Our Purpose
Poetry Habitat was created with a simple but meaningful mission: to be a home for voices. We believe poetry is one of the most powerful ways humans share emotion, memory, and truth. Yet countless talented writers never get the chance to be seen or heard. Our goal is to change that — to provide a space where writers from every corner of the world can showcase their work, connect with readers, and feel the joy of having their words matter to someone.
Whether a person has written for decades or is discovering their voice for the first time, they deserve a place where their art can live. Poetry Habitat exists to uplift creativity, encourage expression, and celebrate the beauty found in every unique perspective.
At Poetry Habitat, we publish one poem each day. This steady pace allows us to honor quality with care while continually welcoming fresh, diverse voices into our pages. Our aim is to give each poem its own moment in the light and to ensure every writer feels truly seen and heard.
We built a community where passion is honored, talent is discovered, and poetry is always at home.
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Latest Poems
On the Bridge
There is time enough in the day
to be perfectly still:
inhale carcinogens
exhale exuberance.
How It Began
How it began,
I still can’t say.
Just a quiet September morning,
light thinning early,
your laughter catching
like it had always known my name.
Fall Asleep
Reason floods in with dawn light,
tips into the place I deserted
only hours before,
and overturns the breakfast table
I shared with a famous actress
as well as the many treasure chests
I had ducked in and out of brambles to secure,
but they did not spill their glittering contents on the cobblestones
but rather gave way to birdsong.
Every Morning and Afternoon
Misery where joy once lived,
The fun of friendship gone wrong,
A life of worship turned hollow,
The spark of work now fading.
Dissolution
We were taught to extol
the sparkling bridge
and how the pilgrims crossed
the sea and saw the sparkles
in the snow.
Into the Sunset
And now I remember how unfair
it seemed, Theseus abandoning Ariadne
on Naxos, simply because she was no longer
useful to him—
Evaporation
Life being so long
and all those relatives on the verge of death,
I did not notice I had counted on you
to continue your misery with me.
Latest Non-Fiction
The Weight of Water
By: Lindsay Benster
The first thing grief steals is rhythm. The heartbeat stumbles. The pipes hesitate, unsure how to hold silence. Even the rain loses its measure, falling to a song it no longer remembers. They say water is cleansing, and maybe it is. But they forget what it demands. To stand in it. To feel the sting. To keep scrubbing at what will not wash away. Water carries memory. It circles the earth and comes back changed, each pass through sediment leaving remnants, each downpour mixing with pollutants, heavy with everything it’s touched. The same water that once carried ships through violent storms now tepidly trails down my cheek while I whisper I’m fine to no one. Tears are the body’s Morse code, a wet tapping from the inside. Mine spell please, stay, don’t make me learn how to live with this. They burn on their way out. Not metaphor. Salt meeting skin. Grief sterilizing what it ruins.
(more…)Synthetic Souls
By: Grant Patterson
I looked up the definition of the word “synthetic” on Google. There’s the noun version, a synthetic material. As an adjective though, it describes “a substance made by a chemical synthesis, especially to imitate a natural product.” Google defines the word “soul” as the “spiritual or immaterial part of a human or animal and is regarded as immortal.”
(more…)My Life in Writing and Writing in My Life
By: Vaishnavi Pusapati
I do not remember when I began to write; I only remember the quiet before the words arrived—how they hovered, unformed, behind my eyes. Writing did not enter my life like a discovery, but like a return. It seeped in quietly, as though I had been waiting for it all along. Over time, I realized that the language I used to understand the world was also the one that would build me.
(more…)A Beautiful Boy
By: Adnan Adnan
What does any of this have to do with my father travelling to India at fourteen and Hemingway?
By the time his mother, Aklima Khatun, discovered Rabiul was gone, he had already crossed the border from Bangladesh into India. The year was 1973, and Bangladesh was still struggling to find herself after the war of independence in 1971. Like his country, there was
uncertainty and restlessness in Rabiul’s heart too.
Family Ties
By: Martha Patterson
As kids, my middle brother and I fought all the time. It wasn’t really his fault – I was just his pesky little sister. And it wasn’t exactly my fault, either. I suppose it was just the same sibling rivalry that happens in any family. I’ve heard about it enough from friends and relatives. We weren’t, probably, too different from lots of brothers and sisters – always getting on each other’s nerves. And maybe my anxiety about our fractious relationship was an early sign of a mental health issue I developed later in life – schizoaffective disorder, characterized by sporadic delusional thinking, neurotic behavior, and psychosis.
(more…)Fuck ’em up Worse
By: Kimberly Shaw
When our son was born, Adam and I were both thirty. Age does not equate to maturity. The night our son turned a month old, Adam was at my cousin’s house at a cookout. I was pacing from the front door to our bedroom window with our son tucked in my left arm and my right hand parting the white mini – blinds every time I imagined the sound of Adam’s bald ass tires crunching the sticks and sand and gravel in the driveway. When I called, he consistently
told me he was “on his way home.” He forgot to add the adverb eventually. I imagined him sitting on his orange Igloo ice chest drinking Keystone Light, smoking Marlboro Reds, and laughing at me.
Finding a Lost Paradise
By: Lamont Neal
An excerpt from the memoir, A Tree in a Storm (unpublished)
Paradise Found
Gallia County kept surfacing in my ancestry research, over and over. I had never heard of Gallia County before. I assumed it must be near Logan, Ohio, where my mother’s side of the family had roots. When I finally took the time to dig deeper, I was surprised to learn that Gallia County had once been home to a significant early African American community. That was something I had never heard growing up.
(more…)