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Joshua Walker @bigjosh84.bsky.social · 17h

There’s beauty in what breaks, light in what endures.
These poems come from the quiet after the storm—
where truth cuts, fire flickers, and faith rebuilds itself from ruin. 💙 💙 💙
#poetry #poetsofbluesky #writingcommunity

A poem about carrying what the rain can’t wash away—grief, memory, and the quiet resilience that keeps you standing.

The Weight of Rain

It falls the way old grief returns,
Soft at first, then sharp and deep.
The sky forgets, but the earth still learns
The names of what it cannot keep.

Each drop recalls a buried plea,
Each echo hums through hollow bone.
The ground absorbs the memory,
And I walk soaked, but not alone.

I used to beg the storm to end,
To let me dry, to let me mend.
Now I let it wash, unmake, restrain—
There’s peace in being broken by the rain.

Let the clouds cry what I cannot say—
The flood remembers me anyway.

A poem about breaking your own silence and finding truth in the shards.

Glass Tongue

I’ve bitten words till they bled red,
Polished lies till they gleamed like grace.
I learned to love the things unsaid,
To hide the hurt behind my face.

The truth is fragile, sharp, and small,
It cuts me even when I kneel.
I drink its edge, I take it all,
And call that ache the way I heal.

Each sentence costs a piece of skin,
Each poem’s just confession’s twin.
Yet still I speak, though silence pleads—
To bleed with meaning is all one needs.

I’d rather shatter than stay contained—
Glass only shines when it’s been strained.

$A poem for anyone who’s held themselves together when everything else fell apart. Kingdom of Cracks I built my altar out of stone, Each prayer a scar, each vow a chain. The gods were silent, cold, alone, Their eyes unlit, their thrones insane. I begged for signs, for some return, A voice to mend my shattered creed. But all I found was what I burn— The faith that bleeds is faith I need. Through every fracture, light still came, Unasked, unholy, without name. I learned the truth the ruins lend— We break, but that’s not where we end. In the cracks, I see my reign— A crown of loss, but not of pain.$

A poem about losing what once defined you, yet still finding a flicker that refuses to die. The Fire That Forgot Its Name

The Fire That Forgot Its Name

Once it burned with holy might,
A storm of gold, unbound, alive.
Now it flickers in the night,
Too tired to flare, too weak to thrive.

I feed it words, I feed it sin,
I whisper love it can’t recall.
Its glow lives deep beneath my skin,
A ghost that answers every call.

It hums like faith turned faint with time,
Like ash still dreaming of the climb.
I guard it close, this nameless flame—
It’s me, without the need for name.

Let darkness take what it may claim—
I’ll burn, if only to remain.

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Joshua Walker @bigjosh84.bsky.social · 6d

There’s a hum beneath the silence, a sting beneath the calm. These poems come from that place—where faith burns, masks slip, and the heart still beats. 💙 #poetry #blueskypoets #poems#writingcommunity

A poem about the hum of anxiety—the sting that never leaves and the thoughts that won’t rest.

The Bee in Your Bonnet
There’s a hum that rattles beneath your skin,
A restless sting that claws at your mind.
It circles your thoughts, a creeping sin,
A restless buzz you cannot leave behind.

It thrives on the tension, feeds on your doubt,
A whisper of chaos that won’t let you breathe.
It claws at your sanity, turning you out,
A thought that refuses to let you reprieve.

It stings in silence, it stings when you scream,
A constant ache, a poison in your chest.
It drives you to madness, distorts every dream,
Until you’re a prisoner, unable to rest.

So let it settle, build its twisted nest—
The bee in your bonnet will never let you forget.

A dark dance between desire and destruction, where masks hide the truth of what we crave.

Waltz of Ruin
In shadows I move, where the light cannot find,
A raven’s wing brushing close to the flame.
The mask is my refuge, my peace of mind—
A monster you crave, but you won’t speak my name.

A twisted waltz, I lead with no shame,
My hands on your throat as your breath turns to sighs.
Whispers of ruin are all that I claim,
Every word I speak is a thin, poisoned lie.

The floor is a graveyard, each step I take,
Your skin, cold beneath the weight of my touch.
In the dance, I burn, but for nothing’s sake—
I never wanted you—just wanted to clutch.

At the ball, I laugh—but it’s death on my tongue,
For the masquerade ends when your soul is wrung.

A reflection on lost faith and the quiet ache of seeing your own fall in someone else’s ruin.

The Pawn Shop
I saw an angel pawn her halo, dim,
A tarnished wreath once forged of fire and grace.
She sold it cheap—her light, her seraph hymn—
For silence filled devotion’s vacant place.

She stood outside, her hands as bare as bone,
Where once the embers of belief had burned.
The sky behind her shone, but not her own—
No voice from heaven called for her return.

She drifted on, a shadow lost in light,
A ghost of oaths too broken to defend.
Her prayers fell mute, devoured by the night,
No god to mourn, no faith, no soul to mend.

And as she vanished, stripped of all but pain,
I swore I saw myself within the stain.

A poem of defiance—the will to keep going when everything else has fallen to dust.

The Last Beating Heart
The clocks lay shattered, hands undone,
Their hollow faces lost to time.
The wind that once held songs has spun
To whispers drained of breath and rhyme.

Yet something pounds beneath the dust,
Defying rust, denying rest,
A heartbeat forged in ash and crust,
Still raging in a world undressed.

The walls have crumbled, light has fled,
Yet here it beats, untamed, unbowed,
A whisper where the lost once bled,
A fire no ruin’s hand has doused.

Let silence drown what breaks apart—
It cannot still the final heart.

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Joshua Walker @bigjosh84.bsky.social · 7d

That means a lot ❤️ It’s been a gentle, needed pause.

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Joshua Walker @bigjosh84.bsky.social · 7d

Thank you 🙏 I’ve missed this space while I’ve been away.

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Joshua Walker @bigjosh84.bsky.social · 7d

Thank you — poetry lives because of readers like you.

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Joshua Walker @bigjosh84.bsky.social · 7d

Namaste 🌿 Wishing the same to you.

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Joshua Walker @bigjosh84.bsky.social · 14d

It’s been a while. I stepped back, healed, and let silence do its work — but through it all, you stayed, and I carry that with me. Tonight I return the only way I know how: in four poems.Thank you all for your support and here’s the poems. 💙 💙 💙
#poetry#poems#blueskypoetts#writingcommunity

I wrote this during a moment when I felt emptied out by silence, like even time had turned its back. It’s about the numbness that follows despair.

The Lost and the Hopeless
I don’t remember when the light went out
just woke up cold and didn’t ask it back.
There’s no one left to comfort, curse, or doubt,
just empty walls and shadows going slack.

I speak, but even silence doesn’t stay;
it slips like breath through holes I didn’t mend.
The clocks all tick, but time won’t look my way—
it’s tired of watching me pretend to bend.

I used to dream of something past this pain,
a softer night, a name to whisper through.
But hope is cruel—it never leaves a stain,
just floats above like stars I’ll never view.

So here I sit, this lost and hopeless thing,
too numb to break, too dead to feel the sting.

This one is me poking fun at myself- a reminder not to confuse the poet with the prophecy. It’s about laughing at my own mess while still making art out of it.

Don’t Take Me Too Seriously-
I wore my heart like an oversized coat,
Flashing my grin just to see who would blink.
I told the world I was a saint, but nope
I’m just a poet with too much to drink.

I’ll flirt with chaos, but don’t get too near,
I might trip on a metaphor and fall.
But don’t mistake me for some kind of seer
I’m just a mess with a pen, that’s all.

I like my coffee bitter, like my jokes,
And sometimes I’m the punchline in disguise.
But laugh with me—let’s light up the smoke,
And toast to truths wrapped in clever lies.

So here’s my rhyme, don’t think too hard on it
I’m just here to dance and laugh a little bit.

This poem contrasts the rush of the present with the stillness of the past. It’s about longing for the quiet moments that once gave life more depth.

Now and Then
Now, the world pulses in a frantic hum,
its thrum a rush, relentless through the air.
Then, silence swept the earth, a stillened drum,
time paused, suspended in a breathless prayer.

Now, we chase the fleeting light of days,
a blur of steps, a race we cannot win.
Then, we stayed in moments, soft and dazed,
where calm dissolved the chaos deep within.

Now, our voices clash in wild refrain,
each word a sword, unsheathed and sharp with scorn.
Then, we spoke in silence, free from pain,
a language warm, where hearts were softly born.

Now and then, the space between persists,
where fleeting peace, in shadows, still exists.

Things She Don’t Understand

This one speaks to the tension between being loved and being haunted. It’s about how inner battles can make connection feel impossible.

Things She Don’t Understand
She thinks I vanish just to cause her pain,
not knowing silence is the way I scream.
She chases thunder, curses at the rain—
but storms don’t answer when they’re lost in dream.

She says I’m distant, cold, or out of touch,
as if I wanted to forget her face.
But some things rot because we love too much,
and wounds don’t heal just ‘cause we call it grace.

She sees the ashes, asks me why I burned,
like I lit matches just to watch them fall.
But some men learn the fire can’t be turned—
it eats you slowly, torching soul and all.

She don’t see ghosts that whisper in my skin.
She only asks why I won’t let her in.

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Joshua Walker @bigjosh84.bsky.social · 26d

I think pressure doesn’t just expose character- it shapes it. Who we are is revealed not in the calm, but in how the heat of the moment morphs us. Absolutely love this- thank you for reading and for such a powerful, thought-provoking question.

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Joshua Walker @bigjosh84.bsky.social · 27d

So, friends: I was going to take a few days off to mourn my dog. But I’ve got a reputation for speaking when I must. So, I will speak—consequences be damned.

Before the poem: This poem defends free speech and criticizes mob mentality. It is not a threat to any person or group.#resist#poems#poetry

In the wake of rampant online mobbing, cancel culture, and attacks on those who speak their truth, I wrote this poem as an urgent declaration: words are not crimes, courage is not punishable, and no one has the right to silence another. This is a stand for free speech, defiance against digital fury, and a call to remain unbowed in the face of threats, shaming, or dismissal. Written now, because the attacks are happening in real time, and silence would be complicity.

No

They swarm in pixels, pitchforks in hand,
Dragging lives through mud for a single truth spoken.
No.

You speak—bold, raw, human—and they descend.
Fired, threatened, shamed.
No.

Some, they cheer in whispered mobs.
Some, they roar, claws bared,
But this isn’t a game of sides.
No.

Truth is not a crime.
Courage is not a felony.
Words are not weapons for the faint of heart.
No.

Jimmy spoke. They took his show.
Others fell.
And you—watching, waiting—think it’s normal?
No.

I see the pitch, the drag, the callous delight.
I see your digital mobs gnawing at flesh and name.
And I will say it:
No.

No one silences truth with fire and fury.
No one bends courage with threat and shame.
No.

Speak.
Speak.
Speak.
And if they come for you, let them meet the echo of defiance.
No.

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Joshua Walker @bigjosh84.bsky.social · Sep 9

Friends, I won’t lie — I’m shattered. My dog, Sugar Ray, passed suddenly. But grief has its own strange light. In our darkest moments, something in us still burns. Believe in your light, always. Here are new poems.
#poetry#poems#blueskypoets#writingcommunity

A poem about the raw, chaotic energy of life and the small, sacred flashes of beauty within it. I wrote this to capture the way color, light, and sensation can feel alive and holy even in dark moments. It celebrates being fully present in the moment, embracing intensity without apology.

“Electric Mercy”
The streetlight flickers
and I remember
I am neon—
green flame drunk on rain,
pink vein pulsing
against the night’s throat.

Lightning writes
its gospel across my back,
and I shout hallelujah
in ultraviolet.

Colors do not explain themselves.
They riot.
They bless.
They tear their shirts open
and demand you watch
as they glow themselves holy.

A confessional poem exploring identity and the layers of self we wear like masks. I wrote this to examine how much of who we are is hidden beneath social expectation, survival, and the roles we are forced to play. It reflects vulnerability, isolation, and the struggle to be seen for who we truly are.

“Matryoshka”
They ask me who I am. I start to speak,
but find the tongue belongs to someone else.
The mask I wear was crafted to be meek,
but underneath’s a mask that’s just as false.

I’ve worn so many faces I forget
if there was ever skin beneath the shell.
Each smile’s a trick, each tear a silhouette—
a ghost who learned the shape of how to dwell.

I’ll carry masks until the final slip—
the stumble into soil, dark and wide.
And someone kind will paint my lips and grip
my jaw shut, so the lie stays locked inside.

You’ll say you knew me. Say it with a shrug.
You only knew the shape that wore the plug.

A manifesto-like poem about collective power, solidarity, and breaking silence. I wrote this to give voice to the ignored and oppressed, celebrating the strength that emerges when people speak and act together. It’s about transformation, rebellion, and unity in the face of neglect.

“Floodgates”
Raise the floodgates, let them roar—
The voices of the ones ignored.
They rise, like water from the deep,
Unbroken, unsilenced, they will speak.

Each word a wave, each breath a sea,
In unity, we’re finally free.
No longer drowned in apathy,
We carve the path we’re meant to be.

Torrents rush where silence died,
We lift each other, side by side.
The winds will change, the earth will quake,
And history, in our hands, will break.

This world is ours, and we will take
The silence that they tried to make.

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Joshua Walker @bigjosh84.bsky.social · Sep 8

Just my opinion—reading the article and based on my experience writing in ljóðaháttr for your call, I think the trap in Nordic forms is overthinking. It’s more about learning the structure and then doing it. From what I’ve seen of Nordic poets, they have a flexibility many modern poets don’t.

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Reposted by Joshua Walker

Temple in a city @templeinacity.bsky.social · Aug 28

After the sweltering it’s cool and cloudy here, threatening a downpour, the hazy stickiness of summer already washed off. A perfect mood to read these three gorgeous, dripping @bigjosh84.bsky.social poems. We bet wherever you are the weather is perfect for it too. templeinacity.com/three-poems-...

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Joshua Walker @bigjosh84.bsky.social · Aug 26

It’s been raining since yesterday. Water washes the past away, leaves the streets clean. But these poems are for the soul that refuses to drift, and the heart that will never be clean 💙 #poetrycommunity #blueskypoets #poems #poem

A poem about longing for a past that never existed, where love and promises were whole but always just out of reach.

Fiction of Yesterday-
I dream of a past I never lived,
where warmth was constant, skies never gray,
where promises were more than hollow words,
and love stayed, never slipping away.

I see a face I never held close,
eyes that spoke truth without the pain,
a touch untouched by all that’s broken,
a bond that would not wither in the rain.

I clutch this fiction, letting it burn,
but it flickers out when I reach for it—
like smoke on the wind, it fades and churns,
leaving only ash and a bitter grit.

A yesterday that never was,
a dream built from the ruins of my heart.

A poem about shame, survival, and addiction — the cost of living when the world has forgotten you.

The Last Change in My Pocket-

I wake on cracked cement,
sidewalks that smell like last night’s regret,
stale whiskey on my breath,
a thief stealing tomorrow from today.

They look at me like I’m invisible,
like they can’t see the man who once
held promises in his hands
and let them slip between cracked fingers.

A dollar pressed into my palm,
a gift for the forgotten,
the ones who wake in other people’s worlds,
the ones who drink their yesterday and swallow it whole.

I tell myself I’ll find the road home,
but it’s easier to sleep under the weight
of their pity and my shame.

They don’t know that the price of living
is wrapped in a bottle,
and I’ve already paid for every drop.

A poem about wearing masks of joy to conceal despair, and the emptiness beneath the painted smile.

Hiding in Clown White-

I wear the painted smile, an armor of white,
Cracked beneath, a hollow laugh rises, strained.
They don’t see the tremor—only the light,
A façade so perfect, but I am unclaimed.

Each joke, a jagged line, a desperate plea,
For attention, for warmth, for love I can’t buy.
Behind the mask, I am swallowed in sea,
Silent as laughter splits open the sky.

The red nose, the perfect clown in full bloom,
Hides the chasm, the scars they won’t know.
I dance, I twirl, in my painted costume,
Numb to the sting of my insides below.

I am not what you see—just a ghost in the fight,
Wearing smiles that are lost in the dead of night.

A poem about regret that lingers past the night, revealing the stains that can’t be washed away.

Walk of Shame-

The streetlights flicker like judging eyes,
Each step an echo I cannot outpace.
The night clings heavy, the neon lies,
Masking the wreckage I dare not face.

My breath is stale with the taste of regret,
Hands still shaking from choices I made.
A moment of hunger, a promise unmet,
Now dragging me home through the mess I’ve laid.

I swore I had standards, I swore I had pride,
Yet here I am, soaked in last night’s sin.
No one to blame, no alibi—
Just me and the ghost of where I’ve been.

The dawn doesn’t cleanse, it only reveals—
Some stains don’t wash, and shame never heals.

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Reposted by Joshua Walker

stephanie roberts (all lowercase) @ringtales.bsky.social · Aug 26

poetry from @bigjosh84.bsky.social and Aleena Muzafar open @thearsonista.bsky.social 's BETTER THAN IT LOOKS August Guest Editor issue. #poetry #BurningHousePress #LitMag #prosepoem burninghousepress.com/2025/08/26/t...

“The Call” by Joshua Walker

Visit the post for more.

burninghousepress.com

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Reposted by Joshua Walker

stephanie roberts (all lowercase) @ringtales.bsky.social · Aug 26

poetry from @bigjosh84.bsky.social @thearsonista.bsky.social 's BETTER THAN IT LOOKS August Guest Editor issue. #poetry #BurningHousePress #LitMag burninghousepress.com/2025/08/26/a...

“Ashes Between Us” by Joshua Walker

Visit the post for more.

burninghousepress.com

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Reposted by Joshua Walker

Temple in a city @templeinacity.bsky.social · Aug 26

These three Joshua Walker poems. Tender, aching, gorgeous. We can’t get enough of them. templeinacity.com/three-poems-...

Temple in City

Temple in City literary journal

templeinacity.com

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Joshua Walker @bigjosh84.bsky.social · Aug 25

Honored that Dog Throat Issue 7 takes its title from my poem The Rapture Machine. Between Sin and Signal is live—highly recommend giving this one a read.

Dog Throat Journal (Subs Open) @dogthroat.com · Aug 25

Our latest issue is now live. And I want to share this piece by @bigjosh84.bsky.social because I really love it.

Our new web site is operational, and I'll be checking that things are working right, and posting more about the latest stories very soon. #fiction #poetry

dogthroat.com/post/the-rap...

The Rapture Machine by Joshua Walker

They buried God in a vending machine behind the old roller rink... The Rapture Machine by Joshua Walker

dogthroat.com

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Joshua Walker @bigjosh84.bsky.social · Aug 24

Thank you so much for saying that. It really means a lot to hear that my poems can bring a sense of calm and reflection. Knowing they can help someone settle their mind and find a bit of peace is exactly why I keep writing. I’m grateful for your thoughtful words.

Joshua Walker @bigjosh84.bsky.social · Aug 19

For anyone who’s been left in the dark, circled the same ache, or sat in a room full of silence—these poems are for you. Not every ending makes sense. Some endings just spiral.

#poetry #poetsofbluesky #poems #writingcommunity

“And You Know”
A reflection on hidden truths, unspoken pain, and the masks we all wear. Confronting someone — or ourselves — we see what we cannot say aloud.

And You Know-
And you know what you are, behind the mask,
A story etched in shadows you won’t speak.
The truth rests there, in every unasked task,
In silence you leave, and I’m left to seek.

And you know what you are, though you pretend,
A fading light that flickers out too soon.
You wear your wounds like badges that won’t mend,
And every step you take feels out of tune.

And you know what you are, but never show,
A heart that’s bruised, concealed beneath your pride.
You build your walls, but wonder if they know
The darkness you still carry deep inside.

And you know what you are, but still you roam—
A ghost of who you were, yet never home.