Prose
The Shortest Poem Is A Name. Top Story - August 2025.
8/5/25 THE SHORTEST POEM IS A NAME After Anne Michaels The shortest poem is a name. It is fewer letters than breaths, less thought, more familiarity. It is yours to have and mine to harbor, yours to sustain, mine to fatten with vows that hit your larynx like a medicinal drip. The shortest poem is a hum of every sound that has ever been, and it sounds like nothing at all. It is the quickest fleet of fleeting feelings, the smallest feeling of feat that eats at the things you eat— anything to obscure the sunset view through the windshield— anything to keep the light out. The shortest poem writes itself in agony, reaching around limbs and rooms of consciousness to cross a letter that makes no difference to the thing itself. It plugs its ears when I set the dinner table, holds its breath when I open the blinds, closes its eyes when I say its name. I cannot hold the hand of a thing too small to hear, but I can paint the walls with great reflections of life— too big to feed and too slow to feel for more than the fleeting fleet it takes to reach between a rib and write The End.
By Olivia Dodge5 months ago in Poets
Under The Sun With Grief.
When the sun is shining and there’s a smile on your face, the one you love is always there. Grief stands under the sun with you and enjoys the warmth, as if the bitterness it usually holds has melted away for just a little while. The smile on your face is a crutch for the grief, allowing the weight of it to disappear.
By April Kirby.5 months ago in Poets
Minutes for Sale
They say the first thing you lose is perspective. The Market opens at midnight, in the basements of cities where clocks no longer tick but pulse, endlessly, in red neon. A place where no one trades gold or paper or digital credits. Here, the only currency is time itself—minutes lived, hours endured, days survived.
By Alain SUPPINI5 months ago in Poets
The Last Candlemaker
The world had long forgotten darkness. Every street was drowned in electric light, every home humming with bulbs and screens. Night itself had been banished—turned into a pale imitation of day. Shadows were considered archaic, fire a dangerous relic, and candles nothing but nostalgia displayed behind museum glass.
By Alain SUPPINI5 months ago in Poets
SOLETA BLUE
This video song is dedicated to my late Grandma Carrie Soleta & my Sweetie Bird. I am from North Hollywood. MISS THE entertainment, art, and the creative vibes I still cherish in my heart & soul. Sweetie is my baby bird, now an Executive Producer for Trusselli Art. We have so much horror and hate in America today, one must look at all sides of the pyramid to someday turn the pyramid upside down where the ones without are on top to spread love not hate.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 5 months ago in Poets
