Aspen Writes Poetry

 Who speaks for the hues that hide between the headlines? Between black and white lies a world, a shimmer of color neither this nor that. Here, I am breath and blush, unseen by rules of eyes alone, a whisper in the spectrum, as elusive as light. Each shade, a pulse, a story of all I am not supposed to be yet beautifully, messily am— the shade of the world between. Embracing the In-Between: A Non-Binary Perspective The opening line, Who speaks for the hues that hide between the headlines? immediately sets the tone. It raises a crucial question about representation and visibility for those who don't fit neatly into traditional categories. For non-binary individuals, life often feels like living in the margins of societal expectations, navigating a world not designed to acknowledge the full spectrum of identities. Between black and white lies a world, a shimmer of colour neither this nor that. This line eloquently encapsulates the non-binary experience. It highlights the beauty and co...

In the mirror of shadows, I find myself, scattered into glints and smears, a mosaic of others, of selves worn like seasons. Each day, a new mask emerges, a carnival of eyes, nose, lips, faces I try on, discard, become. No name tags here, no lines to define— just the echo of a hundred voices, laughing, weeping, blending together, the hum of possible selves, all mine. This mirror, this mystery, this truth.  Exploring my Non-Binary Identity Through Poetry The poem 'The Many Faced Mirror' offers a poignant exploration of non-binary identity, capturing the fluidity and complexity of existing beyond traditional gender boundaries. Through the imagery of a mirror reflecting glints and smears, it beautifully illustrates the concept of self as a mosaic—a blend of various identities and experiences, akin to the natural shifts of seasons. Each stanza unveils the fluidity of identity, emphasising the absence of fixed boundaries. The notion of donning new masks daily, a carnival of eyes, nos...

In a world where grandeur often takes center stage, there's a gentle power in the simplicity of connection and shared experiences. The poem below beautifully encapsulates this notion, reminding us that meaningful relationships don't always require extravagant settings or expensive gestures. Instead, they thrive on genuine interest, open conversations, and the ability to see life from another's perspective. The opening lines set a humble yet sincere tone: I can't take you anywhere fancy, But I'd love to know your story. This sentiment speaks to the essence of human connection—an earnest desire to understand and share one's life journey with another. It's a reminder that sometimes, the most profound interactions come from simply listening and sharing stories. As the poem continues, it paints a picture of strolling down simple streets and talking about life and chance. There's something magical about exploring familiar places with fresh eyes, guided by the ...

In today's media-driven world, where headlines often blur the truth and political narratives twist in the hands of power, it's vital to pause and critically assess the information being fed to us. A recent controversy has arisen around a politician's description of a significant conflict, labeling what some perceive as genocide simply as war. This comes even after Israel has openly admitted to the targeted killing of the leader of Hamas. The discourse around such issues demands our attention and discernment. When they call genocide a war, when they minimize the cries of the lost to mere casualties of conflict, we find ourselves at a crossroads. It's in these moments of obfuscation that we must stand firm, speak the unfiltered truth, and advocate for those whose voices have been silenced by deceit and political maneuvering. The power of language cannot be underestimated. When leaders openly admit to certain deeds yet cloak them in softer, more palatable names, the respon...

Hello,  Today, I stumbled upon a startling fact: 0% of those claiming PIP and Attendance Allowance aren't actually disabled. It's shocking to realize that the system, designed to support those in need, makes us jump through hoops for mere existence. The statistics show that the fear of fraud is overshadowing the reality of genuine need. It feels as though the regulations are doing more harm than good, preventing people who truly need these benefits from receiving them, all for the sake of avoiding a tiny amount of fraud.  Here's a poem to express this frustration: Another story, the same old tune,   Where the truth’s dismissed far too soon.   Zero percent, but they call us fraud,   While they sit on top, kings of the hoard. They point the finger, sell you the lie,   “Benefits drain the economy dry.”   But it’s not about fraud, or where the money went,   It’s about control and in our heads a space they rent.    T...

 When did pigeon   lose its 'd'?   When did yoghurt   lose its 'h'?   Was it ever there,   or is it all a trick   of the mind,   a dance of letters   that swap and shift   like shadows on a wall?   I see words   that tumble and fall   like autumn leaves,   carried by the breeze,   twisting, turning,   sometimes blurring   into a cacophony   of sounds and symbols,   fighting for a place   on the page.   Dyslexia or not,   I wonder if it's more   than letters lost   or misplaced sounds.   Is it the world's way   of telling stories   in a language   only some can hear—   a secret script   hidden between the lines?   And I think   perhaps it's beauty   to find poetry...

 أحلم بالتحدث  بألسنة تتراقص  عبر سماء أجنبية  لكنني أجد نفسي أتعثر  على المقاطع المألوفة  من تراثي  الكلمات التي أبحث عنها  تقع خلف  أفق عقلي  ومع ذلك أتعثر  على أبسط العبارات  من لغتي الأم  في الصمت  بين اللغات  أبحث عن الصوت  صوتي الحقيقي  وفي ذلك الصمت  أتعلم  أن الفهم  ليس في الكلمات  بل في القلب  الذي يستمع  قد لا أعرف  كل اللغات  لكنني أتحدث بطلاقة  في الحب  والتعاطف  وهذا  يكفي  لسد الفجوات  بيننا I dream of speaking  in tongues that dance  across foreign skies  but find myself stumbling  over the familiar syllables  of my own heritage  the words I seek  lie just beyond  the horizon of my mind  yet I trip  on the simplest phrases  of my own mother tongue  in the silence  between languages  In search for the voice  that is truly mine  and in that qu...

They say you are thieves,   Stealing our bread,   Our roofs,   Our air.   But they don’t see   The haunted dreams   Of the journey here,   Or hear the whispers   Of lands left behind.   Your pockets hold, Not the riches of nations,   But a meager £8.60, Doled out like crumbs per week, From a table too tall.   They claim you burden us,   But forget   The weight of the world   You carry   In silence.   You,   Who have crossed oceans   And borders of the heart,   Arriving with nothing   But hope.   The myth of theft   Is spun by those   Who clutch tightly   Their overflowing plates,   Turning eyes away   From your empty hands.   Yet your strength   Blooms from the cracks,   Resilient   Like wild...