Since Monday, April 7th, I’ve been creating “found” poems—gathering sentences shared by fellow writers on Notes and shaping them into something new. I’m also taking part in the National Poetry Writing Month challenge, aiming for at least 30 poems in 30 days.
Lately, I’ve been leaning into more unruly forms: poems that break convention, that are multimodal, hybrid, polyvocal, and queer in structure. A Queer Theory of Socks is one such piece.
a queer theory of socks (with apologies to linear thought)
i. footnote (literally)
today’s outfit begins at the bottom:
left foot: white cotton,
punctuated by tiny rainbow hearts —
red at the tip, purple at the root —
right foot:
a full-stripe riot with white hearts like punctuation marks,
as if joy could be grammared
into being.
ii. who says socks must match?
(mother said.
catalogs said.
uniform codes whispered compliance
in department store voices.)
they lied.
these socks argue —
not in anger
but in kaleidoscope logic:
why be one thing
when I can be plural?
why follow lines
when I am the spectrum?
iii. not exactly a manifesto (but close)
these socks are not confused.
they are deliberately exuberant.
they do not align
— they coexist.
they don’t whisper queerness,
they stomp it
into wooden floors
with the rhythm of marching bands
and dance parties
and that one awkward first step
into being seen.
iv. interlude (a conversation overheard)
— are you allowed to wear those together?
— allowed by whom?
— i mean, isn’t it weird?
— only if symmetry is your religion.
v. a brief history of resistance, in fabric
this is a patchwork gospel.
stitched by hands that were never invited
into the center —
so we made our own thread.
call it a zine,
a chant,
a mismatched hymn for the feet
that walk away from rules
and toward themselves.
vi. epilogue (or maybe just a toe-wiggle)
today, i am a walking archive
of delight
and defiance.
i am not polished.
i am not planned.
i am not matching.
i am
composed.
in every color
and none of your binaries.
2025/09/04A poem following the dedicated prompt.
Today we’d like to challenge you to try writing a poem of your own that uses rhyme, but without adhering to specific line lengths. For extra credit, reference a very specific sound, like the buoy in Hillyer’s poem.
🌊 The Tide's Whisper The lighthouse bell tolls across darkening shores, its hollow ring a signal— not omen, not lore. Waves wash away footprints I carefully pressed into wet sand just moments before— a brief trace of presence, now more. The distant foghorn moans—a low, steady drone, cutting clean through the air as I stand here alone, watching the shore shift under each swell. My skin tightens as the evening turns raw, like time reshaping what we thought we knew into something with weight and without flaw. That sound again—foghorn through thickening mist, not mournful—just measured, like the truth we resist: we change, and remain, like sea foam. The tide pulls back, then breaks once more, not to erase— to return, to score its pattern in sand, vulnerable and true. I listen as night leans in and holds— the foghorn steady, the water bold— and nothing untouched by time's persistent hand. 2025/09/04
The “Found” Poems
“Wild Doesn’t Ask” A Found Poem for National Poetry Month Day 9 The forest lets me feel too much. It never asks me to behave. Come undone, breathe weird, be wild again. Sourcing your worth from someone else's rules means forgetting how to help yourself remember. Kindness, patience, respect—we know these values. Even then, emotions hijack the moment. We shut down or lash out fast. Sometimes we say the thing anyway. We swore we wouldn’t, but we do. Life comes whether or not you’re ready. Feeling safe is a spiritual experience. For many, it is unfamiliar ground. Today’s gentle reminder: slow all the way. The world won’t end if you do. But your burnout absolutely will, in time. My quest is quietly fierce and ongoing. It’s daily, for mature women—seen, heard. Respected for living, not patted or tolerated. They earned that simply by showing up. I fight for it in small ways. Sometimes I fight for it in big. Speaking up, refusing to shrink or disappear— like showing up when the world forgets.
A found poem with words by these wonderful writers: Michelle Dowd Susan Heathfield Tracy Mansolillo Linnea Butler, MS, LMFT Ana Flores Gloria Horton-Young
The Awakening (A found poem)
A found poem for NaPoWriMo Day 8
In an instant,
my entire belief system collapsed.
What if anger is not disconnected from love,
but a love so fierce
it will go to war to protect others?
After decades of spiritual seeking,
I dream of the day
we no longer pretend we are masters—
those discontented kings,
broken from Life itself.
Start making something beautiful
and unpredictable.
The patriarchy keeps us isolated,
feeling like we need
to carry everything ourselves.
Yet knowing
that my words
became part of something larger,
something luminous,
fills me with gratitude.
It's happening right now—
in all its messy glory.
We are strong
when we stand together.
Thanking others communicates
they are seen and valued.
Isn't that
what most of us want anyway?
Go fight for what is right:
the spaciousness,
the deeply okay-ness,
the fluid strength to be.
It's not our feelings
that get us into trouble,
but the unchallenged beliefs
we allow to arise
in the wake of those feelings.
Beauty at your back, we need each other—
yet difference
opens the door of possibilities.
2025/08/04Thank you for all your words! This poem was made from sentences by:
and Felicity Ewing ❁The Hill We Write From a found poem compiled for National Poetry Month Day 7 He could not easily march, but he could lay on his horn in support of democracy like none other. The power of yet rings louder than sirens. You have survived 100% of your worst days. We are with you in spirit!!! This isn’t my first protest rodeo. I’ve marched, I’ve sat in, I’ve shouted the truth through a bullhorn— and yes, I’ve absolutely locked eyes with someone holding a handmade sign and thought, well now, that’s how revolutions begin. ALL 50 STATES, ONE MESSAGE: HANDS OFF! Poetry— from its ancient origins to its contemporary manifestations— has given voice to beauty, sorrow, rebellion, and hope. I feel like I’m mining for the story every time I sit down to write. So much of women’s work is undervalued and under/unpaid— we are expected to give, and give, and give ourselves away. There’s no way around it. You’ve got to write, and write, and write some more. Trans rights are human rights— I will happily, and with pride, die on that hill.
With lines from these wonderful writers:
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