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  • Crushed Peaches In Palm by Paige Keller | One Poem Only

    Crushed Peaches In Palm by Paige Keller | One Poem Only
    Apr 10 2026

    One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.

    Crushed Peaches In PalmPaige KellerThis poem was first featured in Mad Persona MagazineI am gathering my memories like peaches,plucking each from the most recluse of branches,filling up my baskets,my bruised knees - purple and blueContrast these pristine fruits,bright and sweet.When I have climbed to the top of the verylast tree where that very last fruit lay,when my baskets are full,my evasive past – I will consumeI will desolate the pristine fruit,swallow its pits whole.Until I am filled to no measure, until peachpits weigh me down, until they take rootinside of me and grow w i l d l y.

    More from Paige Keller ↓

    • Her website: pkfictions.com
    • @pk_fictions on Instagram
    • @pkfictions on Substack

    Support + Stay Connected to OPO

    If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.

    Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

    Mentioned in this episode:

    Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

    Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

    #WriteAfterOPO
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    2 Min.
  • Mastering the Pen by Ellie Augustin | One Poem Only

    Mastering the Pen by Ellie Augustin | One Poem Only
    Apr 9 2026

    A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud.

    Mastering the PenEllie AugustinI learned the weight of a penthe way warriors learn steelnot in theory,but in the quiet repetitionof showing up again.By survival.In my hand, it is not delicate.It is trained.It knows how to press into a sentenceand when to lift,how to cut cleanlywithout tearing the page.I learned this among books.Among shelves that holdwhat others survived long enough to say.Among spines that stand uprightafter everything it took to write them.This is where I am safestinside ink,inside margins that do not interrupt me,inside pages that let me finishwithout asking me to soften the truth.A bookstore breathes with this permission.The hush is not silence.It is respect.Every aisle is lined with proof:each book once a private reckoning,each chapter a decision to stay,each author wielding the same instrumentuntil it obeyed.I walk slowly herebecause I am already among my own.Because every title was once a handlearning the same discipline I am still mastering.And I dreamwithout spectacleof the day my fingers stop tracing spinesand recognize themselves.Not as victory.As belonging.That I learned the bladeinside these walls.That I survived the writing.That one day my book will stand here tooquiet, upright,having earned its placeamong endurancebound in paperand called literature.

    More from Ellie Augustin ↓

    • Her blog, Lines Between Living
    • @lines_between_living_now on Instagram
    • @linesbtwnliving on Substack

    Support + Stay Connected to OPO

    If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.

    Poetry reminds us what matters. Thank you for listening.

    Mentioned in this episode:

    Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

    Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

    #WriteAfterOPO
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    3 Min.
  • CAUTION: STUDENT DRIVER by Carly Thompson | One Poem Only

    CAUTION: STUDENT DRIVER by Carly Thompson | One Poem Only
    Apr 8 2026

    One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.

    CAUTION: STUDENT DRIVERCarly ThompsonI’ve jumped out of the boatthe churning water turns to smokemy mind is a black sand beachthe world is one of those where time is differentslow, fast, all at once, almost neverif a window doesn’t open, is it a wall?is it even there?the cows die all at once and we don’t ask whywe buy sheep instead, not for milk for woolit is not enough to be called sad and beautifulremarkable or terrifyingit is not enough to pick up the phoneto text back, to cry on cueI hover over that plane where one highwaymeets another, no one ever taught me to merge

    More from Carly Thompson ↓

    • @comehither_poetry on Instagram
    • @comehither on Substack

    Support + Stay Connected to OPO

    If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.

    Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.

    Mentioned in this episode:

    Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

    Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

    #WriteAfterOPO
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    2 Min.
  • To Be a Salamander by Rachel Turney | One Poem Only

    To Be a Salamander by Rachel Turney | One Poem Only
    Apr 7 2026

    One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.

    To Be a Salamander Rachel Turney I want to be like you. I crave your regenerative abilities.Does the heart count as a limb? If so, I could regrow thepart that is now missing, rebuild sinuous tissues andthe fat of my epicardium.I want to wallow in the petrichor and muddy places. Iwant to glide between the fallen leaves and tadpoles.My skin would breathe, my lips smell, my world wouldbe trickling water in this moss forest.I would darn socks for my four toes. One tiny bit ofwool to cover each one so that I might step with easefrom chilled rock to frozen ground as winter comes.

    More from Rachel Turney ↓

    • @turneytalks on Instagram
    • Rachel Turney on Substack
    • Her book, Women Making Soup Together, is out now with Vinegar Press

    Support + Stay Connected to OPO

    If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.

    Feed yourself poetry every day.

    Mentioned in this episode:

    Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

    Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

    #WriteAfterOPO
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    2 Min.
  • Not mine anymore by Avalon | One Poem Only

    Not mine anymore by Avalon | One Poem Only
    Apr 6 2026

    One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.

    Not mine anymore Avalon If my words are my ownThey are all that I haveExcept... that’s not quite rightIf my words are my ownThey abandon me when I most need itAnd, that never feels rightMy words are my ownAnd they blink in and outA lighthouse on the shoreWhile I’m drowningMy words are my ownAnd others desperately pry them out of meA clam with a pearlA person blinded by the rewardMy words are my ownThey yearn to hear itMy words are my ownMy words are my-My words are-My words-My words are my ownI cannot repeat themUtterance loses meaningIf my words are my ownWhy must I give them away?

    More from Avalon ↓

    • @avalonspoems on Instagram
    • Her book, Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it weird, is available now

    Support + Stay Connected to OPO

    If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.

    Poetry slows us down. Thank you for listening.

    Mentioned in this episode:

    Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

    Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

    #WriteAfterOPO
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    2 Min.
  • Butterscotch by Amy Laessle-Morgan

    Butterscotch by Amy Laessle-Morgan
    Apr 5 2026

    A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud.

    ButterscotchAmy Laessle-MorganSomewhere between the amberblush streetlight of Divisionand the butterscotch stain on the back of my throat,there was a glasslike momentnearbentbut not yet breaking.Half-formed, honeydrunk on the hourslipping past the soft machinery of becomingunbecomingrewindingrethreading.Warm, butterfat air washing in subtlebreathing through the cracked window taxicabteacuplight broken open on my cheekwhispering nothing is permanentexcept the way we almost changed.There was always something burning—toastbridgesthe last good version of me I kept resuscitatingwith mouth-to-mouth-watering memory.Tonight, I’ll wear that dress you lovedin the color of skinbrushed apologieswhile the past rides shotgunsilentadjusting the mirror like it still matters how I see myselfbecause when mirrors grow honestthe corridors echo less—as everyone pours out.Let us go then, you and Ithrough the goldblood hourswhere no one teaches you how to bleed pretty—not in the swanpale wrist pressedto cold porcelain tile wayhalf-lit in someone else’s forgetting.You learn it knees to marblecheek to linoleumin radio silence buzzing through your teethplaying love songs that didn’t learn the language.He liked it leaning in disrepairso I sucked the ghostsweet butterscotch slow.I let it split goldenglass hard and sharpthe bloom red blooming—behind teetha salty flood.It cut me—but I didn’t spit it out.I kept itI kept it all.

    More from Amy Laessle-Morgan ↓

    • @ultramarine_poetry on Instagram
    • Her book, Live Wire, is available now.

    Support + Stay Connected to OPO

    If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.

    Poetry reminds us what matters. Thank you for listening.

    Mentioned in this episode:

    Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

    Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

    #WriteAfterOPO
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    3 Min.
  • “God, you can keep the boys” by Peyton Michelle Bryant | One Poem Only

    “God, you can keep the boys” by Peyton Michelle Bryant | One Poem Only
    Apr 4 2026
    One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.“God, you can keep the boys” Peyton Michelle BryantGod, you can keep the boys who only write sad poetryand listen to The Smiths on repeat. God, my man is a warrior.Lord knows I’ve got enough words to feed the both of us when times get tough.My man writes poems with his hands.My man is not afraidto bloody his knuckles for me. My man is a lion, Lord.He is a stallion running down his own mission.Our paths meet in the middle where we play but neither one pulls the other off course.He knows I belong to this wild worlddoesn’t try to rope me in or brand me with his name.He knows I am not something to be owned.Instead, he builds me a boatwith the biggest sail you’ve ever seenand paints my name on the side of her.He builds me a set of wings that carries me farther than Icarus could ever go.He builds me a writing cabinand doesn’t get offended when I’m taken by the desireto be alone for daysin my cocoon of creation.His hands are shields-his palms big enough to hold the entirety of the Milky Wayand each one has memorized the blue/brown/green/red planet of my body.His fingertips brush the column of my throat and he calls the rain down. Gardens grow in the marrow of meand not oncedoes he try to pluck them from the soil.My man has arms and legs like the trunksof the six-hundred-year-old Sycamore.I want to nest in the branches of him.I chart the map of his bodylike a world-eager traveler-trace the veins like blue-green riversalong the shores of his forearmslick the salt ocean sweatgathered in his jugular notchclimb him like a wolf in heat and stillI am hungry for the meat of him.My man calls me Brilliant calls me Dragon Firecalls me Wolf Witch,Poetess,Great Moon of His Heart.My man calls me Thank God.He calls me At Last.God, my man is an inferno.I need him to be sturdy enoughto withstand the heat.He is my burning crimson star;I reach for the ten-million-degree Fahrenheit center of himwithout flinching.God, I know you’ve put us together before;our lifetimes are an ancient songmy cells still remember.I remember how we smelledof campfire smoke and sweat-our feet pounding a beat into the Earth.I remember his face cast in firelight-the two of us skin on skin,a tangled pile of limbs blanketed by furs.I remember my nails tracing red lines down the planes of himmy hair held like a bird tender in his fist.I remember his mouth marking each rung of my spine,his calloused hands like rocky planets orbiting the moon of me.I remember I fell from my horse-he took an arrow to the heart and new bodies and livesmade up a river of time between us.I am a queen lost to his kingdom, Lord.Send the cavalry! The lines have been blurredbetween dragon womanand tower and I can no longer remember which one I’m supposed to be.God, I want you to give him back.I want to lay him downin the feather bed of my heart once again.I want to take his hand catch a ride to some faraway red planetwhere reincarnation is just myth-where this life is the only one that matters. God, call him back to me with bone and bloodwith fire and howl-stitch soul to body once more. I will rearrange the cosmos myself if need be. And this time, when stars align and we find each other again,I will not fall from my horse.No.This timewe’ll ride side by sideall the way back home.More from Peyton Michelle Bryant ↓@mama.laloba on InstagramHer newest poetry book Wolf Witch of the Wild and her debut, Feral Mother, Sovereign Woman, are out now.Support + Stay Connected to OPOIf you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.Poetry shows us what we need. Thank you for being part of the experience.Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPOWrite After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO
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    5 Min.
  • Dear Personal Care Department God by Chris Kads | One Poem Only

    Dear Personal Care Department God by Chris Kads | One Poem Only
    Apr 3 2026

    One Poem Only is a daily poetry podcast offering a quiet moment with a single poem—read aloud, without analysis or noise.

    Dear Personal Care Department GodChris KadsAfter Lancee Whetman
    God of the Personal Care Department,please grant me musk. Grant methe strength of “Steel Courage” -buffness in a bottle. Let mybody be a vessel of “dragon’s breath”and “warrior’s blood”. Allow me,like men, to be baptizedin wet swagger, to have mypreconceived softnesswash away with the scentof toughness.
    Bless me,with blindness in the faceof razors. Grant methe normalizationof forest-y armpitsto pair with the scent of“Sasquatch Foot”.
    And, please, oh holyPersonal Care Department God,revoke your commandmentsand let the avoidance of “Secret”and smoothnessnot be a sin.
    Amen.

    More from Chris Kads ↓

    1. @chris_kads on Instagram

    Support + Stay Connected to OPO

    If you’d like to support the show, Substack and Patreon members receive a copy of my book, For My Daughter, along with episodes from the audiobook.

    Poetry sustains. Thank you for supporting the podcast.

    Mentioned in this episode:

    Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

    Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

    #WriteAfterOPO
    Mehr anzeigen Weniger anzeigen
    2 Min.