Poetry found in the most unlikely places

This piece was inspired by a prompt from Medium’s The Writers Circle —

Write about a moment that changed how you see the world — small or large, but irreversible.

Tasted so many gothic lies,
and found solace in poetry dangling
from hillsides and treetops,
from daggers to machetes,
from treadmills and thigh masters
to weeds and wildflowers,
and most especially from the tip
of the hungriest tongue.
But poetry and pasta?

Feed me pasta and poetry by the forkful
and you can flaunt your abs and flex your fiber.
I won’t say another word.
We can barely stay awake for the news at 11.
But while we were sleeping
someone’s been nicked
and bruised
and left to die.
Or wounded under strangled, tangled clouds
from a distant humid moonlit sky.
Or some stranger bled words of poetry
that pooled like messy puddles,
hieroglyphics
in a concrete jungle,
thirsty riverbanks left to dry.
But there you are fast asleep.
Cha-ching, cha-ching, dreaming of what tomorrow
may bring.

Poetry in the most unlikely spaces.
I can see poetry in the eyes of my rottweiler,
in the queue wrapped around the corner,
in the dangerous riptide that destroys the gentle reed,
in the sweetest most genuine smile,
in the soothing shade of the hottest summer day.

Grace notes: My life and perspectives changed when I found poetry in the most unlikely places. And maybe that’s how modern poetry has evolved. Where’s the most unlikely place you’ve found poetry?

This piece was inspired by a prompt from Medium’s The Writers Circle —

“Write about a moment that changed how you see the world — small or large, but irreversible.”

I enjoyed the creative, interactive, engaging experience of Medium’s
The Writers Circle on Zoom. Link to free registration — The Writers Circle.

© Connie Song 2026. All Rights Reserved.

Pasta with a Side of Poetry was originally published in Purple Ink on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Little bits of me sitting on the curb black-bagged
waiting for the sanitation haul.
Convinced the afterlife
like tossed, crumpled poetry
is highly over-rated.
Definitely not housed in some designated landfill
south of the I-95.

It’s not that I’ll miss
the geese by the lakeside of the road,
hand-in-hand sun-soaked walks in a cushioned meadow,
fragrant wildflowers
and blades of purple grass.
Barefoot.
His relaxed smile.
The way we would laugh, even when the world
slowly and suddenly fell apart.

Still, a small part of us remains
on whatever we have touched,
wherever we have been.
Now, it seems so long ago
like one last tarnished moonlit kiss
indelibly imprisoned
in the creases
of my scattered monkey mind.

Grace notes: My monkey mind. The one that jumps from present
to past, from love to loss to moments of enlightenment. Wandering,
disjointed, untamed, digressed, loosely intertwined thoughts and
memories and musings, like a monkey swinging from branch to branch, recalling, reliving how incredibly hard it was for me to get over a breakup and move on with my life.

But maybe a monkey mind is not such a bad thing for a writer?
Maybe it’s my salvation. My reincarnation. My reinvention. What do you think?

© Connie Song 2026. All Rights Reserved.

Monkey Mind was originally published in Purple Ink on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

My good friend thinks I’m a freak of nature. All because I’ve never tasted Starbucks coffee or Popeye’s chicken.

We’ve actually known each other since college days. Admittedly, we’re different. But not disconnected. In some ways, I feel closer to her than I do to some long-lost blood relatives. Not that I’d ever consider doling out a kidney or a week’s pay. Still, she’s a good friend and sounding board.

The point is, at one time or another, everyone laments the disconnect we may sense in today’s world.

Admittedly, it was the pandemic that dramatically changed things for me. It’s when I became increasingly reclusive and mildly agoraphobic.

Now, each day, every night, whether wasted or purposeful, is directed towards my recovery.

And trust me, it’s not something easy to accomplish.

At least 100 steps a day across the plaza.

Deep down, the old me craved connection.

Now, I’m comfortably numb being somewhat disconnected. (Thanks to Pink Floyd.)

I was one of those mortals who reveled in pulling that invisible thread
that connects even the most unlikely packs of humans. What secrets do distance runners, gangsters, financial planners, word mongers, exhausted moms, side-hustlers, foodies and ASMR-blocked freelance writers have in common to survive and stay motivated?

Now would normally be a good time to take a sip of your Dunkin’ or your Earl Grey before we explore.

In such a hyperactive digital world, why do we feel so disconnected? And how can we safely and discreetly plug in? And out?

When I first became so snuggled and secure in my comfortable cocoon, aka my home equipped with technology, texts and social media, I thought it might be a good way to stay connected, without leaving the house.

I may have miscalculated. The question became — did my chronic social media intake contribute to my isolation and depression? Did it have a role in making me anti-social?

Why unravel survival secrets to manage the disconnection?

Why not?

Secret # 1 — Managing social media, doom scrolling & freedom of expression

“The thing about opinions is everyone has one.”
— aesthetically attributed to William Shakespeare

Now, I have to ask myself — did rigorous scrolling of social media and comments make me feel exhausted? Exhilarated? Entertained? Depressed? Envious? Cynical? Fearful? Intimidated? Sickened? Resilient? Vocal? Nonverbal?

How can that possibly be?

Did I choose to temporarily opt out of a system laced with illusion, trolls, haters, fake AI, bots? And what about the anatomy of an internet hater — are they fueled by jealousy, furious debate and their need for attention and fame, be it notoriety?

How much scrolling time is too much? How much is as addictive as sugar, nicotine and alcohol? Could you stop if you wanted to?

Unless, of course, you are one of the influencers (I personally know a few) who must post several times a day to receive maximum views and decent, impressive payouts from sites, sponsors and brands, not to mention free food and products for endorsement. These digital entrepreneurial hustlers are obsessed with their million hits and have developed a thick skin because it’s become their business, their brand, an important source of income, their livelihood.

I would be a hypocrite if I told you I curate my time and my scrolling of social media. All I can say is I now more clearly see the triggers and the pitfalls. The cushions and thorns to my mental health and well-being.

Maybe I have the advantage of remembering a distant world where my every move didn’t fall under the possible scrutiny of a candid audio/video camera. It is beyond scary, now. Though commonplace, empowering and socially acceptable.

I came across an interesting observation from author, Jonathan Haidt.

“Gen Z became the first generation in history to go through puberty with a portal in their pockets that called them away from the people nearby and into an alternative universe that was exciting, addictive, unstable…”
 — The Anxious Generation, Jonathan Haidt

I agree. Social media is a portal to an alternative universe.

Secret # 2— No pain, No gain

“Life is very interesting… in the end, some of your greatest pains, become your greatest strengths.”

— Drew Barrymore

Pain. It just might be the one thing that we all have in common. Even though it disconnects us from a healthy, pain-free version of ourselves.

There are three extremely active, homegrown soccer players and running enthusiasts in my household, which usually reeks of stinky jock straps, sports bras, shorts, socks, leggings and sweatshirts, Bio-Freeze and Bengay. To them, a good workout is when they “feel the burn.”

I proudly own a bicycle and gym membership, which transitioned into physical therapy sessions and a stationary bike, once sciatica, hip and knee pain kicked in. Such is life. Pleasure and pain.

Getting rid of pain is an all-American and global preoccupation and obsession. Something that connects us.

However, I can attest to the fact that debilitating pain disconnected me from living my previous life.

I had no choice but to learn survival techniques.

But I’ve experienced pain on different levels. Grief, heartbreak, trauma.
Things that leave scars. Things that overwhelm.

The quintessential question is — does our pain define us? Does it build character and resilience?

Does it really make us stronger?

Secret # 3— Trusting your gut instincts

Edie: “I don’t trust friendly women.”
Lynette: “That’s ok. They don’t trust you either.”

— Desperate Housewives

I estimate my suspicious gut is right about 79.8% of the time. I want to cautiously trust people in my circle. Sometimes, I get burned.

There were times when family warned me about boyfriends, but I didn’t always see what they saw, including the red flags. I didn’t listen. Maybe I needed to sniff them out, for myself.

If something felt good, I didn’t want to sever the desired connection.

Disconnection could bring pain. Little did I know it could be a blessing.

Experience, aka street smarts, means connecting yourself
to your compass, your radar, your gut feelings that might turn out to be your superpower.

Secret # 4 — ISO (in search of) | SEO (search engine optimization)

I didn’t choose writing.

It chose me.

It became my refuge. My oxygen. My DNA.

My survival secret.

My purpose.

I’m a bibliophile (Greek, ‘lover of books’), a lexophile (Greek, ‘lover of words’), and have most definitely experienced Medium’s head honcho’s schreibvergnügen (German, ‘joy of writing’).

On occasion, I feel the ASMR euphoric tingling of a surfer’s high.
Other times, there’s a sense of dread, right before I press the ok to publish button.

Metaphorically, writing can be my poison, my prison.

My disconnect from other demands in my life.

It’s my tunnel-vision, whether I’m laser-focused or hopelessly blocked. (Which happens quite frequently when the well goes dry.)

But I want to believe that writing is my lifeline. My connection.

So, I’m not particularly fond of crowds or subways. (Can you blame me?) But I don’t want to go a day without breathing the chlorine from my neighbor’s pool or picking pretty wildflowers blooming in my overgrown garden, even under a charcoal sky. And completing 100 steps across the plaza.

Then go back to my writing.

How about you?

Grace Notes: Can connection help me with writer’s block? Actually, I’m amazed this piece initially came to me during Medium’s Writing Hour. Additionally, I just registered for Medium’s Writing Circle on Zoom, free of charge. I’m looking forward to more writing inspiration, prompts, and engaging with other writers.

© Connie Song 2026. All Rights Reserved.

Why We Feel So Disconnected in a Hyperactive Digital World was originally published in Purple Ink on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Ekphrastic Poetry

Even in silence, a moment can speak volumes,
Moça Sentada, Young Woman Seated,
a chiseled face forlorn
a pose distracted, lost in thought
somehow interrupted,
borrowed,
or on hold,
the mind floating to catch up with the soul,
a scene elevated, curated, by brushstrokes
and colors bold,
striking and breathtaking,
hand-picked wild flowers,
bangles and a pretty dress,
while the young woman reminisces,
seemingly oblivious
to the beauty and the elegance
of her surroundings
and the serenity
of the gentle sea and sail.

Grace Notes: I often wonder about the power of art that can tell a story, if you read between the lines. This piece was inspired by Scrittura’s ekphrastic poetry/prose prompt by Ann Marie Steele. Why not see
if it inspires you to write?

Young Woman Seated

© Connie Song 2026. All Rights Reserved.

Reading Between the Lines was originally published in Scrittura on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Confessions of an accidental poet

Ultimately, my parents were practical people.

Definitely not starving artists.

After all, there was rent to be paid and hungry bellies to be fed.

Not rich. Nor poor.

We were hardworking penny-savers. At first, living from paycheck to
paycheck.

Don’t get me wrong. My parents loved the arts and literature.

But their creative medium was cement, concrete and freshly baked bread. That’s how they made the dough to pay our expenses.

I found a paying job at an early age, stuffing cannoli and brewing
delicious coffee.

Poetry initially was not on my radar.

Poetry was a waste of time.

Fast forward.

To the year 2026.

What is poetry?

Is it something gnawing at my gut?

Is it an explosion of beautiful words?

Words that bleed?

Words that sting?

Meaningful words I simply cannot live without?

My oxygen?

I found a treasure chest of poetry to read on Medium.com, of all places.
What a pleasant surprise.

Indeed, more than I could handle.

What does poetry mean to you?

And honestly tell me, is it a waste of time?

© Connie Song 2026. All Rights Reserved.

Is Poetry a Waste of Time? was originally published in Catharsis Chronicles on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

What it’s like being me tonight

Fade In: The moon, hovering over a tailored cobblestone property
on the outskirts of the city. A lonely uber pulls up. Pouting woman in
Yankees tee shirt sneaks a demure peek out window to see if her
food delivery has arrived.

Not yet.

She sighs, then returns to her Remington typewriter. Not realizing I see her clearly, even through stained windows.

She types furiously. As if I’m not there to inject some wisdom. We are two specks in a vast universe.

Except I’m the one who hears the footsteps and secrets of strangers and the drenching drool of pouring rain.

She continues writing —

Some drown their scars.
Drink them.
Shrink them.
Delete them.
Eat them.

Doorbell chimes. Food has arrived.

Aspiring writer dashes to door.

She thanks distracted deliverer of high caloric sustenance and jet fuel for the brain. He leaves quietly, pocketing his gratuity.

She spots the linen moon. Then notices me, the bronzed lamp post winking brightly at her.

I swear I can’t help myself, but I’m not flirting. She winks back before gently leaning on highly polished wood and cautiously securing triple locks on decorative front French doors.

She knows I will do my best to protect and watch over her.

After all this time, I know her all too well, including her dining habits.
Two bites. Stomach satiated.

I hear the empty silence.

Then from inside — click, click, click.

Type, type, type.

She writes —

Do we stitch our scars?
Wear them like they’re body armor, convinced they make us bulletproof?
Shrink them until they become a mere speck of dust,
a blade of purple grass?

Writer curls on couch, head rested on tufted pillow.

Time for Netflix break.

Perhaps Mr. Malcolm’s List or whatever pops up on a viewing tile.

Meanwhile, I remain the dutiful, devoted lamp post, serenely scratching my scathing scars.

Fade Out.

Author’s Grace Notes: Perhaps it was a fluke that I was inspired to write from the perspective of the street lamp. But it was empathetic and fun, as well. Maybe I can inspire you to write from the perspective of someone or something other than yourself. Are you up for the challenge?

© Connie Song 2026. All Rights Reserved.

A Night in the Life of a Lamp Post was originally published in Catharsis Chronicles on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Poetry Month

I am a child of dreams,
of inspiration,
like amber diamonds on river’s edge,
as sun swallows morning,
but the rent is due
on the first of the month
and baby won’t stop crying.

The crimson sunset invites the moon
to smooth its jagged edges,
but the bill collector’s on the phone,
I pray he lose my number.

Tell me lies if you will
how there is no dichotomy,
no disparity
no injustice
that one day soon I will inherit the earth,
and maybe I will take a sip,
a shot,
of its sweet and sacred serenity.

Grace notes: April may be Poetry Month, but admittedly, I’ve been feeling overwhelmed and uninspired. That is, until I found inspiration to coincide or collide with life from April’s prompt from Catharsis Chronicles about things we inherit without consent.

Check out the prompt and competition below —

Competition April 1st-April 30th!

© Connie Song 2026. All Rights Reserved.

Inheritance was originally published in Catharsis Chronicles on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

You might be surprised who made mine

Look, it’s all subjective anyway. I might like actor Gerard Butler. You might like Chalamet. To each, their own.

Anyone who’s ever played Superman, Batman — or Spiderman — is suspiciously on my hot list.

There must be something extraordinarily sexy about an average guy in a mysterious, empowering costume, attempting to save an unhinged world on the brink of destruction from some evil mastermind or cosmic force.

Who’s your favorite Batman?

Who’s the quintessential Spiderman, in your book?

I’d love to know.

Speaking of superheroes and alter egos, truth be told, Robert Downey Jr. (aka Iron Man/Tony Stark) and Mark Ruffalo’s transformation into the Hulk may very well be storyline contenders, for me.

However, there is that special, noteworthy category close to my heart — Agent 007 — James Bond. They are all so debonair, dangerous and oh so hot, and tonight I decided to go with the late, great Sean Connery.

Which James Bond was your favorite?

Getting back to Sexiest Man, even Hemingway and Salinger made the list.

Let’s face it — writers are hot.

And some writers seem to sublimely appear on every hot or not listicle on Medium.

Like who?

Cool content creators, certified Michelin five star writers, digital footprints, Elvis impersonators, coaches, insomniacs, and copious coffee sippers, coin collectors,

survivors, side hustlers, Bukowski wannabees, social and spiritual gurus, and online Tai Chi writing for money instructors, not to mention strategic mahjong players extraordinaire,

so, it’s not surprising that

Smillew Rahcuef and a few others on the Medium writing platform are also on the what’s hot list.

(From what I understand, Keanu Reeves’ nana nominated Smillew —
apparently all the influencers’ grandmas meet up to play mahjong on Thursdays when they’re in Palm Springs.)

Let me ask you this — Which Medium writer (male or female) would you nominate for Hottest?

Anyway, not to stray, but without a doubt, I’m not at all surprised if leading men or standouts like Clooney, Pitt, McConaughey, Gosling, Jordan, Damon, Stamos, Elba, JFK Jr., and Albert Einstein are on somebody’s hot list.

What exactly makes them hot? is the question.

Are we a predictable, shallow society in the way we measure things like selfies, beauty and hotness?

Or is it just the way things are?

Moving on, in the interest of fairness, let me ask you this — who is the hottest chef or home cook alive? —

(I, for one, vote for Stanley Tucci.)

But seriously, why does it have to be Sexiest Man?

What about cutest?

Wittiest?

Most inventive?

Most altruistic?

Funniest?

A good sense of humor can be hot. So, who’s the Most Humorous Man, Past or Present?

That list just might be toooo long.

Meanwhile, what’s hotter than recognizable, iconic male voices, like Morgan Freeman. James Earl Jones. Jack Nicholson. Howard Stern. Samuel L. Jackson. What’s in your wallet?

And, honestly, when I came across Jake from State Farm’s headshot, I had to include him in the running for hotness.

What do you think, let’s make it global, who would you pick?

© Connie Song 2026. All Rights Reserved.

Who’s on Your List of Hottest Men, Past and Present? was originally published in Catharsis Chronicles on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Still cut deep | Bruised Poetry

I say I’m fine,
but I’ve lost count of
of all the scars
I’ve kept under lock and key,
invisible to the naked, untrained eye,
a fractured heart,
a fortress, a portal, an archive, well-hidden
so no one can see
the pain,
the strain of yesterdays,
when everyone thought I seemed ok to forge ahead
and all I really wanted
was to whisper your name
in the same breath as mine,

to once again cut deep with blade
into the spruce we slid and sauntered by
every other day,
replaying in my head each crimson sunset
like hungry lips peeking through dusty windowsills,
until midnight’s parched pale purple moon appears
and I wonder where heartbreak goes to die.

If I slit open the sky,
would the stars fall out
one by one,
like little bits of my heart?

Do I let my shoulders once again feel the wild wind
rush through strands
of smiles
and sighs
and untethered bone,
fingers intertwined,
feeling the numbness of ice packed snow
knowing that somewhere beneath
all the bits of bull
that bombard and bury me,
night and day
somewhere between darkness and light
there still remains
tendons and ligaments
strings and stones
body and soul
and beautiful strands of you
and me
indelibly uprooted,
imprinted,
archived.
Do I hold on or let it go?
And I can’t help but wonder, if there are times you feel it too.

Grace notes: Where poetry intersects with my real life, inspired by Catharsis Chronicles March Competition (see below):

Competition March 1st-March 31st!

© Connie Song 2026. All Rights Reserved.

Strands of You was originally published in Catharsis Chronicles on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

And crease the soul

Without a doubt
it’s not my fault
you don’t know poetry
that fuels and feeds
the creases of the soul,
sparks the brain,
unclogs the drain of daily life
as we know it
all too well,
when you say my words can go
to hell,
set me on fire
watch your ire
and your anger
as you try to disentangle and unravel
day and night,
take flight
as friend or foe
with swords engaged,
sharpened blades
and escapades of unruly tongues.
It’s not my fault
if you feel the sting,
I won’t try to unlock your heart
or mind,
this time,
it’s not my fault.

Grace Notes: Yes, you live in a universe filled with poetry. Surrounded by some who don’t share your passion. Poetry can be beautiful. It can also be messy. Like life. Like truth. Still, I can take an ounce of life, an ounce of truth, an ounce of bruised poetry and metaphor and it’s a cocktail I enjoy sipping from. Even if it stings. How about you? Perhaps it’s not your cup of tea.

© Connie Song 2026. All Rights Reserved.

Words That Sting was originally published in Catharsis Chronicles on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.