Note from the editor(s):

White Rabbit poetry Society is so very happy and excited to feature this week’s Monday Poet . Leonorra Dainler is an accomplished poet and writer who brings insight into her life and motherhood. She brings a unique experience to her poetry, giving it an air of not only understanding but elevation. She describes her Substack as, “Drawing on rich life experiences to craft authentic, emotionally resonant writing. A focus on growth and connection. Seeking to inspire others through words.” Please take a moment to visit , subscribe and read her work.

Original Post

Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night, Poet Leonarra Dainler

by

I never imagined that poetry would become such an important part of my life. For many years, my world centered around education, learning, and helping others grow. Writing was always something I admired quietly from a distance, but I never truly believed I had a voice worthy of being heard. It wasn’t until a little over a year ago, during one of the most personal and transformative seasons of my life, that I found myself turning to poetry as a way to process emotions I could no longer keep inside.

At first, I wrote only for myself. My words lived in notebooks, late-night thoughts, and quiet moments when emotions felt too heavy to carry in silence. Poetry became a safe place for me, a place where I could be completely honest without fear of judgment. What surprised me most was how healing it felt to turn pain, reflection, and personal growth into something creative. The more I wrote, the more I realized that poetry was not simply about words on a page; it was about truth, connection, and the courage to be vulnerable.

There were many nights when writing became the only way I could fully understand my own thoughts. Sometimes a single sentence would lead me into emotions I had buried deeply. Other times, poems came unexpectedly, almost as if they had been waiting patiently for me to finally listen. I began to understand that poetry does not always arrive in moments of inspiration alone. Sometimes it emerges from grief, exhaustion, uncertainty, or quiet reflection. Sometimes it comes from surviving experiences that change us forever.

My inspiration comes from both my own experiences and the lives of those around me. I have always been deeply moved by the resilience people carry, often without recognition. There is something incredibly powerful about the quiet strength people show while enduring heartbreak, loss, disappointment, or uncertainty. Those moments, though difficult, often reveal the deepest parts of who we are. Through poetry, I try to honor those emotions honestly and compassionately.

I am especially inspired by people who continue moving forward despite everything they have endured. Mothers who sacrifice endlessly for their families, women rebuilding themselves after hardship, individuals silently battling anxiety or loneliness, and those learning how to heal from emotional wounds. All of these stories inspire my writing, in one way or another. I believe some of the strongest people in the world are those whose strength often goes unnoticed.

Much of my writing explores themes of healing, perseverance, self-worth, faith, compassion, and hope. I am especially passionate about encouraging women through my work, reminding them that their voices matter, their struggles do not define them, and their strength is often far greater than they realize.

I know firsthand how important it can be to read words that make you feel seen and understood during difficult times. If my poetry can offer even a small sense of comfort or reassurance, then I feel I have accomplished something meaningful.

My writing also explores the connection between humanity, nature and the symbiotic relationship that coexists between these two entities. As our world has evolved, and moved away from acknowledging the cyclical rhythm of life, the seasons and weather, it seems that this disconnection has impacted our habitat, and our human experience, more than was possibly anticipated. I attempt to explore the result of this erosion from source, with a gentle acknowledgement of the abundance that we are turning away from with these life choice..

As someone still new to the literary world, I continue to approach this journey with humility and gratitude. I never expected my writing to resonate beyond my personal reflections, so receiving encouragement from respected voices within the literary community has been both surprising and deeply meaningful to me. Publishing my first poem was a moment I will always carry with gratitude, not because it represented achievement alone, but because it symbolized growth, healing, and the courage to step into something unfamiliar.

I still remember the mixture of fear and excitement I felt when I first shared my work publicly. Writing privately is one thing; allowing others to read your most vulnerable thoughts is something entirely different. There is a certain fear that comes with being emotionally transparent, especially when your work is rooted in personal truth. But I have learned that vulnerability often creates the deepest connections between people. I hope that readers will not necessarily connect to perfection, because I will never be that person. However, I hope that my honesty resonates with them.

Poetry has shown me that people may come from very different backgrounds and experiences, yet emotions have a universal language. We all understand pain, hope, fear, love, and the desire to feel understood. In a world that can sometimes feel disconnected, poetry reminds us of our shared humanity.

One of the most rewarding parts of this journey has been hearing from readers who tell me that a poem reflected emotions they could not express themselves. Those moments remind me why writing matters. Poetry may not solve life’s hardships, but it can provide comfort, clarity, and the reminder that our feelings are valid. Sometimes knowing someone else has felt the same emotions can ease the weight of loneliness.

This creative journey has also taught me patience with myself. There were times I doubted whether my words mattered, or whether I should continue writing at all. Like many, I have faced moments of insecurity and self-criticism. Some of the most meaningful pieces, for me, I have written came from moments when I allowed myself to stop trying to sound polished and simply wrote from the heart.

I have also learned that growth in writing happens quietly over time. Every poem teaches me something new, not only about writing, but about myself. With each piece, I continue discovering the importance of authenticity, emotional courage, and trusting my own voice. I no longer write to impress others. I write to connect, to heal, and to remind people that their experiences matter.

It has helped me rediscover parts of myself that had been quiet for too long. Writing has given me the ability to transform painful experiences into something meaningful, and for that, I am deeply grateful.

I still consider myself at the beginning of this journey, and I carry that awareness with humility. There is so much more for me to learn, explore, and understand as both a writer and a person. But if there is one thing I hope readers take away from my work, it is this: no matter how difficult life may become, no one is ever truly alone. There is always hope, even in the darkest seasons, and brighter days have a way of finding us again, often when we need them most.

As I continue forward on this path, my goal is not simply to publish poems, but to create work that leaves people feeling encouraged, understood, and inspired to keep going. If my words can bring light to someone during a difficult moment, then every vulnerable line I have written will have been worth it.

I have chosen two poems that are representative of the two main themes in my writing.

Tangled Roots

Circumstances compounded and the cord was cut.

Our connection to nature curtailed.

Seriously severed from source,

we turned to fear and faltered offline.

Brackets and symbols became our world,

creating columns of consumers.

Built on a shaky foundation of free trade,

we cracked, as we sold out.

Yet another home stayed available,

where we could flourish and be fulfilled

So, we try to remember its eternal roots.

and evoke our maternal matriarch.

Never dogged with dogma,

but divine in her ways.

Providing protection and produce,

she serves shelter for our souls.

Her codes are not encrypted, but vibrate,

like soft hums passed down from infant lips.

This breath calls up ancient memories.

No doctrines nor data needed.

A world structured and constricted

appears abhorrent in hers.

Let us be guided back online

to our true matrix, by our only muse.

This poem is a reflection on humanity’s disconnection from nature, intuition, and authentic existence. It explores how modern society has become detached from its natural roots and consumed by artificial systems built on fear, commerce, and technological abstraction. The poem is about remembering a more instinctive, sacred way of living and reconnecting with humanity’s original source.

The opening lines hope to infer a profound rupture: “the cord was cut” evoking both birth and separation, suggesting that humanity has become disconnected from Mother Nature, spirit, or the organic origins that once sustained it. The phrase “severed from source” points to emotional, spiritual, and existential disconnection. Once detached from this grounding force, humanity “turned to fear and faltered offline.” Here, “offline” is used ironically. Although modern society prides itself on digital connectivity, I suggest that we have actually lost connection to what truly matters.

The second poem explores the complications within human relationships, especially familial bonds that attempt to offer one thing and yet the secondary effect can leave their mark also.

Strong Stitching

I carried your terrors,

as my thoughts,

like a second skin.

Worries stitched in

with your strong thread.

You said ,

“Don’t go too far”,

I didn’t.

“Be careful”

“What would people say?!”,

I stopped.

You meant love.

I never doubted.

Your petitions cradled your prayers,

as you rocked me gently.

I slept, slightly crushed.

My freedom seemed forbidden,

your caution coloured as care.

Danger dotted in destiny,

noticing nuances never there.

But, slowly,

formed by self love,

l set your fears down….

….the way you did me

when I was sleeping.

Recurrent dreams of regret?

Yes!

But never blame.

I am a mother too…

Thank you for your love

and lessons taught well.

I learned that my life

was worthy of protection.

Now, still moving gently,

I add my own lessons.

I’ve revised,

not instead of,

but alongside your learning.

Now, I begin without bracing,

I see, not perceive ,

redirect post-rebalance.

“Watch out” echoes no more

My words whisper

“Go on ..”

So, I do,

and dream of the dawn ….

and you .

This poem reflects on inherited fear, maternal love, identity, and emotional liberation with tenderness rather than resentment. The poem explores how love can sometimes arrive wrapped in anxiety, caution, and protection so intense that it quietly limits a person’s freedom.

The poem attempts to explore the emotional cost of that protective love. Freedom became associated with danger, guilt, and social judgement.

The poem offers a recognition that healing often involves separating love from fear without rejecting the people who gave us both. It is about generational patterns, emotional inheritance, and the compassionate act of becoming oneself while still honoring where one came from.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this far. I look forward to connecting with you and engaging with your feedback which is always appreciated.

Leonorra

Notes from the Editors:

Thank you so very much for your time and this wonderful essay! We are truly excited to see your future works. Please take a moment to visit subscribe and read her works!

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We are so grateful that you are here. Please leave a message if you are inspired. We would love to see what you write. The White Rabbit Poetry Society is a place to find some inspiration and even some friends. Don’t be shy—add links to your poetry!

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5 months ago · 27 likes · 3 comments · Dorie Snow/雪多丽

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A short sample verse to ignite your pen:

In May’s hush, the lily bends her bells,

white as forgotten promises, sweet as first rain.

She rings no alarm, only return,

happiness tiptoeing back on velvet feet.

But hawthorn laughs through thorns,

supreme in her wild crown,

daring the hand that reaches.

Now wander with the rabbit down the path. What does the flower see when it looks at you? Any style and any length.

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Note from the Editors:

White Rabbit Poetry Society is excited to introduce Daniil Frolov as our Featured Monday Poet this week! Daniil has an amazing style that is part cheerful, part strange and wonderfully lovely! He describes his writing as, “I write strange, absurd little stories, and strange absurd little poems. I say strange, absurd little things, and mingle with strange absurd little people.” Please take a moment to visit subscribe and read his work!

Daniil on Poetry

Robert Bolaño wrote that “Literature is a vast forest and the masterpieces are the lakes, the towering trees or strange trees, the lovely eloquent flowers, the hidden caves, but a forest is also made up of ordinary trees, patches of grass, puddles, clinging vines, mushrooms and little wildflowers.”

And I suppose, I was a wildflower, aspiring to be a lake. I read and I read. My mother bought me Lord of the Rings when I was twelve, and Gormenghast, and Crime and Punishment when I was eighteen. Both books blew my mind. Both books sent me on a journey into classic literature, that I’m still on. Except now, the books I read are quite selective. Because I’ve read so much I have to read something quite exceptional, in order to enjoy it.

Poetry is different. Words fly from the page. I read all sorts. I’m still finding my way. Still lost in beauty. I’ve read a lot of the French Symbolists (Baudelaire, Mallarmé, Rimbaud), and I enjoy the Russians of a certain period (Marina Tsvetaeva, Aleksandr Blok, Anna Akhmatova etc). I also enjoy the Romantics, of course (Wordsworth, Tennyson, etc) Substack has brought me into contemporary poetry, which is what I love about it. What people are writing NOW. Which I find very exciting.

My poetry seems to be progressing nicely. I like experimenting with form, and structure. I think I favor extremes. Although I plan to write all sorts. Sparse three letters poems, or densely impenetrable word plays, are interesting to me. As are character poems. I wrote about Franz Kafka, which I quite enjoyed. I plan to write a long intertextual poem; something ambitious. Hopefully, that will work out.

If I had to name a poem that’s inspired me. It’s probably T.S. Elliot’s ‘The Wasteland.’ The structure; the rhyme. The ambition. I read it when I was young, and I think it had a lasting effect on me.

“A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, / And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, / And the dry stone no sound of water.”

poetry

Daniil Frolov

·

Feb 14

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The Identity Knot-(All Chapters So Far).

Daniil Frolov

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Feb 9

A novel about what makes us… us.

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I use repetition, silence, and non sequiturs.

all my poetry

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4 months ago · 16 likes · Daniil Frolov

Note from the Editors:

Thank you Daniil for giving us some of your time and a look into your insight, process and influences on your poetry. You are truly inspiring! Please take a moment to visit subscribe and read his wonderful work!

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5 months ago · 15 likes · 3 comments · Dorie Snow/雪多丽

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What do Wildflowers Know?

1-What do wildflowers know that carefully cultivated and tended flowers don’t?

2-Cultivated flowers are trained, pruned, and arranged

write a villanelle

Try one or both.

By

We walked the fence, my father and I

sought torn wire

and fallen posts from harsh

winter snows and biting winds.

My feet lost in oversized Tingley’s.

My blond braids schtruwwlich

from outrunning night fears.

On that Spring morn,

air cleansed, birdsong permeated

my young soul, and dew baptized

Earth under Sun’s descending rays.

Along sagging fence,

where wood weeps gray,

filigreed Queen Anne’s lace intertwined

quiet blue cornflowers

and gleaming golden buttercups.

Here, beauty needed no permission.

Deeply rooted in struggle,

no applause, no medals,

they bloomed in feral and fierce grace.

Asked nothing of me.

Joy need not be earned.

But I plucked only a few to admire,

for my father explained

how each, steeped into teas

and poultices, hemmed out pain.

So, I sat at the edges,

bent low to hear

wildflowers hum

ancient hymns

of covenant mysteries

about what is planted

and what life insists.

Please post your poem or a link to it in the comments and don’t forget to tag @ so they know you created from their prompt!

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Write about a flower that shouldn’t exist.

Why shouldn’t it exist?

Where did it come from?

What happens when it blooms?

What does it want?

Any genre.

Any style.

Any length.

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This is kind of a hard question to ask upon, but I’d like to know from other perspectives: Are people worth the time?

A hard-knock question exploring the ethics and value of being around others. Thoughts on human objectification, personal prioritization, situations of complexity involving friends & coworkers, and all feelings regarding the matter of interpersonal connections in a world feeling more different than similar.

Write a poem on one of these themes to answer the question “Are people worth the time?”

Any style, any length.

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The Flower That Came Back

Prompt by ASUKA HOTARU

Write about a flower that returned after you thought it was gone.

It can be a real flower, a memory, a person, a feeling, a version of yourself, or a love you did not expect to survive.

Maybe it grew through a crack in the pavement.

Maybe it bloomed in a kitchen glass.

Maybe it lived inside an old letter, a song, a photograph, or someone saying your name gently after a long silence.

Let the poem begin with something small and ordinary.

Then let it open.

You may write in any form: free verse, haiku, prose poem, sonnet, letter-poem, list poem, prayer, confession, or something beautifully messy and unnamed.

Optional opening line:

I thought it was gone, but then…

Optional closing image:

End with a flower doing something impossible.

From Almost Nothing - by

I thought it was gone, but then

the cup on the windowsill

held one small green thing

leaning toward the light.

Not dramatic.

No thunder.

No music.

No sudden forgiveness

falling through the ceiling.

Just a stem

where I had left only water.

Just a petal

opening its shy mouth

after weeks of looking dead.

I almost laughed.

Not because it was funny,

but because hope is embarrassing

when it returns

without asking permission.

It came back

in the ordinary way.

Beside the spoon.

Beside the unpaid bill.

Beside the morning sink

with one plate waiting

to be washed.

I had been so sure

some things only leave.

That love, once bruised,

stays purple.

That joy, once misplaced,

does not remember

the way home.

But there it was.

A little white flower

with its face turned up

like it had never once

believed me

when I called it lost.

So I touched the glass gently.

I said nothing grand.

Only stood there

in my kitchen,

barefoot and quiet,

watching the impossible

lift its small white face

and bloom again

from almost nothing.

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Everyone is talking about spring now as in April showers bring May flowers. I feel so left out because I live in the Sonoran Desert now (Don’t get me wrong, I am here intentionally.) And, though I remember May flowers from growing up and staying until 60 years old in the Upper Midwest, Tucson has been in the 90’s and 100’s now for a month. No rain for weeks.

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Write a poem about what you think about this image. What do you feel? Do whatever you want with it. Any style, any length.

Please post your poem or a link to it in the comments and don’t forget to @ so they know you created from their prompt!

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Write a poem on your favorite poem, one of your own, if the roles were reversed. What would it tell you to revise if it could reverse roles with you; if it became the poet and you became the poem it wrote.

Any style, any length.

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Write a poem about a love that promised lasting beauty but vanished with the first change of season. Any style, any length.

Your Sakura by

I lost myself in May blossoms,

like in the lingering scent of your past embraces.

You promised me petals—white, violet, and pink—

yet, like the flowers of May,

all your words of love were scattered

by the first breath of wind.

I stand bare,

looking at myself

through the silent eye of a cherry tree

that shed its bloom

before it could become fruit.

Yesterday, I was happy—

like a flower in May.

Today, I wonder

how to piece my hopes back together.

For a fleeting instant,

I was your sakura.

For a lifetime,

I remained a question

lost among white, violet, and pink petals

of May’s blossoms.

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If it is to be a prompt, then here four verses from my notes, to be developed into a poem:

When something unguarded meets the light

The shapes begun losing their edges

And the tightened silence won’t move

While the shades take over the bleeding shapes

Continue into a poem ...

Any Style, any length.

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Leave a comment

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Is a funny thing, Snow falling into the day, unexpectedly. Write a poem about this moment.

Style - Haiku

Please post your poem or a link to it in the comments and don’t forget to tag @ so they know you created from their prompt!

Want to write a prompt as well? We are accepting all prompts for publication.

White Rabbit Poetry Society Blog

May Flowers Poetry Prompts

Dorie Snow/雪多丽

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May 3

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Notes from the Editors:

White Rabbit Poetry Society proudly presents as this weeks’ Monday featured poet. Gary started on Substack with writing music reviews, then he took a detour into poetry and found he liked writing it. He describes his page as “Decent music reviews & average poetry.” However, we at the White Rabbit think his poetry is exceptional. Please take a moment to visit subscribe and read his amazing work.

Writing, Poetry and Me by

Original Post

It seems strange that I’m writing about poetry and my own writing of poems, as I still am not sure I really actually consider myself a ‘proper’ poet.

I’ve been posting here for about eight months now and initially, poetry was not a priority, I really just wanted to somewhere to post and share the odd music review or piece that I’d occasionally placed in different Facebook groups, and it spiraled from there. I’ll get to that later though.

I imagine that for many the first introduction to poetry was at school, I was no different.

I remember a book that I read or may have been read to us in infant school (ages 4-7, though looking on Amazon, I notice it’s for ages 8-11, so maybe we had it at a younger age), which funnily enough, popped into my head recently and I managed to loan from the local library. The book was ‘Please Mrs Butler’ by Allan Ahlberg and is a book of humorous poems aimed to appeal to children of those ages.

I loved the title poem as well as ‘Dog In The Playground’ which I still loved as an adult. It made me smile, nostalgically, as well as ‘Reading Test’ which I loved and which I remembered much of into adulthood (it’s effectively a list, in poem form, but think it was the way my teacher read it that made it memorable).

I continued to enjoy poetry through school, though I didn’t write much more of my own, other than if it were for tasks in lessons. I seem to remember enjoying it and that some of my poems were given some praise.

I tended to prefer writing essays or short stories, although to be honest I probably loved reading as much if not more than writing, so often had a book to hand. Sometimes fiction, sometimes biography and sometimes poetry.

As I moved away from school, into further education and then into work, I was writing, though poetry wasn’t at the top of my list. I was primarily producing reviews and profile pieces which were published on a couple of boxing websites around the early 2000s, though by 2002/’03, I had focuses elsewhere (not least a first proper job, which often involved lunches and after work spells in the pub), and writing as a whole largely took a back seat.

I’d occasionally write down things on notepads that I’d often have with me in the bag I took to work or on paper from the office, that might have construed some sort of poetry.

These were just things I thought sounded good, but they largely just stayed on paper and I might have kept them with me or in my bag for a while, but they were eventually just binned, hardly to be thought of again.

As life moved on, work got busier, marriage and other things in life were happening, even these little poems written as notes sort of dried up. I’d occasionally think of things, but they would only briefly be brought to life as silly little song verse type things that I’d just read/sing around the house, while doing housework, or in the shower, nothing more than that.

Around 2008-2010, as a fan of the music of Mark Lanegan, I was a member of a fan site, which occasionally asked for fan-review of live shows, and I submitted a couple there, nothing poetic about them, and they were very bare-bones and fact based, but it did briefly cause that love of writing to flicker, though at that time life got busy again, I was between first and second marriages and along with work, and trying to fit other stuff in, I again didn’t do much from there, writing-wise for quite some time.

Another marriage crumbled, a new relationship bloomed, and we welcomed a daughter in 2018.

Alongside all this though, what had been fairly regular (but to my mind) controlled drinking, had began spiraling into something more sinister, in which I struggled to untangle myself from. I think between 2015-2018 there may have not been too many days when I was without an alcoholic beverage, and it was only in January 2019, that I was able to (with assistance), break free of that addiction.

Clearer-headed, my focus was on being a better partner/father and just actually enjoying a life I could now live without the mists of alcohol clouding my view of it.

Writing still wasn’t a part of it, but I was enjoying family life and still occasionally indulging in other pursuits I loved, such as going to catch live music when time (and childcare) allowed.

It was being a fan of Mark Lanegan and his music, which actually brought me back to writing and in a roundabout way, led me to Substack, where I started sharing some of my poetry.

As a member of a couple of Lanegan-related Facebook groups, there was a lot of chat and looking-back, following his passing in 2022. As I was making posts reminiscing, they were gradually falling into longer-form pieces, and in chatting with the community there, people were often encouraging me to write these longer pieces and review style work on gigs/concerts that I was attending and so I started doing that. Around this same time, I started up the jotting down of poems again in notebooks or draft emails. They’d only stay around temporarily and were only for me, but they felt like a form of release, and a way to kind of almost release things that may have been bottling up or just playing on my mind.

I recently found one of them, which I shared on Substack a few weeks ago, about the passing of Mark Lanegan, and typed it up, here. It was sitting at the bottom of my work bag rolled into a ball. I thought it would be nice to include here:

Untitled Mark Lanegan Poem

As well as Lanegan producing some books of poetry late in his life, I was also fortunate to spend an afternoon in 2024 with his two nephews in Camden prior to a celebration concert and as both of them are published poets, when chat turned to that, and their processes and what poetry meant to them, it did make my mind wonder as to whether I should look to share my own pieces more.

It led me to get the notepads and email drafts back out and to get back to writing little poems at home or on the train to work. Again, they were not anything I kept for any length of time, but the process of writing them often bought a sense of relief and contentment and I enjoyed it.

I was also writing continuing to write occasional reviews on music gigs and shows that I had been to on my own Facebook page and on occasion a band might comment that they like what they had seen and would trust me with an album before release to review and write about.

I wanted somewhere more central to store and write these reviews and stumbled upon Substack as I looked for this. It seemed suitable and I shared a review there and received some support for it and began talking with a few people here.

I only had a few people reading at first, but the feedback was encouraging, and so it became something I’d share more often, and it became something I’d share more frequently than my music pieces.

They are still a work in progress, but I feel that continuing to produce them helps me both improve the crafting of them, as well as working as something to calm my own mind.

This is the first one I ever shared here:

Gary L Taylor

Walking

Passing the usual spots, bare trees lining the road. A particularly large one is cleaved in two. The remnants of a recent and vicious storm. Still, I walk by rows of houses, along concrete that has long cracked and aged, as the rain continues, unabated. Moss gathers between the slates on the rooftops as water cascades down, splashing my feet as I …

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9 months ago · 45 likes · 30 comments · Gary L Taylor

Walking

My ‘Process’

I don’t know if it’s because I only consider myself as almost playing at being a poet, a ‘pretend poet’ for all intents and purposes but writing and talking about a ‘process’ feels like I’m sounding a little pretentious and also makes me feel like I’m a little out of my depth. I’m not sure it’s that interesting, but it is generally a fairly quick process, and I’ve actually tried to see if I have noticed anything additionally when writing pieces.

To be clear, calling myself a ‘pretend poet’, doesn’t mean that I don’t take pieces seriously. I will try to ensure when I’m writing poems, that any feeling I am trying to convey is in it. If there are emotions within my work, they are honest and are there intentionally. Although I generally craft my poems fairly quickly, I try to put them together in a way that I think will work for the reader, and in a style that helps bring home the words I’m using.

If it’s a rhyming piece, although it may not always be perfect, I will spend time reading it aloud, counting beats and trying to make sure that there is some sort of rhythm that I can at least see is coherent and sounds decent.

I’ve not been doing it that long, in the grand scheme of things, and though in some respects, there are no real right or wrong ways to do certain things within poetry, it’s something I’m constantly learning, and I often put pieces out that are (for me) experimental. A lot of the time I like them, but when I read them back, I often find them disjointed or worry they will appear a bit of a mishmash. Unless there are any glaringly obvious errors, I try to resist editing them though as they are often the result of genuine feeling and effort, so I feel they can sink or swim of their own accord when they are out there.

There seem to be a few triggers that lead to me wanting to get something down on the page, but most often, it is a relatively quick process.

Pieces often just come to me. Sometimes, there will be a piece of music I’m listening to and a line or a phrase there may stand out. This also could be something I’ve read or talked about, and it may be that even just a word gets stuck in my head, and I try to see what I can do with it.

This one came about like that. I was working and went to make a tea, and the news channel was on in the kitchen. There was a piece about the science surrounding the ‘phantom limb’ phenomenon that amputees sometimes experience. It floated around in my head until lunchtime and I was listening to some tunes on shuffle, when Nick Drake’s ‘Parasite’ come on. I thought that I could do something using the idea of a ethereal parasite and this was borne from there:

Phantom Parasite

Lunchtimes are quite productive for me. Sometimes, if I’m working, and something pops into my head, I’ll note it down on a pad of paper or in an email draft. It usually then flows into a piece during my lunch hour. The initial thought or line becomes a poem.

With this next one, I had a prompt that I had looked at, and intended to create it as a story. However, when I started writing at lunchtime, the form seemed to just bend more to a poem, yet it still tells a story. I often feel they often are a bit of a jumble, though the ones that have turned out like this, people, thankfully, seem to enjoy:

The Ringing

I mentioned taking notes and my dreams are sometimes a source of my poetry. I often have vivid and somewhat strange dreams. If I wake up from them, I try and scribble notes down about them and then come back to them when more awake, to create something. Usually, the process is little more than sitting with what I have an maybe trying to construct a world or a scenario around it. With my dreams, that element is often already there and it is then that I’ll try and pull it together.

Sometimes, I will lean into life experiences, often those that haven’t been that pleasant, looking back into the past, particularly with my experiences with alcohol.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to lean into that at first, but although the process of digging back through old and painful memories hurts at the time, once the words are on paper, there’s a sense of relief and catharsis that comes, too.

The first piece of that nature I produced was this one, which was also one of the first prompts I attempted and I just sort of fell into writing it:

Gary L Taylor

Drinking On A Train

I have written this one, along the lines of the Poetry Party 4 brief from Bear Sage…

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7 months ago · 79 likes · 82 comments · Gary L Taylor

Drinking On A Train

I’ve revisited the topic a few times, it’s usually met with positivity and understanding and has also brought me into contact here with people with similar issues, and has led to some really good and positive conversations on the subject.

I feature it in a piece on ‘goodbyes’ and it also seemed to make worthwhile subject matter for my first (and so far, only) attempt at an ekphrastic poem:

Keeping Afloat, An Ekphrastic Poem

A Collection of Goodbyes

Aside from it being an outlet for me to release those feelings and thoughts, I quite like the opportunities for trying different things and experimenting, that poetry brings.

I’m very much of the opinion that formal poetry and particularly poetry that rhymes are a weakness of mine, though I strangely find myself often starting pieces saying them rhythmically in my head. If I can find something that seems to work with a particular rhythm, I may attempt it in rhyme. If not, it will generally lack any sort of formal structure.

These two pieces both came from that exact way of working:

Strange Library

Trippy Enough?

I mentioned rhyme a little there, and it’s something I don’t naturally gravitate towards and consider it a bit of a weakness.

It’s something that I want to get better at, however and I made my first real attempt at it here, on a boxing-inspired piece, which still remains one of the most enjoyable that I have written:

Gary L Taylor

A Journeyman's Chance

He looks all around him, could this be real? Full house at the Garden, a title to steal? Visions of victory, his mind starts to dance. Nobody believes he has any such chance. Little time to prepare, in fact, just a week. The original challenger has a gash to the cheek. ‘I could be world champ’ says his brain and he thinks, of cars, money, women, c…

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9 months ago · 13 likes · 12 comments · Gary L Taylor

A Journeyman’s Chance

I love rhymed poems, and some of the early childhood poetry that I read is in that style, whilst I have loved reading Dr. Seuss to my daughter over the last few years at bedtime, with all the rhymes and rhythms he often uses.

I’m not sure if in my head it is that childlike relationship to rhyme, which makes me think that if I employ rhyme, that it may dilute any sort of serious, dark theme or that a particular message I’m trying to get may be lost in a happy, bouncy rhyme.

Here on Substack alone however, I have seen a number of writers and poets explore darkness and some heavy themes whilst rhyming, and so I know it can be done, and have made some attempts at it of late. I’ve even found that sometimes, an almost childlike rhyme conveying something horrific or sinister can actually be a very effective method and can surprise the reader or pull them in, in different ways:

Wet, Red and Slick

Soil

Music, muses

As part of a daily writing challenge that I am currently taking part in, one of the prompts given is to construct something on the subject of muses, and what I produced again is one of those jumbled pieces that I spoke of earlier, but it got me thinking about different types of muses and inspirations behind my poems, and may actually work as a short round up of some of what I have spoken of in this piece:

Unintended

One of the clear things that can be categorized as a muse of sorts of me is music. As I previously noted, Mark Lanegan has been an inspiration, and I recently used one of his pieces to form the basis of a poem, including elements of my own life in there, too:

Ship Comes In Every Day

I think the first time I ever wrote one like that, listening to a song and then creating a poem and a story from it was shortly after writing a music review of the song ‘Sleep Paralysis’ by Icelandic band Daníel Hjálmtýsson.

I had been listening to the song a lot for the review, and the words and imagery of it stuck with me, leading to this:

The Creatures Behind My Eyes

This, final piece that I’ll share was just one such example, from just last week. I was on my lunchbreak, eating and listening to some Irish folk music; The Fureys and Davey Arthur.

Their version of ‘If I Had My Life To Live Over’ played, and as I listened to the words, I remembered, very clearly a conversation with a much older friend of mine, many years ago over a few drinks in a pub.

I almost immediately thought of telling much of that story through poem, in a similar vein to the song, though it is telling a slightly different tale. I added some personal elements, some of pure fiction, to that old man’s tale and this was the result:

A Life To Burn

Thank you if you have managed to stick with this piece through to now. A walk-through what poetry means to me, at least presently. I don’t have it all worked out.

I’m looking forward to carrying on the adventure through these words and occasional rhymes with scattered and formal methods, as poetry continues to help me learn and evolve.

Notes from the Editors:

Wow! Thank you so much to for your time and your amazing essay! We appreciate you giving us this insight into your journey to poetry. You are a wonderful poet, and we hope to see more from you in the years to come! Please take a moment to visit subscribe and read his amazing work. His music reviews are also stellar!

We are so grateful that you are here. Please leave a message if you are inspired. We would love to see what you write. The White Rabbit Poetry Society is a place to find some inspiration and even some friends. Don’t be shy—add links to your poetry!

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Loving the Enemy

Free form poetry. Any length.

Write a poem where you are the enemy in someone else’s story. Write about the moment they chose to love you anyway.

This isn’t about you forgiving them, it’s about them forgiving you.

After mutual hurt (a childhood fight, an adult argument, a betrayal), they found the capacity for compassion. They saw your humanity. They bridged the gap.

Why did they hate you? Did you harm them? What changed?

Not victimhood. Just two people in collision, and one of them choosing connection instead of division.

Please post your poem or a link to it in the comments and don’t forget to @ so they know you created from their prompt!

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White Rabbit Poetry Society

May Flowers Poetry Prompts

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a month ago · 5 likes · 4 comments · Dorie Snow/雪多丽

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What Loneliness Drinks

What does your loneliness drink when no one is watching?

Does it sip quietly from chipped porcelain beneath the moonlight? Does it stir honey into memories that no longer write back? Does it sit beside rain stained windows wrapped in soft silence pretending it does not ache?

What Loneliness Drinks by

My loneliness drinks chamomile from a gold rimmed cup beside a window that forgets nothing.

It watches rain gather itself like women learning how to leave slowly.

Some nights it adds too much honey to old memories just to make them easier to swallow.

Other nights it drinks the silence plain.

There are paper birds sleeping near the lamp now. 

Tiny, folded things made from words I never said aloud. 

They lean toward the steam as if warmth itself were holy.

The flowers by the windowsill have started growing through cracks. 

I stopped trying to move them.

Maybe healing really does arrive like that. Quiet. 

Unannounced. Rooted in broken places first.

So when the world goes dark and the house softens into shadow my loneliness pours another cup and finally speaks to me gently.

Not everything empty is asking to be filled.

Some things are simply learning how to bloom.

~Belinda Drakes©

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To me, fear is the most powerful emotion.

Write a poem about what you fear—what you dread the most. Dig inside yourself and pull it out and pin into the page. Do not be embarrassed. All fears are welcome.

Please post your poem or a link to it in the comments and don’t forget to tag @ so they know you created from their prompt!

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Imposter Syndrome, self-doubt or another feeling personified:

Write a poem about that feeling standing next to you and tell him/her what you want.

Please post your poem or a link to it in the comments and don’t forget to tag @ so they know you created from their prompt!

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White Rabbit Poetry Society Blog

May Flowers Poetry Prompts

Dorie Snow/雪多丽

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May 3

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Lao Tzu says the softest thing in the universe overcomes the hardest. Write a poem where something fragile and delicate like a breath, a petal, or a kind word overcomes something rigid like a wall, a habit or a negative emotion. Focus on the quiet strength of the soft as it overcomes the hard.☯

An excerpt from the Tao Te Ching Chapter 78:

“Nothing in the world

is as soft and yielding as water.

Yet for dissolving the hard and inflexible,

nothing can surpass it.

°

The soft overcomes the hard;

the gentle overcomes the rigid.

Everyone knows this is true,

but few can put it into practice.”

Please post your poem or a link to it in the comments and don’t forget to tag @ so they know you created from their prompt!

Want to write a prompt as well? We are accepting all prompts for publication.

White Rabbit Poetry Society Blog

May Flowers Poetry Prompts

Dorie Snow/雪多丽

·

May 3

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You're walking through the forest on a path, and you see this bench. It looks weathered but still has its paint. What sort of memories do you feel this bench holds? Write a poem about these memories. Any style, any length.

Please post your poem or a link to it in the comments and don’t forget to tag @ so they know you created from their prompt!

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