with my time.
There’s a rhythm to it.
Not the kind you choose—
the kind that’s chosen for you.
The same conversations.
The same complaints.
The same small humiliations
dressed up like normal work.
You learn the script.
You learn when to nod,
when to laugh,
when to pretend
you didn’t hear
what was actually said.
That’s the worst part—
not the work.
The pretending.
The way it teaches you
to agree
just enough
to get through the day.
I watch people
turn into it.
Slow at first.
A little less resistance.
A little more quiet.
Until one day
they’re the ones
explaining it to someone new
like it makes sense.
Like this is just
how things are done.
I hate this job.
But I keep showing up.
That’s how it works—
it doesn’t have to be good.
It just has to be enough
to make leaving
feel harder
than staying.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
GOD IS KNOWLEDGE
*Written in response to the prompt “Fear & Belief” – inspired by “Tolerance” by Blair Correll.
How much of belief is, at its root,
Fear
When our ancestors invented God they did so
To explain what they did not know,
To name a thing is to know it
And to know a thing is to control it
And all fear is, at its core, of the unknown
We fear Death because we do not know what is on the other side
We fear the dark because we do not know what lurks within
We fear being alone because when you are alone
There is so much more you cannot know
And with a companion at your back
Seeing another perspective
You are so much less vulnerable to
That which you cannot perceive.
Knowledge is power.
But back then, we did not Know
We had no control so we
Invented a God who would punish promiscuity
Because we saw the sickness that would come,
That we could not treat and never recover from
And what else could that be
But the wrath of God?
But now we can cure the STDs with
Science and medicine or prevent them entirely
With prophylactic measures
And there is no God to punish sexuality
Because we know what it is
And to Know a thing is to Control it
And the only thing you have to fear
Is the unknown.
–Cameron Lyric Cox
⚘
TRUMPO-BUNGAY
*Inspired by “Tono-Bungay” by H. G. Wells.
Perchance you’ve perceived precise pedantry
Milking my muddied moral map and many are
Its inverse idiosyncrasies yet I am inexhaustibly
Sullied by sallied slaps of simple syntax still
No one knows the known knowledge I know
Because my breadth is behemothian I beg you
To try this thimble of tincture that tells the truth
Devotees do not doubt this daring draught
Yet you young minds with your yo-yo yearnings
Can I convince you to convert careful consideration
Into fresh feckless favors and flashy figures for I’m
Very vociferous on the verisimilitude in this vessel vice versus
No leftist liar lies like me nor loves the liar like me
Quite quixotic and quizzical are the quasi-unbelievers
Overthrow your optimistic opinions and observe
After all a new age is arcing into ardent actuality and
Eternal is the eager and endurable evermore else
Greatness galvanizes group against globalist group
Happily here is a hero to herald Heaven’s help
With a word and a wad we will welcome you
Drink up!
–Blair Correll
⚘
CURRENCY
The machine wants a piece of us—
it tries to read and replicate
some crucial part in its exact shape
to fill an ancient void.
That is the motivation
for the ongoing
extraction—
and the Reason
to resurrect
Resistance!
I believe the mind has
perfect power
over the material realm
while the machine builds monuments
to block our remembering—
erects a screen in between
our souls and our
selves . . .
And the currency—
the current of our energy—
is the holy act of belief.
The question is: what
has captured our
attention?
Around what
have we endeavored
to construct
our clearest view
of the world?
What obscures (and evades)
our final
understanding?
The Answer lies in Eternity.
–Blue Heron
⚘
i’m struggling to synthesize it all
i exist in fragments
i am everything but whole
i don’t know how to escape
the prison they built for me
and called it love
i don’t feel prepared for
any of this
but the wisdom says
i wouldn’t be here otherwise
so is everything wrong
or is it really
truly
already written?
i don’t have much to say lately
i’d rather focus on others
i’m losing my grip on words
(they can be very unkind and
imprecise)
–little deer
⚘
A LOVE POEM TO THE GIRL I HATED
The weird girl
with black hair
black fingernails
spiky bracelets
and a private school uniform
The one who could
chameleon
her way into any group
just enough to be believable
but never fully accepted
Hold tight to all
the uniqueness of you
Challenge the way
others view the world
by simply existing
Even on your hardest days
when you crave nothing
more than the grave
the joy within you
will resonate
The strength you possess
will carry you through
every dark day in the future
and leave its mark
upon those who dared to love you
–Cari Lynne Wilson
Above photos by Cari Lynne Wilson from our WILD & WONDERFUL poetry reading & open mic hosted by McCreary County Public Library on April 29, 2026.
Poets & performers pictured: Cari Lynne Wilson, Dane Osborne, Brandon Thorpe, Amethyst Drake, Angelia Ross, Cheyanne Leonardo, Rhonda Kendziorski, Frances Denise, Cameron Lyric Cox, and Stephen Phillips.
LOVERS & LORE
at The Black Cat in Oneida, TN!
Join us Thursday, May 21 at 6:00pm for LOVERS & LORE, a musical journey of love & liberation on The Black Cat Main Stage!
Enjoy a blend of LIVE music, dance & theatrics, by a cast of local performers: Stephen Phillips, Gerald Hanwright, Annie Motto, and the dancing dithyrambler. With featured poet Cari Lynne Wilson.
Tickets on sale NOW! They are $10 in advance and can be purchased at The Black Cat anytime before the show; or $15 at the door on 5/21.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
With endless love & gratitude,
the Dandelion Scribes
