Groundhog A morning lesson in living simply

A quiet morning, a small creature going about its day, trusting the light to hold. A special thanks to the folks @bloominonionlit.bsky.social for first publishing my poem "Groundhog."

It’s poetry reading time. Today, I’ll be sharing my poem “The Risk of Unfolding,” a finalist for The Bournemouth Writing Prize and published in its anthology. Find a cozy spot, settle in, and join me as I read. @bournemouthjournal.bsky.social

Having conversations with my father was never easy, even when I was living in another country, building a life of my own. Sometimes memories got in the way. Sometimes I bit my tongue. Sometimes I let him talk while I simply nodded along.

The Shadow I Keep by Sam Aureli

I don’t forgive him, not yet, / but I let their love for him stand, / a stone I don’t need to carry."

"The Shadow I Keep" by @samaureli.bsky.social‬

psalteryandlyre.org/2026/01/26/t...

Into the Cold You can’t outrun what knows your scent

We just had a snowstorm, the kind that makes everything go quiet and a little unreal. I kept thinking about this poem. What better time to share Into the Cold?

Grab a blanket, your favorite hot drink, and snuggle up.

Learn the language of trees. Quiet the mind, soften the heart, and listen.

Reposting "Listening" outside of my Substack.

Listening What becomes audible only when we're willing to pause

What if the world is always speaking, and the only thing we’re missing is the patience to hear it? This poem continues my effort to slow down enough to listen: to the wind in the trees, to the quiet conversations unfolding beyond my own thoughts.

I used to sprint through life, consumed by work. Then a seismic jolt forced me to slow down and notice the small, quiet things. In that stillness something shifted. The earth’s words rooted in me, growing into the poems I write now.

The Time It Takes to See Poetry changed me. Now the earth has my full attention.

Poetry changed me. Now the earth has my full attention.
I'd like to thank Amethyst Review for first publishing my poem. It is now available on my Substack.

Reposting my poem, "Serendipity" outside of my Substack.

We all know what it is to be scorched: by grief, by change, by the sudden breaking of what we thought was solid. We know what it is to be stripped back to the bare rock of ourselves. But the burn is not the end.

Serendipity An ode to the purple mountain saxifrage

We all know what it is to be scorched: by grief, by change, by the sudden breaking of what we thought was solid. We know what it is to be stripped back to the bare rock of ourselves. But the burn is not the end. Like the saxifrage rooting itself in volcanic stone, something in us still stirs.

I’m so excited to finally share official news of my upcoming poetry collection, On the Edge of Knowing (Kelsay Books), arriving early 2026!

More soon, but for now, here’s the first look at the cover.

Walking Past the End The stories we invent when we feel an ending coming but don’t know what it is

Do you ever find yourself just walking, or doing something ordinary, and you get the sense that the air around you is tightening, whether anything’s actually wrong or not?

I found these photos while organizing my photo library, and I can’t remember where I was, other than somewhere in Massachusetts, circa 2017. I’m still mesmerized by all that green, the kind that feels like the world is quietly reclaiming everything.

Grief doesn’t fade on command. It changes, lingers, and sometimes feels like weather you learn to live with. I would like to once again thank @prosetrics.bsky.social for publishing my poem.

The Cold Knows My Name Grief knows the trick of picking locks, of slipping back in unnoticed

"The Cold Still Knows My Name" is on the somber side. Wrote it after realizing grief doesn’t fade on command. It changes, lingers, and sometimes feels like the weather you learn to live inside.

I wrote this poem after spending some time working in the asparagus patch. Nature has a lot to teach us, and sometimes the best lessons are waiting right in our own backyard.

First published in @prosetrics.bsky.social .

Sam Aureli — BRAWL

Today you find a poem and a short interview. My poem, “Conversations with My Father” was published in Brawl Literature.

I am beyond words. My first Pushcart Prize nomination! A special thanks to Venessa Tai Yeh and Opol for nominating my poem, "Made and Unmade." 😊
Below is a excerpt of the poem.

In the Waiting Pruning what has passed, making space for return

In the slow rhythm of the garden, I’m reminded that renewal begins long before anything blooms. “In the Waiting” is a meditation on pruning, patience, and the quiet faith of tending what endures beneath the surface.

I was going through my photo library, looking for a specific image for a future poem, when I came across this black and white photo of my hibiscus plant. I love how the monochrome tones make the petals appear even more delicate, almost like thin, translucent paper.

Ever since my trip to “God’s Country,” I’ve been writing more about faith, religion, and my complicated relationship with both. The photo was taken on the side of the road through Grand Teton Park. Something about that place still lingers.

A thousand shades of dust and sage, and one patch of gold brave enough to shine.

Pinedale, WY
Population 2,034
Elevation 7,175 feet

One benefit to early morning work commutes. The Boston skyline viewed from Memorial Drive.

A foggy September morning, the world fading into gray. These shots were taken on the road from McCall, ID to Missoula, MT, right before the climb through Lolo Pass.

The Day My Father Ran Barefoot After the Dog A childhood prose poem in the key of Richard Siken

“We look at the world once, in childhood. The rest is memory.” — Louise Glück

A moment revisited: danger, tenderness, and the kind of rescue that doesn’t always come.

I'm super excited that one of my poems has been shortlisted for the Bournemouth Writing Prize—though I'll have to wait another two months to learn the final results!

More leaf-peeing in the yard. I happen to catch the light just right peeking through the maple leaves.

“How beautifully leaves grow old. How full of light and color are their last days.”
— John Burroughs

Before the frost, a final blaze of color. My blueberry leaves turning red, before fading into quiet.