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Grateful For A Fantastic Season

All of us at PresserPoets want to extend a heartwarming and sincere THANK YOU to all who participated during our summer soft launch. The clever and inspirational poetry you submitted and shared with us was loved and enjoyed by many. We can’t wait to do it again!

PresserPoets is to remain a summer project and therefore will spend the off season crafting new material and preparing new submissions for our Summer 2018 session. So please, carry on with sending in your best and brightest and do look forward to a fantastic next year.

With all our thanks and affection-

PresserPoets Admin


Cheers to a great summer!

We are coming to the close of our soft launch and have had such a blast getting to know poets such as yourself.   It has been our pleasure to explore your online create spaces and learn your poetic voice.  Each feature has brought a unique flavor to the community and helped shape what PresserPoets is becoming. We sincerely appreciate all of you coming together to make this happen.
So what does this close mean for you and our other contributors?  Firstly, understand that we are

still taking submissions.

Our intention is to spend some time analyzing the reception of the poetry we have featured to better understand what the community wants to read.  That information will be directly applied to our future planning and submission selections.

Our goal is to refine our quality of poetry and set a standard that is reputable and enjoyable by all.

At this time,  we will be placing all submissions in a que to be reviewed by our editing board.  Once your submission has been reviewed,  you will be contacted with more information.
Thank you again for your support and interest. We look forward to seeing where we go next!
-PresserPoets Admin

Diaries of Venus

I’m not the one

you write pretty
poetry for
I am the one
you slam metaphors
between your teeth
knot and twist
in your mouth
from a tongue
screaming out fragments
that will leave you numb
feeling the beauty of skin
and unhinging
a locked cathedral
to taste a little part
of my sin


Emma B. Wolfe

(originally posted on Mydizzypoetry)

Permissions given by ©Mydizzypoetry

Photo courtesy of Pexels, edited by J

About Emma B. Wolfe- I was on my way to the nunnery, my mother was so proud of me until I told her I wanted to be a writer.  Writing can almost be my parliament of atonement, as I touched my cheek to the cold marble lying on the floor, I could not talk about the winter without bending or breaking like discussing war between my brittle bones and death.  I knew I was destined to write my feelings on the finer parchment, with its all inclusive ramblings that go on.  I am Emma B Wolfe, it’s my nom de plume of course.


If you would like to see your work featured by PresserPoets, make sure to check out our submission guidelines.  Become part of a community that encourages poets to keep writing and helps them find an expanded audience.

The Lay of Andelien

The gates are fast, the walls are dark,
And in the streets no more the sound
Of joyful song, or music fair,
Flows like a river all around;
Since darkness fell upon the doors
Of proud Andelien.
White stars above the darkened towers
Shine brightly; glimmering faëry-light
Flows down like water o’er the stones
That lie amid the blackened blight:
The curse upon the lofty halls
Of high Andelien.

A song of sorrow, silently,
Rings out above the shattered stones;
The waning Moon, her nimbus pale,
Shines down upon the scattered bones
That lie beneath the leaf and mould
Of dark Andelien.
The heart is stopped! The flesh is torn!
A thousand ages hang upon
The battlements and soaring spires
That ring no more with voice of song –
The lays and ballads sung of old
In fair Andelien.

Her noble princes all are fled
Before a dark and awesome Foe;
Their wealth is lost, their riches dead,
Their thrones deserted long ago
When Death came nigh unto the walls
Of strong Andelien.
The nights are long, the skies are dark,
The fading stars are hard to see;
The clouds hang low: the gathering storm
Blots out the light eternally;
And darkness dwells within the halls
Of lost Andelien.

Andelien! Andelien!
Thou’lt ring no more with songs again:
The silence twines in fingers cold
About the grey and ghostly fen
That lies before thy shattered walls;
Where murk and mist, and shadows deep
Abide; where creatures of the night,
And shades of old, in darkness, sleep.


Matthew Wainwright

Permissions given by ©Matthew Wainwright

Photo courtesy of Matthew Wainwright

Visit Matthew’s blog


If you would like to see your work featured by PresserPoets, make sure to check out our submission guidelines.  Become part of a community that encourages poets to keep writing and helps them find an expanded audience.

Dirt Track Hero

Dirt Track Hero:

you could have really been something,

your picture in the morning papers

from racing (and beating)

NASCAR legends

at the height of your skill,

before you stepped away

and traded in

your helmet for good.


The locals thought

you quit

on account of that wreck;

the kind that all drivers have

which separates

the hobbyists

from truly dedicated souls.

But take it from an inside source:

the truth is darker.


Teased from youth,

the Dirt Track Hero

chooses professions

with the bullies in mind.

The catcalls that stick in her head:

Stupid.  Idiot.

Only you

would fail a state test by losing your place

and circling all the right answers

for all the wrong questions.


Dirt Track Hero:

wanted at first to be big,

top of the racing world,

Until you decided

you’d rather chase

a red Solo chalice

instead of the Nascar Cup.

It wouldn’t take long

for your drunkenness to be found out.


It’s in every picture,

every Facebook memory:

a glass of wine,

a beer,

a shot of whiskey.

How many tipsy images?

How many ignorant smiles?

How many brain cells firing

in that head anymore?


But that’s my evil,

isn’t it?

That’s a residual feeling

of me at fault;

Dirt Track Hero

being the only person I ever teased.

I had (shamefully)

no patience

for blissful imbeciles.


‘So don’t let Dirt Track Hero

show you up!

Don’t let her have a better time!

Happy adults

don’t deserve to feel that way

after giving up hopes and dreams

just because the bottle

seems preferable

to racing!


‘What do you have to smile about?

A Nascar driver gets three-hundred thousand

dollars for finishing LAST at Daytona!

You’ll be lucky to earn that much

in your lifetime now, with

the route you prefer!

This is what you get

when the South gets its hooks in you!’


And yet, you’re smiling

in every Instagram picture,

giddy in every tweet.

I think I want to be like you.

I think I want to enjoy my life

over and over again;

in every day,


not to sweat the small stuff.


As long as you’re having fun,

surrounded by throngs of friends,

what else

could really matter?

What else do you have

to teach me?

And when will I allow you

permission from a judging eye

to live by your terms?


I guess it’s true,

that we only pick

on the ones we wish we could be.

I have always desired

to live as ‘the other half’ lives.

I wish we could swap I.Q.’s,

if just for one day.

I want the happiness

Of empty-minded content.


I want to go back

in time

and take your place

there in that chair,

as you tease me with trivia questions

you know I can’t answer.

I want you to laugh at me

when I even fail

to know I’m the butt of the joke.


Maybe then, in your shoes,

I’ll see which I choose:

The basic southern life,

or the racing dream.

Maybe I’ll see

why it takes a drink to laugh

in your world.

Maybe I’ll see you were actually

joyful all the time.


But then again, maybe not!

Maybe my logic is made

immensely more dense

simply by browsing your Facebook.

But maybe the real gifts of life

are days on the water,

two-piece bikinis on display

and enjoying the world

with a grin and a fruity martini.


At the end of the day,

I want to remember you cheerful,

not for lack of a thought.

I want to remember you strong,

as a cheerleader;

tall and flexible,

towering over your peers

as a symbol

of feminism.


I don’t want to remember you

for what you lost,

or what you did at a bar.

I don’t want to recall your worst of days.

But I also don’t want

to catch myself

fencing you in like a lamb.

I am still learning

to just let the fools have their fun.



Andrew Robinette

Permissions given by ©Andrew Robinette

Photo courtesy of Pexels

About Andrew:

I am Andrew Robinette, a 30-year-old poet from western North Carolina. I am currently attending Western Carolina University for my Master’s Degree in English, with a focus in Creative Writing. My dream is to become a published writer in Poetry and Fiction. My favorite type of poetry to write is experimental, Free-Verse poetry about historical and cultural figures and events. My greatest influences are the prose poetry of James Tate, the spoken-word poetry of Jeanann Verlee, the uniquely-formatted fiction of Mark Danielewski, and the musical lyrics of Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, and Tori Amos.

(Click here to view Andrew’s full bio on the Resident Contributors page.)

Myrtle Beach, 2015

For this, I will gladly
take the back seat every time.
I will live through the swirl
of fire in my resting patella.
I will occupy a toddler
for over four hours,
so long as I reach the beach
with the ones I love.

The music in my ears
is a heavenly tune.
The thoughts of my mind
are free and peaceably one.
The road ahead might as well
be paved with gold,
so long as I reach the beach
with the ones I love.

I’ve taken this road
ten times before,
with people I only
vaguely care for.
But traveling east
means a world of difference,
so long as I reach the beach
with the ones I love.


Andrew Robinette

Permissions given by ©Andrew Robinette

Photo courtesy of Pexels

pexels-photo-386009This poem is a participant in this week’s Poetry Prompt! “Write about a good memory from your favorite road trip.” You can participate too by simply using the image left in your post and leaving a link to PresserPoets so that we can find your work and showcase it!




Shattered Hallelujah

One thing

(and maybe one thing only)

that I am sure of

is that you are there.

But there are lacerations on my heart and holes in my soul. My words, accidental prayers, float into unoccupied space. Should I fall in a hole, I’d like to be picked up, though it seems I keep laying there wishing.

So…what now?

I don’t have an offering other than my tortured self and broken faith but I can sing you this shattered hallelujah.

Maybe it will be enough.




Dedicated to a friend feeling the pains of loss

Permissions granted by ©J

Photo courtesy of Pexels, edited by J

About J:

There are a lot of things in this world and among them there’s me, J. Poetry is my way of untethering and embracing the time before and beyond me, reminiscing on what has been and what might still be, all while pondering where I fit into it all.

My poetic style tends to say much with very little, though I have been known to interrupt that with short poetic prose inspired by vivid reflections upon memories.

(Click here to view full bio on J’s Resident Contributor page.)

You can find more poetry from J at her blog Among Other Things, J as well as follow her on Facebook and Twitter.


If you would like to see your work featured by PresserPoets, make sure to check out our submission guidelines.  Become part of a community that encourages poets to keep writing and helps them find an expanded audience.