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Best Poems Written by Evelyn Hew

Below are the all-time best Evelyn Hew poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Details | Evelyn Hew Poem

What the Silence Carried

I have loved like windows love the morning-
quietly, without asking to be noticed,
just hoping someone would open them.

There were nights
when the moon knew more about me
than anyone ever would-
how I curled inward,
folding grief into origami birds,
sending them across invisible winds
toward the edge of forgetting.

I have lost things I never held-
names, chances, whole lives
that might've been mine
in another version of the world.
And yet I still dream in color.

There is a longing
that does not shout
but lingers in doorways
-in the way I hesitate
before saying I'm Fine
It builds altars out of absence
and worships with quiet hands.

But healing,
it does not arrive like spring.
It comes with the slow thaw of winter-
a drip,
a pause,
another drip.

Some days, I am the storm.
Others, the shore that survives it.
I have learned to carry my name
without apology,
to wear my scars
as punctuation marks-
not endings,
but proof that the story moved forward.

And if I ever forget who I am,
let me return to the silence-
not to disappear,
but to listen
to the heartbeat beneath the noise.

Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025



Details | Evelyn Hew Poem

Threads of Time

one thread
                      unravels
              quietly
        from the cuff
           of yesterday—

   loose and golden,
         tugged gently
               by wind
                     or memory.

        another thread,
                  silver-fine,
         winds forward
    into what might be
                tomorrow,

         still unwoven,
         still soft with
             silence.

    time does not run;
           it is stitched—
       moment to moment,
           strand to strand,
              through every glance,
         every breath,
                      every choice
    you never realized
                 you were making.

                    there are knots:
             places where two lives
                    touch and tighten.

         places where
    the pattern breaks,
         frays, forgets itself—

                   and others
           where it mends
                with color.

    the past is not gone;
          it is threaded through you,
     hidden in the seams
               of your skin,

         tucked in the hem
         of your voice
         when you say their name.

       you walk wrapped
       in stories
     you don't remember telling,
         stitched tight with the
            hands of those
               you never knew.

               (and still,
                 somehow,
                   you knew them)

        the threads twist—
     through journals and old songs,
   through maps and postcards,
       through laughter echoed
              across generations—

          they pass through rings,
              through cracked clocks,
             through names etched
                   in notebooks
                       and photographs.

     time does not move forward.

              it weaves.

     in loops and overlaps,
        in tangles and designs
          we can only see
                when we stop
                        and trace
                           with wonder.

      so pull a thread,
              any thread—

          and feel the hum

                 of centuries

                         beneath

                               your fingertips.

Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025

Details | Evelyn Hew Poem

The Last Conversation

We sit across from each other,
knowing what the silence says
but never daring to speak it aloud.
Time stretches between us,
fragile, like an old photograph—
faded edges, corners curling,
memories too distant to hold.

I ask about the weather,
you reply with the temperature,
as if that can fill
the spaces we once knew so well.
Your eyes flicker,
but you don’t say what you really mean,
and I don’t either.

There are so many things
we could have said,
things we left unsaid—
like the truth of why we’re here,
the weight of what’s ending,
the ache of what we can never reclaim.

We dance around the words,
fingers brushing the edges of goodbye,
but never grasping it.
Instead, we fill the air with nothingness,
light conversations, empty words
that float like dust
settling in the cracks.

We talk of distant days,
of things we once wanted,
dreams that seem so far now,
but the truth sits heavy,
silent between us,
a room full of unspoken goodbyes
we’ve learned to live with.

And yet, here we are,
together but apart,
in this last conversation,
where every word we say
feels like a refusal to face
what’s always been.

We never mention it—
how this will be the end,
how everything ends like this—
a look, a smile,
and a silence louder
than any words we could say.

Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025

Details | Evelyn Hew Poem

Whispering Shadows in Twilight

The light withdraws—
                   not abruptly, but with the grace
                of someone tiptoeing from a room
             where memory sleeps on every windowsill.
         Sky smears gold across the edges of goodbye,
       and rooftops inhale the hush of coming dark.
     The world holds its breath
   while shadows begin to
slip silently
          from the ankles of trees.

                   They stretch and reach,
             curling like ink spilled in reverse,
           writing forgotten things in soft grey,
         and I watch—
     not with fear,
but with the ache
      of remembering what I never quite knew.

                          In the hush,
                    the shadows begin to whisper.

              Not in words, but in movements—
         a tilt of a leaf,
    the sway of a branch,
       the slight retreat of warmth from the stones,
             the silence between wingbeats.

                         They speak of things  
             the sun never says aloud—
       of old stories kept in bark and moss,
   of the names of winds no longer called,
  and dreams that folded themselves
           into the creases of dusk.

                     Somewhere,
             a child once stood on a porch,
        counting stars before sleep claimed her.
          Somewhere,
   a letter waits unopened,
  the ink slightly blurred from time,
       its promises softened by shadow.

                     And in the violet distance,
        twilight walks barefoot
               across the fields of once-was.

                      It hums.

     Not a lullaby,
         not quite a dirge,
               but something in between—

             the hymn of in-betweenness,
                   the breath
                        before
                             the dream.

            And as the sky exhales its final gold,
     and night opens its dark and endless wings,

                         I listen.

                              I listen
                                   to the
                                     whispering
                                       shadows
                                         in
                                          twilight.

Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025

Details | Evelyn Hew Poem

Beneath the Canvas of Night

.
            *         .
                 .        *
        *          .             *
   .            I lie still
                  under an ocean
        of       ink—each breath
   a whisper               rising
             into a velvet hush.
      My eyes          sail
          on silver threads
   stitched     across
       this dark tapestry.

            stars murmur
     their stories              slow,
         unfurling like soft
   lanterns in      the black.

              I vanish
        into                 wonder,

             beneath
         the
    canvas
         of
            night.

Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025



Details | Evelyn Hew Poem

Dancing Raindrops

t   a     p

         tip     tap

  p     l    i      n      k

        the first drops
         come dancing

   across tin roofs,
        windowpanes,
     wide leaves,
        bare skin—

     tapping out
    their quiet
       language

     on everything
       we forgot
         to feel.

                    the wind
        turns the sky
                       into a drum
       and each raindrop
                         a fingertip
                                playing jazz
                   on the glass
                            of the world.

       they leap from gutters
    swirl in sidewalk puddles
 splash laughter on parked cars
      and pirouette off petals
            like ballerinas
                practicing joy.

                         some fall
                  straight,
          obedient to gravity

    but others—rebels—  
                  bounce,
        skip,
             twist,
                 spin.

        they don’t fall.  
              they dance.

         and every drop
   carries a secret rhythm,
    a soft choreography
        of chaos and calm—

         a memory of oceans,
          a kiss of cloud-breath,
             the sigh of sky.

       listen—

   not just with ears,
     but with skin,
       with soles of feet,
         with the space
            behind your eyes.

     the rain is not noise;
            it is message.

     not a storm;
           a ceremony.

        and when you step out
             into its music,

       don’t run.
                     don’t hide.

          just lift your face,

             and dance.

     let the world
           drip

               drip

                   drip

                        away—
         and become
                 the rhythm
                       of rain.

Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025

Details | Evelyn Hew Poem

The Way the Body Remembers

Cliché: “Time heals all wounds.”
(Irritation: It implies passivity, ignoring the ache, the effort, the mess of healing.)

Better Version:
Healing is not the passing of time—
it is the choosing to keep walking with the limp.

Poem

They say time heals all wounds,
but time does nothing
without your hands in the dirt.
It just sits there,
ticks forward,
waits for you to move.

Healing is not forgetting.
It’s waking up and feeding the dog,
even when your ribs still echo
where the grief pressed in.

It’s stitching yourself back together
with thread made of old laughter
and apologies you’ll never get.
It’s watering the plants
even though you once killed every green thing
in the house
because the light hurt your eyes.

It’s how you flinch
when someone touches your shoulder
like they used to—
and how you breathe through it anyway.

Some days, healing looks like
coffee left to go cold
because you finally called someone back.
Some days, it’s just
not crying when their name comes up.

You walk differently now.
Yes.
But still—
you walk.




Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025

Details | Evelyn Hew Poem

Yellow

Sight
It’s the hush before sunrise breaking loose—
lemon light spilling through the slats,
a field of dandelions laughing
into the sky’s blue face.
It’s the color children use
when they draw the sun
too big for the paper,
insisting joy won’t be contained.

Sound
Yellow buzzes.
It’s the hum of bees at work,
a brass trumpet on a summer sidewalk,
laughter skipping across a kitchen,
window open,
someone singing badly, boldly.
It’s the fizz of soda rising,
a screen door slamming shut behind freedom.

Touch
Yellow is warm skin—
not hot, not sharp,
just enough to remind you you’re alive.
It’s sun-warmed cotton,
buttery soft,
like pages of an old letter folded too many times.
It’s the press of someone’s hand in yours
when they don’t let go first.

Taste
It’s citrus—
not just the tang, but the wake-up.
Lemon tart on your tongue,
sherbet melting too fast,
a sunflower seed tucked behind your teeth.
It’s morning,
fresh,
uncertain,
hopeful.

Smell
Yellow smells like peeled oranges
and sunscreen,
like birthday candles blown out too soon.
It’s daffodils in a glass jar,
honey dripping from a spoon,
sunlight baked into linen.
A scent you recognize
before you remember
where it came from.

Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025

Details | Evelyn Hew Poem

Beneath the Broken Spell

The woods are never as kind
as the stories make them seem.
Little Red does not skip,
her feet heavy with the weight
of the basket,
its contents a secret darker than the night.
The wolves aren’t just hungry,
they’re desperate.
Their teeth are sharp,
their hunger endless.

And the huntsman?
His axe is too slow,
his conscience too soft
for the forest that devours
the innocent.

The glass slipper is not a gift
but a trap—
shattered on a floor slick
with blood and cinders,
and the prince’s kiss?
It’s poison in disguise.

She wakes,
but the dream has already unraveled—
her skin is no longer soft,
but bruised,
marked with the touch of something
darker than desire.

The stepmother’s mirror cracks
under the weight of truth,
reflecting not beauty,
but the hollowed-out faces of those
who thought they could bargain with fate.
The walls of the castle are paper thin,
and behind them,
the forest waits,
its branches clawing at the gates.

Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025

Details | Evelyn Hew Poem

The Dance of Forgotten Dreams

like
                     shadows in
                  a slow-turning
                waltz, they drift—
             soft, unsummoned sighs
           from corners of the mind
         where dust forgets to settle,
       and yesterday pirouettes silently.
     dreams once bright now fade, tulle
   trailing in twilight, ankles kissed by
  cobwebs of sleep. Each step unwinds
 the golden thread of almost-memory,
   echoing rhythms never quite born,
     never quite gone. They circle,
        spiral, shimmer, vanish—
            the dance of
            forgotten
             dreams.

Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025

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