My first book The Least Weird Person Awake is out now.
If you’ve connected with my work and decide you want to support it, you can find it here:
www.amazon.com/Least-Weird-...
Thank you for reading.
Partial image of poem HOLD MUSIC by Joshua Walker at PaperSigh.com
We're so happy to publish @bigjosh84.bsky.social 's poem HOLD MUSIC. Read it at www.papersigh.com/poetry #poetry #poetrysky #poems
I’m really glad “Still Here” spoke to you. I’m sorry it’s been that heavy—no one should have to carry that alone. I’m really glad you’re here. 💙
I’m really glad they reached you when you needed them. Thank you for reading. 💙
Thank you for sharing that with me. I’m so sorry you’re carrying something so heavy. Sending you and your husband all my love. I hope something I wrote brought even a little comfort today. 💙
A poem about enduring through quiet, exhausting moments where survival doesn’t feel heroic, but simply continuing to exist still matters. Still Here There were days I didn’t think I would make it. Not in some dramatic way— just a slow erosion of wanting to try. The kind of tired that settles into your bones and calls itself permanent. But I’m still here. And that has to mean something— even if I don’t know what yet.
A poem about how survival is often made up of small, unnoticed actions that keep us going when things feel overwhelming. The Small Ways We Survive It’s not always the big things. Sometimes survival looks like getting out of bed when there’s no reason to. Answering a message. Drinking water. Choosing not to disappear. Nobody applauds those moments. But they add up— quiet victories stacked so carefully they almost look like living.
A poem about how we carry our past experiences with us, shaping how we think, feel, and connect, even when we believe we’ve moved on. What We Carry Forward We don’t leave things behind the way we say we do. We carry them— in how we hesitate, in what we avoid, in the way we love too carefully or too much. The past doesn’t disappear. It changes shape and walks with us into everything.
A poem about the quiet, unexplainable determination that keeps us moving forward, even when there’s no clear reason to continue. We Keep Going Anyway There’s no clean reason for it. No perfect answer for why we keep moving forward when it would be easier to stop. And still— we wake up. We try again. We stay. Not because it makes sense. Because something in us refuses to end here.
The world doesn’t always make it easy to keep going.
Still—we do.
Here’s some poems. 💙💙💙
#poetry #blueskypoets #writingcommunity #BlueSkyPoetry #SkyPoet
I appreciate that, I hadn’t seen that oost and I sometimes miss stuff like that. They’re now blocked.
A poem about outgrowing past versions of yourself and the strange feeling of no longer recognizing who you used to be. I Met Myself and Didn’t Recognize Him I passed myself in a memory and didn’t stop. He looked familiar— like someone I used to trust. Same hands. Same voice. But there was something different in the way he stood— like he still believed things I had already buried. I almost called out to him. But I kept walking. Some versions of us are better left alive in the past.
A poem about how time doesn’t really move on but instead folds, allowing memories and emotions to return as if they never left. Time Doesn’t Move Forward Time doesn’t move forward. It folds. That’s why a smell can take you back ten years in a single breath. Why a song can reopen something you swore was gone. Nothing leaves. It just waits— pressed between moments like pages in a book you keep pretending you’ve finished.
A poem exploring how indifference, not hate, is the true opposite of love, and how the absence of feeling can be more final than anger. The Opposite of Love Isn’t Hate The opposite of love isn’t hate. Hate still remembers. Still burns. Still cares enough to feel something. No— the opposite of love is the day you realize you don’t feel anything at all. No anger. No longing. No need to understand. Just silence where something once mattered.
A poem about the strange and confusing nature of human existence, and how despite everything not making sense, we still find ways to connect and love. We Are All Pretending This Makes Sense We wake up. We work. We speak in small, careful ways about things that don’t matter because the things that do are too big to hold. We act like this is normal. Like it makes sense to exist at all in a universe that never explained itself. And somehow— we still find ways to love each other inside all that confusion. Which might be the strangest thing of all.
Maybe the point isn’t to have everything figured out.
Maybe the point is to keep showing up anyway.
Here’s some poems. 💙💙💙
#poetry #blueskypoets #writingcommunity #BlueSkyPoetry #SkyPoet
Awesome—give me a few hours and I’ll whip up one for each and DM them over to you!
iI you’re still looking for one on either red-winged blackbirds or bald eagles, let me know. I’d be happy to whip one up and send it your way!
Read THE JOKE’S ON YOU • by Joshua Walker – The Last Bard @bigjosh84.bsky.social -- Stories -- #AprilFools'Day #HauntedHouses everydayfiction.com?p=24131
A poem about what remains after everything burns away—the idea that even when we lose the softest parts of ourselves, something stronger and unbreakable survives. What Survives the Fire They told us we would burn— and we did. Not all at once. Not clean. Piece by piece— the soft parts first, the trusting parts, the names we used when we still believed someone would answer. But something stayed. Something ugly and bright and impossible to kill. And now when they look at us they don’t see ashes— they see what fire couldn’t take.
A poem about the fear of being truly seen and understood, and how vulnerability can feel more dangerous than isolation. The Quiet Violence of Being Seen You looked at me like you understood— and that was the worst part. Because I did not come here to be known. I built this carefully: the distance, the version of myself that survives introductions. But you— you stepped past all of it like it wasn’t real. And now I have to decide which is more dangerous— being alone, or being understood.
A poem about how we learn to hide pain and function through it, turning survival into something that looks like strength from the outside. We Learned to Smile Like This We learned to smile with our teeth closed. To say “I’m fine” in a voice that didn’t shake. To carry whole storms in the space between two breaths and call it normal. Nobody taught us how to break— so we didn’t. We adapted. Turned pain into posture, into timing, into something that almost looks like grace. And now people call us strong like it didn’t cost anything.
There Is a Version of Us That Wins Not the loud one. Not the one they write stories about. The quiet one. The one who kept going when no one was watching, when nothing changed, when it would have been easier to disappear. That version of us is still moving. Still choosing. Still here. And one day— without warning— that will be the version that wins.
Not every truth arrives loud.
Some of it waits—quiet, patient—until you’re finally ready to hear it.
Here’s some poems. 💙💙💙
#poetry #blueskypoets #writingcommunity #BlueSkyPoetry #SkyPoet
No buildup. No rollout.
My book “The Least Weird Person Awake” drops April 18.
I’ll have links up when it’s live if you want one. 💙💙💙
#poetry #blueskypoets #writingcommunity
That’s a powerful way to say it. I appreciate you sharing those words. 💙
Thank you! I really appreciate the enthusiasm—it means a lot that the poems landed with you. 💙
That’s really well said. Poetry has a way of holding up a mirror whether we’re ready for it or not. I appreciate you putting it that way. 💙
You’re very welcome. I’m glad the poems meant something to you. 💙
Thank you, that really means a lot to hear. I’m grateful you spent time with the poems. 💙
I’m grateful you said that. If the courage poem helped even a little, then it did what I hoped it would. Thank you for reading. 💙
This poem reflects on the basic things every child deserves—safety, education, and a normal day at school—and how the world fails when those simple protections disappear. What the World Owes Children A roof. A desk. A teacher who says good morning. A day that arrives without fear. Anything less than that is a failure we should never accept.
This poem is a personal reflection on how heavy the world can feel when you see suffering in the news, and the effort it takes to remember that kindness still exists. A Thought I Had Today Some days the world feels heavier than it should. You read the news, close the screen, and sit there a moment trying to remember that people are still capable of kindness even when history forgets how.
This poem focuses on the quiet ways people help one another, reminding us that even when the world feels broken, ordinary people often step in to care for each other. We’ll Be Okay I’ve seen people pull strangers from rivers. I’ve seen neighbors show up with food when the lights went out. The world breaks things, that much is true— but people have always been very good at putting each other back together.
This poem looks toward the future and reminds us that the world ultimately belongs to the next generation, encouraging hope that they will build something kinder than what came before. What Comes Next The future has always belonged to the children. Not the generals. Not the speeches. Not the maps. One day they will inherit all of this. Let’s hope they build something kinder.
Children in schools should never be an acceptable cost of war.
Resist.
Thinking of the students and teachers at the Shajareh Tayyebeh girls’ primary school.
Resist.
These poems are for them. 💙💙💙
#poetry #blueskypoets #writingcommunity #BlueSkyPoetry #SkyPoet #resist
This poem reflects on the quiet forms courage takes in everyday life—persistence without recognition, and the small acts that keep people moving forward. The Sound of Ordinary Courage Most courage doesn’t look like thunder. It looks like someone getting up again without announcing it. It looks like quiet hands washing a cup, paying a bill, answering a message when the heart isn’t in it. No banners. No applause. Just the stubborn decision to keep going.
This poem is about noticing where real wisdom lives—not in noise or success, but in people who slow down, listen carefully, and remain attentive to the world. A Thought I Had While Walking The world is loud about the wrong things. Success. Speed. Winning. But the best people I know move slowly and listen carefully. They notice the sky. They ask real questions. They remember your name. If there’s wisdom anywhere, I think it lives there.
This poem explores how small acts of kindness can become deeply meaningful, especially when someone is struggling and needs even the smallest gesture of care. The Weight of Small Kindness A door held open. A stranger smiling. Someone saying “take your time.” These things seem tiny until the day you desperately need one. Then suddenly a small kindness feels like oxygen. And you realize how easily we save each other.
This poem reflects on what people ultimately remember about one another—not victories or achievements, but loyalty, honesty, and the way someone stayed present through difficult moments. What Remains In the end I don’t think we remember the victories. We remember who stayed. Who spoke honestly. Who didn’t run when things got difficult. History may forget our names. But the people we loved won’t forget how we lived.
Sometimes a poem doesn’t answer anything.
Sometimes it just sits with the truth a little longer than we usually allow.
Either way, here are some new poems. 💙💙💙
#poetry #blueskypoets #writingcommunity #BlueSkyPoetry #SkyPoet
This poem reflects on pain that doesn’t become wisdom, and the honesty of admitting that survival alone doesn’t always produce growth. The Things That Didn’t Make Me Better Some pain doesn’t teach. It just hurts and leaves. Not every scar is a lesson. Some are just records of surviving badly. I don’t trust people who turn every wound into wisdom. Sometimes the bravest thing is admitting it never paid off.
This poem is about choosing stillness over speed, and recognizing slowness as a form of discernment rather than defeat. A Small Defense of Stillness I don’t move fast anymore. I watched what speed did to people I loved. Stillness isn’t giving up. It’s choosing what not to chase. There are answers that only show up when you stop asking them loudly
This poem explores control and restraint—how a voice can remain intact without becoming louder, and how knowing when to speak is its own strength. The Voice I Didn’t Lose They told me I’d soften. That time would sand me down into something easier. It didn’t. It taught me where to stand. My voice didn’t get quieter. It learned when to speak. That’s not silence. That’s control.
This poem is a quiet offering for people who are exhausted in ways rest doesn’t fix, affirming that endurance itself has value. For Whoever Needed This Today If you’re tired in a way sleep won’t fix, I see you. You don’t have to improve today. You don’t have to explain yourself. Just staying counts for more than you think.
I think good poetry teaches us something true about ourselves — sometimes before we’re ready for it.
Can’t promise that today, but here are some new poems. 💙💙💙
#poetry #blueskypoets #writingcommunity #poems
I think the “something deeper” looks different for everyone. For me, resisting isn’t about naming a single enemy — it’s about not letting speed, fear, or habit decide who I become. And listening isn’t for answers so much as honesty.
I think you’re right. Presence gets traded away so easily, and wisdom usually goes with it. For me, resisting starts with paying attention—to the moment, to each other, to what’s actually happening instead of what we’re rushing past. I appreciate you putting it that way.
This poem reflects on wisdom as something quiet and enduring—often overlooked, not lost, and still available to those willing to slow down and listen. The Thing Worth Keeping There are truths that don’t shout. They sit in the back of the room, waiting to see who stays. Not everything ancient is broken. Some things were built slowly because they were meant to last. We didn’t lose wisdom overnight. We misplaced it, one hurry at a time. If you’re still listening, if something in you still pauses— that’s where it lives.
This poem explores resistance as a daily, lived practice—not spectacle, but integrity, clarity, and refusal to become what harms us. How Resistance Actually Looks Resistance isn’t always marching. Sometimes it’s refusing to become cruel just because cruelty is fashionable. It’s saying no without raising your voice. It’s telling the truth when a lie would make life easier. They expect anger or silence. They don’t know what to do with steady hands and clear eyes. That’s why it works.
This poem is about what remains after the noise fades—the small, stubborn continuance of breath, feeling, and presence. The Quiet After the Noise When the world finally shuts up for a second, I notice what’s still here. A pulse. A thought that didn’t rot. A softness that somehow survived being stepped on. I don’t need hope to be loud. I just need it to keep breathing. That’s enough for now.
This poem speaks to writing as an act of witness—paying attention, refusing erasure, and remaining present in difficult times. Still Here, Still Paying Attention I don’t write because I think it saves anything. I write because not paying attention feels like surrender. Because someone has to notice what’s being lost and what’s being lied about. This isn’t nostalgia. It’s witness. I’m still here. I’m still looking. I’m still resisting.
A wise woman once said something that was probably wise.
We lost it somewhere in the darkness of modern hustle and bustle.
Let’s take wisdom back.
Always resisting, always listening.
Here are some poems. 💙💙💙
#poetry #blueskypoets #writingcommunity #poems
Thank you so much for telling me that — truly. I’m honored it moved you, and I’m grateful you spent that kind of feeling with the poem. 💙
That really means a lot — thank you for putting it that way. I try to write honestly about hard climbs without leaving the reader alone up there. I’m grateful you walked through the poems with me.
Thank you! 🙏💙 Really appreciate the energy and the support.
Thank you so much — that really means a lot. And I love that advice from your friend, it’s absolutely true. Writing through the block instead of around it is often where the real work starts. Grateful you spent time with the poems.
This poem explores silence as a form of power rather than weakness—how restraint can be deliberate, strategic, and ultimately more dangerous than noise. What They Don’t Understand About Silence Silence is not absence. It is pressure. It is the second before glass decides. They think quiet means permission, that stillness is surrender. They mistake restraint for fear. I learned silence the way others learn weapons. How to carry it. How to aim it. How to wait. When I speak now, it’s not impulse. It’s aftermath. The silence has already done its work.
This poem is about softness that survives damage—tenderness that refuses to be erased and becomes a quiet source of strength rather than a flaw. A Soft Thing That Refuses to Die There is a tenderness in me that survived every attempt to cauterize it. Not optimism. Not innocence. Something quieter. More stubborn. It learned how to bend without rehearsing collapse, how to keep warmth when nothing returned it. They told me softness was a weakness. They were wrong. It’s why I’m still standing. It’s why I’m still a problem.
This poem reflects on the unspoken tension in shared spaces—the way truth changes a room even when no one names it. The Weather Inside the Room The room remembers what we agree not to name. The way voices recalibrate when truth enters. The way laughter turns defensive. There’s weather behind the walls— not thunder, something lower, patient. You feel it in your teeth when a lie has been repeated long enough to settle. No one mentions it. Everyone adjusts their breathing. That’s how you know it’s real.
This poem is about persistence—continuing to write and bear witness despite pressure, fear, or expectations to be quieter or easier. I Am Still Writing I am still writing despite the noise, despite the threats that never quite arrive, despite the advice to be easier. I write because stopping would feel like consent. Because history doesn’t need more quiet. It needs witnesses who don’t vanish politely. This isn’t performance. It’s continuity. I’m still here. And apparently, that’s enough to matter
Some days the poems arrive before the explanation.
I trust that more than I trust certainty.
If anything here meets you where you are,
then it did its job.
Remember to resist. 💙💙💙
New poems below.
#poetry #blueskypoets #writingcommunity #poems