Welcome to the first installment of our 150 Forms of Poetry series! Throughout this journey, we'll explore poetic forms from around the world. Some will be familiar. Many will be completely new. Each one will challenge us to think differently about how poetry can be written. 📜 History The Pantoum originated in Malaysia as a traditional oral poetic form before making its way to Europe in the 19th century. It has since become a favorite among poets because of its musical, almost hypnotic repetition. 🖋️ How It Works The Pantoum is built on repeating lines. - It consists of four-line stanzas. - The 2nd and 4th lines of each stanza become the 1st and 3rd lines of the next stanza. - The final stanza often circles back to the opening lines, giving the poem a satisfying sense of completion. The repetition allows ideas and emotions to deepen each time they're revisited. 📖 Simple Example The evening whispers through the trees. The stars awaken one by one. The river carries quiet dreams. The day has yielded to the sun. The stars awaken one by one. Moonlight settles on the stream. The day has yielded to the sun. The night becomes another dream. 🎯 Your Challenge Write a Pantoum about a memory that keeps returning to you. Don't worry about making it perfect. Focus on letting the repeated lines take on new meaning as your poem unfolds. Post your Pantoum in the comments, encourage one another, and let's discover together why this centuries-old form has captivated poets around the world. Welcome to Form #1 of our 150 Forms of Poetry journey!

I feel fractured Everywhere The currency for my thoughts has multiplied and I can barely eat The distress of my heart has set me on its tracks But I remain bound, refusing to retreat I am aching to lift myself up but my spine has webbed, gone wayward To feel so much less.. the absence of you feels like a murder The wage for this beauty has gored me, But the universe whispers “hurt her” And I welcome the pain like a prize So now, in varying stages of undress, my soul has reached her limit I’ll venture out into the dead of night, in disguise Always drifting to ruins and empty rooms, Where my blood predicts you to be The rivets of my spirit struggling to hold me as one I cannot float among the tragedy of it anymore, A gentle willing corpse I cannot compromise the time I have left, It is so little, it is so lost. Copyright ©️ Kimberly Virga 2026

My style, my way All these words I wrote, I say Fall from the sky each and everyday My style, my way I enjoy how expressive, creative and imaginative words can be... I enjoy different opinions start debates.. Well after all, words are there to create I don't follow a book, I don't always stick to the rules, my style, my way. I'll have an objective from a different perspective, I'll describe to you a colour without saying it's a colour!? I'll lure you in, I'll spit you out Make you laugh, make you cry Make you ask and wonder why oh why. My style, my way. Still ill learn from others everyday Don't bother though, telling me to change or rephrase, to follow rules or to be a certain way. I do me and only me my style my way @Melissa Poetrylpls New draft

A poem never begins with ink. It starts as a whisper standing quietly in the corner of the mind, waiting for the world to stop talking. It arrives wearing ordinary clothes the smell of rain, an old photograph, a dog's faithful eyes, or a memory that refuses to grow old. The first word is always the hardest. It stares back from an empty page like a closed door, asking only one question: Do you have the courage to open me? Then something changes. A sentence becomes a heartbeat. A heartbeat becomes a rhythm. A rhythm becomes a voice that somehow knows more about you than you knew yourself. You cross out lies. You circle truths. You chase the perfect word only to discover it had been waiting patiently three lines behind you. When the final period falls, the poem is no longer yours. It belongs to the stranger who reads it on a difficult day, to the widow searching for tomorrow, to the child learning hope, to the dreamer who almost gave up. Perhaps that is what writing a poem has always been Not arranging words upon paper, but building a bridge from one human heart to another, one honest line at a time. By Jason Strickland

He doesn't chase the wind the way he used to. He watches it now, like an old friend passing by. The gray around his muzzle didn't arrive overnight. It came one season at a time, alongside every adventure, every muddy trail, every stick he proudly carried home as though he had discovered treasure. His steps are slower now. The stairs ask a little more of him. Cold mornings settle into his bones. He sleeps longer, dreaming, I hope, of fields where his legs were young and every sunrise promised another adventure. Yet when I reach for my keys, his eyes still shine. Not because he wants the longest walk just because he wants to be with me. That's the beautiful thing about old dogs. They stop counting miles. They only count moments. A quiet afternoon beside your chair. A gentle hand resting on their head. The sound of your voice saying their name as if it has always been the most important word in the world. One day, I'll notice he doesn't hear me call. His leash will hang by the door, his bowl will sit untouched, and the house will somehow become far too quiet. But love like his doesn't leave with the footsteps. It settles into the floorboards, waits by every doorway, rides beside me in an empty passenger seat, and reminds me that the greatest hearts sometimes beat beneath four paws. Growing old is never easy. Not for us. Not for them. But if love leaves silver around a muzzle, then he has earned every single white hair. And I would choose every one of them again.