Oh horizon, so above and proud you are,

a dream untethered you are

far from the earthly mist

with clouds and moon you dance.

When shall I come

to dance in a breeze so sweet?

“Horizon”

Do you desire to dance

with me or flee

from what I see?

The earth is pretty

why don’t you notice

the moon and clouds are with me?

Will you join and be afar?

Not everything is sweet

often a curse lies beneath

I think about this a lot.

We wake up and check our phones before our feet touch the floor. We eat while scrolling. We work while messaging. We rest while planning. We’re never fully anywhere. We’re always half-somewhere-else.

Somewhere along the way we decided that speed equals success. That being busy means being important. That rest is laziness. That stillness is falling behind.

But look at the natural world. Trees don’t rush. Rivers don’t hurry. The moon doesn’t check its phone. The seasons don’t apologize for taking their time.

Everything that’s truly alive moves at its own pace. Except us.

We’ve built a world that demands constant motion and then wonder why we’re exhausted. We celebrate burnout like it’s a badge of honor. We brag about how little sleep we got. We compete over who’s more tired.

That’s not living. That’s surviving with extra steps.

The truth is we weren’t meant to process this much information. We weren’t built to carry the weight of the entire world’s tragedies while also managing our own quiet grief. We weren’t designed to be reachable every second of every day.

But we adapted. Or maybe we just surrendered.

And now we can’t sit alone with our thoughts without reaching for a distraction. We can’t wait in line without scrolling. We can’t eat without watching something. We’ve forgotten how to just be.

I’m not saying technology is evil. I’m saying our relationship with it is broken. We use it to escape ourselves. And the more we escape the less we know who we actually are.

Slowing down feels dangerous now. Almost rebellious. Like saying “no” to the machine. But maybe that’s exactly what we need.

To move slower. To breathe deeper. To look people in the eye. To eat without screens. To walk without podcasts. To sit without fidgeting.

To remember that we are human beings not human doings.

The world will keep spinning. The notifications will keep coming. The urgency will keep demanding. But you don’t have to answer every call.

Sometimes the most radical thing you can do is slow down and notice that you’re still alive.

That’s not laziness. That’s reclamation.

What’s one way you slow down when the world speeds up? Reply and tell me. I’m listening.

The wait is finally over.

After reading the wonderful submissions to the third edition of the White Swans Poetry Challenge, I am delighted to announce the poets selected to be featured in Issue #3.

Each poem brought its own voice, emotion, and interpretation to the prompts. Choosing the featured poets was not easy, but these writers stood out and deserve to have their words celebrated.

✒️ Featured Poets of Issue #3

Poet [ Rahul Yadav]

Poem Title [The cage i choose]

Poem[I closed the door behind my own light,

And made the cage my home at night

I gave the world my wings to keep,

And buried dreams I could not reap

But one small dove I held so near,

I could not let it learn my fear

So while my own wings stayed confined,

I opened every door for mine

Let it have the sky I lost,

Let it never know my cost

If freedom asks for one to stay,

Then let my wings be the price I pay

And if someday it looks below,

At the hands that taught its wings to grow,

Let it never mourn the life I gave

Just know I chose the cage

so it could know the sky]

[Poet Nick viue ]

Poem Title [Twenty]

Poem[On the bench,the judge slammed the gavel 20 timesfor each year wasted.

Down the hall,the jackbooted guard marched me 20 paces,while he barkedwith German Shepherd’s ferocity.

In my cell,the iron door clattered home,rattling 20 bars in unison.

In a dank corner,I get my 20 winks—one for every sin I’ve sown.

Beyond the bars,an angel glides—twenty feathers on the wing.I reach through iron’s shadows.

For hope beyond consumption.

I watch the soulsof ambitions marchlike soldiers off to war.

Twenty years.Twenty lives.

Twenty.]

Poet[ darkened chaos]

Poem Title[Unfeathered Wings]

Poem[The feathers of my wings

Lie scattered across the earth

Torn free by storms

No one else could see

Each morning

I gather what I can

Only for the wind

To steal them back again

The sky has become

A place I remember

Not a place I know

My heart has grown heavy

Like stone

Beneath my skin

There are days

When I forget

What it ever felt like to rise

Yet somewhere beneath the weight

The bones of these wings

Lie patient

Yearning for the sky

A single feather

Can become two

Two become three

Then more

Until they become enough

To catch the wind

So I will keep gathering

What this world leaves behind

I will keep believing

That broken things can heal.

And when the grey skies clear

When the weight

No longer holds me down

One day

I will fly]

Congratulations to all our featured poets! 🦢✨

And to every poet who submitted to this edition—thank you.

Thank you for sharing your words, your imagination, and a little piece of yourself with White Swans Poetry.

A poetry challenge is not simply about being featured. It is about writing, experimenting, finding your voice, and allowing your words to exist beyond the page.

To our featured poets, welcome to Issue #3. 🤍

And to everyone who participated:

Keep writing.

Keep creating.

Keep sharing your words.

Until the next challenge…

The next White Swans Poetry Challenge will begin on the first Friday of the coming month.

So keep your notebooks close, your pens ready, and your imagination wandering. 🦢

I can’t wait to see what you create next.

Congratulations, poets. And until next timehappy writing.

— White Swans Poetry 🦢

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Somewhere, as you read this, someone is losing their home. A child is sleeping through a war. A family is choosing between food and medicine. The planet is burning. The seas are rising. And yet here we are. Scrolling. Posting. Worrying about things that won’t matter next week.

I’m not pointing fingers. I’m also guilty. We all are.

We’ve become experts at looking away. We see a headline. A photo. A number. We pause for half a second. Maybe we feel something. Then we swipe.

Because feeling everything would be too much. So we feel nothing.

But that’s exactly what the broken systems count on. Numb people don’t protest. Numb people don’t demand change. Numb people just keep scrolling. Keep consuming. Keep quiet.

We’ve never had more access to information. And we’ve never understood less.

We can watch a war unfold in real time while eating dinner. We can see a forest burn while shopping for things we don’t need. We can read about children starving while complaining about slow wifi.

The information isn’t the problem. The disconnection is. We’ve separated ourselves from the suffering of others because their pain doesn’t interrupt our comfort.

People say “what can I do?” as if the answer is nothing.

But that’s not true.

You can’t stop a war alone. But you can stop being silent. You can’t feed everyone. But you can feed someone. You can’t fix the planet. But you can stop wasting so much of it.

The world doesn’t need heroes. It needs millions of people doing small honest things and refusing to look away.

I refuse to believe that caring is weak.

I refuse to be more outraged by celebrity drama than by injustice.

I refuse to let algorithms decide what deserves my attention.

I refuse to be comfortable in a world that’s on fire.

Not “what do you think about the state of the world?”

But “what are you doing about it?”

Not out of guilt. Out of love. Because this is the only world we have. And it’s worth fighting for.

The world is heavy. You don’t have to carry it all. But you do have to stop pretending it’s fine.

Look up. Look around. Care loudly. Act quietly. Stay human.

That’s the only thing that’s ever changed anything.

What’s one world issue you refuse to be numb to? Reply and tell me. I’m listening.

Leave a comment

Share

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Oh joy fleeting hope of my eyes

A moment’s guest

Why only knock at my door,

And never step into my home?

I see a glimpse

Just for a blink

And then you vanish.

Someday come and reside

And see

How i thrive with you beside...

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The last war was not fought with armies.

It was fought between me and my poems.

While working on my collection, I began posting my poems as fictional characters giving them personalities, voices, and their own little place in the world of Swan Lake.

What started as a playful way of sharing the process slowly became a story of its own.first the war of poems than the war of titles

The poems became citizens.

Some complained about their titles.

Some questioned the Queen.

Some tried to escape.

And some even betrayed their own.

I called it The Wars of titles.

What follows is the story of the Second War as it unfolded through those fictional characters.

The First Citizens 🦢

It began with Poem 1.

Poem 1: “This title.. 😒 I don’t like it.”

Me: “Whyyy?”

Poem 1: “Cause it doesn’t match my status.”

Me: “😑 Do you even have status?”

Poem 1: “Yesss 💅 So that’s why you’re giving a title.”

Me: “Ha ha. Title? You’re defeated and I am naming you as my citizens. I don’t have time to waste on you. 4 more are waiting.”

And just like that, the first citizens received their titles.

But the kingdom was only beginning.

The Forgotten Citizen

Poem 6 soon appeared with a complaint of its own.

Poem6: “have you forgotten me? 🥺 I was so easy to be defeated 😔”

Me: “yess kinda 😶”

Poem6: “hmmmm soooo where is my title its been a day ⏰”

Me: “your title ........ 😳”

Poem6: “it really striking ✨”

Me: “........ 👀 _doubtful eyes”

The Queen had many things to do.

Still, the titles continued.

The Legend of Swan Lake 🌊🦢

Then came an attempted escape.

Five poems tried to break out from the prison of the book. 📚⛓️

They were caught by Swan Soldiers. 🦢⚔️

They were nearly beheaded. 🗡️

But because of the soft-hearted Queen, the Poet 🤍👑, she forgave them.

And she gave them titles, confined them in a city: Swanlake 🌊🦢

(inside the book)

The kingdom had grown.

So had the rebellion.

The Rebellion of Poem 25 ⚔️

Poem 25 finally challenged the Queen.

Poem 25: “What a cruel ruler you are, In the name of citizenship, you’re caging us.”

Me: “Who are you to ask, And whom did I confine?”

Poem 25: “Those 5 poems in Swan Lake.”

Me: “They were trying to run.”

Poem 25: “If they’re confined, then why don’t you cage Poem 31 and the others too? They’re trying to run as well.”

Me: “What a betrayal to your own. Well anyway... Soldiers, go catch them.”

The rebellion had spread.

Only ten more poems were left to be titled.

The Backlog 💀

Then Poem 31 came before the Queen.

Poem 31: “For what should we be grateful 🤔”

Me: “You should be grateful 👑 After defeat you are still alive ⚔️”

Poem 31: “But you’re trying to cage us ⛓️”

Me: “I am titling you 📜”

Poem 31: “Where are the titles It’s been days”

Me: “I am the Queen 👑 I have a thousand things to do It takes time 💅”

Poem 31: “We understand but 🥺”

Me: “But what 🤨”

Poem 31: “You titled Poem 25 📜”

Me: “That was urgent”

Poem 31: “And what are we 👁️👄👁️”

Me: “A backlog 💀”

At this point, the Queen clearly needed reinforcements.

The Final Citizens

Eventually, only the final poems remained.

Poem 36 was among them.

Poem 36: “With glaresYesss! You remembered us!”

Me: “Yes.”

Poem 36: “We are the last ones left.”

Me: “Yes.”

Poem 36: “Do you know any other words besides ‘yes’?”

Me: “I do. But I’m really drained now.”

Poem 36: “I know. You’ve done so much.”

Poem 36: “Now… title us.”

Me: “Okay.”

And with that, the Second War ends.

🦢 Swanie’s 40 poems are finally titled.

There is a particular kind of silence that follows completion.

Today, I titled the final poems of my collection. With that, all forty poems finally have their names.

What began as a simple task gradually became something much more personal.

After days of writing, revising, arranging, and naming, I had finally reached the end.

And perhaps that is why the ending feels unexpectedly quiet.

Finishing a creative project is often imagined as a moment of triumph. Yet completion can also leave behind an emptiness the sudden absence of something that has occupied your thoughts for so long.

For a while, there is nothing left to title.

Nothing left to arrange.

Nothing left waiting for you.

Only the work itself.

Forty poems. Forty titles. One completed chapter.

The poems may have been fictional characters in a playful story, but the work behind them was very real.

I am grateful for the journey, even for the chaos that came with it.

The Second War is over.

For now, I am allowing myself to sit with that.

And when the silence eventually breaks, there may be another story waiting.

The Spying era 👀🦢

Until then, Swan Lake is quiet.

To be continued…

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Share White Swan

Every image can tell a story.

Sometimes we look at the same image, yet each of us discovers something completely different within it.

Welcome to the final prompt of Issue #3 of the White Swans Poetry Challenge.

This time, I am giving you an image and leaving the interpretation entirely in your hands.

✒️ Prompt II

Look at the image and let it inspire your poem.

There is no required first line.

There is no single interpretation.

Look closely. What do you see?

Perhaps you see freedom, captivity, longing, escape, hope, struggle, love, loss, or something entirely unexpected.

Let the image speak to you, and let your words answer it.

Submission Guidelines

• This is the final prompt of Issue #3.

• You have 4 days to submit your poem.

• Submit one original poem inspired by the image.

• Poems may be written in any poetic form.

📩 Submit your poem to:

whiteswanspoetrychallenge@gmail.com

Please include:

• Your name (or pen name)

• Your poem title

• Your Instagram handle

• Your Substack publication or profile (if you have one)

Including your Instagram and Substack allows me to properly credit your work, tag you in featured posts, and help readers discover more of your writing.

Final Deadline

Prompt II opens today, Wednesday, and submissions will close on Sunday at 12:00 AM (midnight).

And the results will be announced on last Friday of this month

This is your last chance to submit for Issue #3, so make sure your poem reaches me before the deadline.

Once submissions close, I will begin reading and selecting the poems to be featured on White Swans Poetry across Instagram and Substack.

Thank you to every poet who has joined this edition and shared their words with us.

I cannot wait to see the stories, emotions, and meanings you discover within this image.

Happy writing, poets. 🦢

— White Swans Poetry

There is something magical about a poem that begins the same way, yet arrives somewhere entirely different.

Today, I invite you to take part in the third edition of the White Swans Poetry Challenge.

✒️ Prompt I

Start your poem with the exact line:

“The feathers of my wings.”

Every poem must begin with these exact words.

What follows is entirely yours.

Perhaps your wings symbolize freedom. Perhaps they carry memories, burdens, dreams, healing, hope, or transformation. There is no single interpretation—only the one your heart chooses to write.

I’m looking forward to seeing how many different worlds can grow from the very same beginning.

Submission Guidelines

• The challenge runs for 8 days.

• There will be 2 prompts.

• Each prompt remains open for 4 days.

• Submit one original poem inspired by the prompt.

• Poems may be written in any poetic form.

📩 Send your poem to:

whiteswanspoetrychallenge@gmail.com

Please include:

• Your name (or pen name)

• Poem title

• Your Instagram handle

• Your Substack publication or profile

Including your Instagram and Substack allows me to properly credit your work, tag you in featured posts, and help readers discover more of your writing.

Deadline

Prompt I submissions are open from Friday until Monday at 12:00 AM (midnight).

Late submissions cannot be accepted, so please send your poem before the deadline.

Selected poems will be featured on White Swans Poetry on both Instagram and Substack.

I’m excited to read the stories hidden within your wings.

Happy writing.

— White Swans Poetry 🦢

Once a livley soul

Now lost in dark hues

No gaze foresee

How tenebrouse the night has grown

Drowning deeply

For the soul is lonely

No rays of moon reach

For her to breath

she whisperes in darkness

As a lonely being

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I sat down to edit them.

Forty poems. First draft complete. Months of work behind me. I should have opened the document, fixed a few lines, and moved on.

Instead, I rewrote everything.

What Went Wrong

The first draft was done, but it didn't feel like mine. The ideas weren't landing. The voice was too soft, too generic. I wanted the poems to make people understand something specific a feeling, a truth, a quiet ache but the words weren't sharp enough. They whispered when they should have spoken.

I tried so hard while writing that first draft. I pushed. I forced. But no matter how hard I tried, the poems stayed locked in a version I couldn't accept.

Then the draft ended. And I walked away.

What Happened When I Returned

When I sat down to edit, something had shifted. It was as if finishing the first draft had unlocked a new voice. The poems weren't just words to fix anymore. They were alive. They were saying, "We've changed. Update us."

So I did. Not by editing. By rewriting. The same bones, but a different pulse. The same moon, but a darker sky.

The Difference: Draft 1 vs. Draft 2

Draft 1

Oh moon

my tales wait for you to hear

my heart waits for you to listen

On some nights you glimmer and shine

yet on others where do you hide?

Draft 2

Oh moon I drunk the hemlock wine

sweetly

It spread in my mind

Yet I am alive

Mirrors falling

Scattered pieces bleeding

A dark abyss whispering

Yet why I admire

That created disguise

Can you see it? The first draft was a gentle question. The second is a quiet confession. The first waited. The second bled. Same poet. Different voice.

What Editing Taught Me

Editing isn't just about fixing words. It's about listening. The poems knew what they wanted to be. I just wasn't ready to write them the first time. Finishing the draft gave me permission to start over. Not because the first version failed, but because I had grown past it.

Draft 2.5 was born from that. Forty poems. New theme. New concepts. Same heart. Sharper voice.

What's Next

The war is over. The treaty is signed. 🪦

Forty poems complete. Draft 2.5 unlocked. 🔓

Now comes the next mission: Titles. Then spy on them as Draft 3. 👀

Moral of the Story

Your art is allowed to evolve. You're allowed to start over. Even mid-editing. Especially mid-editing.

Growth doesn't follow a timeline. And the poems? They'll wait until you're ready to write them the way they were always meant to be written.

And i wanna hear your thoughts

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Today we are honored to feature the poets and poems selected for this issue.

. We read every single piece with care. Thank you to every writer who trusted us with your work.

After much consideration, we are pleased to present the following:

Poet : [Nick Viau]

Poet title : [an ancient stirring]

Poem:

[this air is ancient

like dust beneath my wings.

long have they beaten

more than my memory dares to reach

yet they still lift me.

exhausted blood flows from a withered pump

just enough to remain presentable.

the others say appearances matter—

they keep us living.

but not alive.

i lived their fear for a time,

floating wing-to-wing on the summer breeze.

a part

but apart.

wanting nothing more than to be above.

to feast upon the highest blossom,

drunk on decaying purpose.

now i know

the nectar tastes the same below.

i’ve soared as high

as this husk would allow

a drop of water on the stem,

reflecting me—

green with youth.

and now

i want to go home.

Poet : [darkened chaos]

[The Awakening"]"

Poem

[I spent my life

Folding pieces of myself

Into smaller and smaller shapes

Until I fit inside rooms

That were never built for me

I laughed quieter

Dreamed smaller

Held my tongue

Until even my own voice

Began to sound unfamiliar

Everyone saw someone who belonged

But no one noticed

The funeral

There is a loneliness

That comes from being alone

And another

That comes from being surrounded

Yet never fully seen

Because the person they know

Is only a shell

Of the man I buried

I become a stranger

To my own reflection

Mourning someone

Who is still alive

Not because the world

Rejected me

But because I

Rejected myself

So now

I let them misunderstand

I let them leave

I let them say I've changed

I am done

Carving pieces from my soul

To earn a place

At someone else's table

I will not bury myself

Ever again

Just to make others

Feel comfortable]

---

Poet 3: [Rachana Meena]

[Rise again]

Poem

My heart still feels the echoes of pain,

When I was broken and wished to die.

That little girl from the past Still echoes in my mind.

She says,

Never let the world bring you down,

And never let your scars make you frail.

I believe that one day you will bloom again

And find your guiding light.

One day,

the storm will end.

That day,

she became my biggest supporter And

rekindled hope in the fading

light within me.

I promise I will rise again

And find the serenity of

my heart.

Now my shoulders are no longer shaking

They are ready to carry the weight of

my wounds And will walk like

a warrior.

I will not let anything bring me

down again and carry the scars of

my glory With an unshaken spirit.]

Poet [Kimberlys]

Title[The Mirror Knows]

[The caterpillar stared

at a reflection

that no longer belonged to it.

It searched for familiar lines,

for the body it had carried

through leaves and long days,

but the mirror answered

with wings instead.

Perhaps that is how change arrives

not all at once,

but so gently

we hardly recognize ourselves.

We spend so much of life

looking for the person we used to be,

when all along

something quieter,

something stronger,

has been waiting to emerge.

The mirror never lied.

It simply showed

what hope had known first.]

Poet[Janne Lundberg]

Mirror

Title[The mirror]

Poem

[The mirror was looking both ways, confused over which way was future and which way was past.

Never had the mirror used it’s capacity for double seeing before.

It had surely seen a butterfly before

And also a caterpillar

But never simultaneously.

The mirror wasn’t quite used to what happened now.

The butterfly, on the other hand, did recognize, the caterpillar as a pre-stadium for itself which pleased it immensly.

The caterpillar was just confused, but the room in which the mirror,

existed,

Knew it all.]

---

To the featured poets: Congratulations. Your work moved us.

To all who submitted: Thank you. Your voice matters here. We hope to read from you again.

With respect and gratitude,

WhiteSwan

@KimberlysQuietmusings

@pointofviau

@chaos.in.ink

@pearlswrite

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"Why don't I have that? Why do they have it?"

About everything, I complained.

That complaint became a habit.

And that habit made me feel like I had nothing.

Whatever I had... it was never enough.

Never felt like enough.

Until one day, I was hanging out with friends.

We were in a park.

We were talking, laughing, loud.

We had met after months.

Time moved so fast, we didn’t even know.

The evening slipped into our hands without asking.

It was slowly getting dark.

And all of us, at the same time, said:

"let’s head back."

On our way home, my eyes caught something.

Something small.

And it pierced straight through my heart.

A sudden, sharp hint of guilt.

I saw a child selling balloons.

He was maybe between 11 and 12.

And in that moment, my childhood flashed back in my mind.

How at this age, I was carefree.

Running in the streets. Playing till the sun went down.

Laughing with no reason. No responsibilities. No weight.

And yet he...

He was already buried in responsibilities at this age.

Carrying what no child should have to carry.

That’s when it broke me.

That’s when I realized how ungrateful I’ve been.

I was given a carefree childhood.

I was given time to play.

I have beautiful memories I get to remember and laugh about.

Memories he may never get to make.

And there’s something I want to tell you:

These days, everyone is chasing luxury.

Big cars. Big houses. Big everything.

But some people...

Some people are just praying for a normal, peaceful life.

Our Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said:

"Look at those who are below you,

and do not look at those who are above you,

Look around.

Some people don’t even have a roof over their head. But we do.

Some people don’t even get three meals a day. But we do.

We should be grateful for what we have.

Because what we call "normal"

is someone else’s biggest dream.

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Comment

A deced passed

Saw many faces and hearts,

We laughed and played,

We all were friends till the end

Now last year is left.

For we will be apart

In same class.

This year will pass, .

Not a teacher will say,

do the test or tomorrow are exams.

No more exuses we will make that we are

innocent.

We won’t be scolded for two braids or for

being so late.

No more we will joke quarrel and tunt.

No winter will be same in morning shivering

we will come

No summer will be same we will do our work

in heat

No more we will wait for Sunday to come so

we sleep morning till ends

All of these will became memories

left in our minds

We will remmeber once we all were togather

In a peradise

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Prompt II

Sometimes, a single image can tell a story words cannot.

For this prompt, let the image below lead your imagination. There is no correct interpretation write whatever it stirs within you. It may speak of transformation, identity, hope, freedom, fear, change, or something entirely your own.

Let your words take flight.

Submission Guidelines

Write one original poem inspired by the image.

Include:

Your name or pen name

Your poem title

Your Instagram handle

Your Substack (if you have one), so I can credit and tag you if your poem is featured.

Send your poem to whiteswanspoetrychallenge@gmail.com.

📅 Deadline

Prompt II is open until Friday at 12:00 AM (midnight).

Late submissions will not be accepted.

I look forward to reading your interpretations and discovering the stories hidden within this image.

Happy writing.

White Swans Poetry 🦢

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I’ve been writing in it notebook for months. Filling pages. Crossing out lines. Starting poems and abandoning them. Returning weeks later to finish.

his week I realized the first draft is complete. Not typed. Not polished. Just handwritten and real.

Book two exists now. In ink. On paper. Waiting to be typed and shaped.

That’s the next step. But first I’m pausing to appreciate that I finished something again.

Second book. First draft. Done.

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Welcome to the second edition of the White Swans Poetry Challenge.

After an inspiring first challenge filled with thoughtful voices and beautiful interpretations, I’m delighted to invite you to write with us once again.

✒️ Prompt I

“I shall not bury myself.”

Interpret the prompt however your imagination leads you. There is no single meaning only your own.

Whether your poem speaks of resilience, identity, healing, defiance, hope, or something entirely unexpected, allow your words to unfold freely.

Submission Guidelines

• This challenge will run for 8 days.

• There will be 2 prompts.

• Each prompt will remain open for 4 days before the next prompt is revealed.

• Submit one original poem inspired by the prompt.

• Poems may be written in any poetic form.

• Subbmit to @whiteswanspoetrychallengegmail.com

• Please include:

  • Your name (or pen name)

  • Poem title

  • Your Instagram handle

  • Your Substack publication or profile (if you have one)

Including your Instagram and Substack allows me to properly credit your work, tag you in featured posts, and help readers discover more of your writing.

📅 Deadline

Prompt I submissions are open from Friday until Monday at 12:00 AM (midnight).

Late submissions for Prompt I will not be accepted, so be sure to send your poem before the deadline.

Selected poems will be featured on across Instagram and Substack.

I can’t wait to read your interpretations and discover the worlds you create through your words.

Happy writing.

White Swans Poetry 🦢

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Hair fall, hairfall,

My hair falls like nothing

will remain at all.

In a year i will be bald,

What to do tried remedies

and all.

I am worried no hair style

will look good

I will look like a penguin of a

zoo.

Weep and cry

The hair say:

dear no matter what we

will fall

For that’s our mission

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Today, I’m finally sharing the poems that stayed with me long after I finished reading them.

Before anything else, thank you to every poet who participated in the first White Swans Poetry Challenge. Every submission carried a unique voice, a different perspective, and a piece of its writer. It was a privilege to read each one.

Selecting my featured poems wasn’t easy. I returned to these pieces more than once, letting them settle before making my final choices. The poems below are the ones that resonated with me through their imagery, emotion, originality, and interpretation of the prompts.

I’m honoured to feature these wonderful poets today.]

POET : Goddes Viki

Poem: The Flame

Not long ago, I sat

with two candles beside me

Both burned with passion

Who took care of me by lighting.

They gave me warmth and care

Fuzzy inside my hair.

Those years were nice

Until the sun was down.

One day, I looked at those candles

They seemed to shine bright.

But brighter than I ever was

I felt like it would outshine–

The presence I built

For myself and for my right.

Seconds later, my own flame shined

Up into my head.

As it represented fates I carry

Without worrying debt.

But that flame shined differently

From the two candles that was placed

On both sides.

As I asked “What’s my divinity?”

They didn’t answer my life.

I was left to decide on my own

Until I figured out.

What I really wanted in my life like floating clouds.

Emotions allowed me to surpass

The burning light in those wicks

Wicks that had been burning

for decades it was in bliss.

One day, I told that I wanted to follow my dream

But both dimmed as if they won’t allow me to see.

The potential of my future

Instead, it shined on pages I never wrote.

As I picked up the book of arranged fates I never

wore.

My flame shines brighter until it consumes the

shape my face remained,

Because I knew the dream I want to follow for my

sake.

Once I couldn’t bare the pain of being judged

And thrown.

I couldn’t bare the voices who wouldnt let me

Be on my own.

No help guaranteed, I couldn’t breath

So I just did one thing...

I ran away as far as I couldn’t see their flames.

I went on board, a train that flies upon the starry

sky.

I fell asleep and closed my eyes as I let it pass the

night.

I woke up, finally the dawn was young and stark.

It’s beautiful hues reflected on the train’s glass

With a spark.

I looked outside, the train has landed

Until I looked outside.

Meadow plains, and mountain ranges

Spread and met the sky.

I stare as the train rides

As it makes its way to my destination.

It finally stopped as I step outside

At last, my dream direction.

Poet: darkened chaos

Poem: no Title

It rattles the bars

At the sight of a smile

It reaches through the iron

Toward things it cannot hold

I have fed it dreams

Given it names

Allowed it to believe

That longing alone

Could make something stay

But desire was never meant

To be trusted

It sees beauty

And calls it destiny

It mistakes kindness

For promises

And still

No matter how many times

I have watched hope walk away

It rises again

Bruised

Quiet

But alive

Perhaps that

Is the cruelest thing about it

Or perhaps

The most beautiful

Because though desire

Is bound to a cage

It still sings

Poet: J.R Harrington

Poem: Caging Desire

Desire is bound

to the birdcage,

a goldfinch

with a chain soldered

to its leg,

like a soldier

it never sings.

Desire is bound

in rough rope,

burning soft skin

with friction

that it cannot help.

Desire is made

for friction,

for silences

that mean a million

different things,

to be read at your

discretion.

Desire is bound

to cage you,

always with longings

painted in lunacy,

try try again,

until you become

the definition of insanity.

Desire cages because

that’s all it can do,

trap you with itself

within itself,

like a monster

it devours want,

spitting up yearning.

Once you begin

to covet, to desire,

it becomes all

that you can do

losing satisfaction

with what you have.

Name the desires,

and put them away,

then name all the

little gratitudes

that make up your days.

Poet:collection of my contemplations

Poem: An aviary of desires

In my mind I built an aviary,

An aviary of birds,

A dedication to my desires,

A souvenir of my dreams.

I walk through it every day,

Watching the multitude of colours and songs,

Feeding them grains of hope,

Just enough to keep them barely alive.

Some old, some new,

Some ordinary, some exotic,

Some plain, some radiant,

Some melodious, some shrill.

And I sit upon the bench and watch.

Some have accepted their fate,

Resigned to lives confined,

Exhausted by years of longing.

Some younger ones,

Still hopeful of making it out,

Beat their wings in desperation,

Pecking at the glass until exhaustion.

An ordinary pigeon coos softly,

A beautiful peacock dances in vain,

A phoenix bursts into flames,

An innocent white swan glides away.

An anguish gnaws deep within me,

An unrelenting ache to shatter the glass,

Destroy the cage, undo the lock

But would they leave?

Wings clipped and burdened by weariness,

In a world of threats and uncertainty,

Would they survive?

Or are they safer caged within me?

At memorials I hold for the dying each day,

Hope lodged within me sings a ballad untold

Of keys forged from courage and hammers of

strength,

Of beating wings and bursts of colour.

Perhaps the desires I bound within cages

Have come to cage their desire to break free.

E.D.korczal

Poem: Motionless

This abolishment of mind

Stuck in the here and now

While a thousand miles behind

Trapped in the Twain

To stumble forward

Or fall back in time

To suffer forward

Or swallow the opium of time

Every you sick moment

Entangles my peace

Every rattling moment

Further from the sublime

Here I sit

This abolishment of mine

To everyone who shared their work thank you for trusting this space with your words. Whether your poem is featured today or not, I hope you continue writing, exploring, and creating. Every poem added something meaningful to this challenge, and I look forward to reading more of your work in the future.

Congratulations to the featured poets, and thank you all for being part of White Swans.

Until the next challenge,

White Swans Poetry

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Day 1 is closed. Poems landed in my inbox. Some quiet. Some loud. All human. I’m grateful.

Now Day 2 begins.

This time, no words. Just an image. A piece of oil art I found and couldn’t stop looking at. I want to know what it stirs in you.

Look at it. Sit with it. What lives inside this painting? What story is waiting to be told? What emotion rises when you stop analyzing and just feel?

Write that. Any form. Any length. One line or a page.

Send your poem to: whiteswanspoetrychallenge@gmail.com

Subject: Day 2 Your Name

Submit by 8:00 AM tomorrow.

No AI. No judgment. No fancy words required. Just you and whatever this image pulls out of you.

After this, the challenge ends. I’ll read everything. Both days. Every entry. Then I’ll share the ones that stayed with me in a roundup here and on Instagram.

If you missed Day 1, join now. Day 2 is a fresh door. Walk through.

Writing with you,

Whiteswan 🦢

Okay. Here we go. First prompt. First challenge. I’m nervous. You might be too. That’s fine. Let’s do this together.

Prompt: A desire is bound to cage.

I don’t know what that line does to you. Maybe it stings. Maybe it reminds you of something you buried. Maybe it pisses you off. Maybe it just sits there quietly waiting for you to unpack it.

Whatever it does, write it down.

No rules. No fancy structure. One line. Ten lines. A whole page if the words won’t stop. Spelling doesn’t matter. Grammar doesn’t matter. Just honesty.

A few things:

No AI. At all. Not even a little. Not for ideas. Not for lines. Not to “polish” anything. These should be your words. Messy, imperfect, human. That’s the whole point. I want what you actually feel, not what a machine thinks you should say.

Send your poem to: whiteswanspoetrychallenge@gmail.com

Subject: Day 1 Your Name

Submit by 8:00 AM

I’m reading every single one. Not scanning. Not skimming. Sitting with each poem like it matters. Because it does.

This isn’t school. There’s no grade. No red pen. No judge frowning at your line breaks. Just me on the other side of an inbox, grateful you trusted me with your words.

If you’re scared, write scared. If you’re tired, write tired. If you think your poem is bad, send it anyway. Bad poems are just honest ones that haven’t found their people yet.

The prompt is yours now. Do what you want with it.