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Best Poems Written by Evelyn Hew

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

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.

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.

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.

Details | Evelyn Hew Poem

Coat of Arms: For the Quiet and the Fierce

A silver shield—
not polished,
but burnished with time,
like moonlight caught in stone.
This is not a banner of conquest,
but of endurance.

At its center: a fox,
mid-step, not snarling—
alert, alive,
the patron saint of disappearing
without being lost.
She knows the back ways,
the soft ground,
the difference between retreat
and wisdom.

Beneath her paws:
wild thyme and yarrow,
not roses—never roses.
I want the plants that heal quietly,
that grow in stubborn places,
whose roots remember drought
and bloom anyway.

Two crossed quills above her head:
one black,
one gold.
Words as weapons,
words as balm.
My shield is etched with stories
that cut and comfort both.

Colors?
Deep forest green—
for stillness.
Ink blue—
for the sea I never stop carrying in my chest.
And a single streak of ember orange—
foxfire,
the moment just before change,
or flight,
or truth.

And the motto, curling beneath in worn script:
“Not loud, but lasting.”

Let them come with their noise.
This is the crest of the patient,
the watchers,
the ones who survive
by becoming
exactly themselves.

Details | Evelyn Hew Poem

The Bird Who Lost it's Song

Once, I sang without thinking—
notes spilling like sunlight
through trembling leaves,
a language woven from breath and wind,
a melody that painted the endless sky,
dancing on the morning breeze,
weaving stories of hope and light.

My voice was free,
each note a flickering flame,
threading the world together
from dawn’s first blush
to twilight’s soft sigh,
lifting hearts and stirring dreams
with the simple gift of song.

But then silence came—
quiet as falling feathers,
heavy as the weight of absence,
and my song slipped away,
lost in shadows deeper than night,
a voice swallowed whole by the void,
leaving hollow spaces where music lived.

I searched the empty air,
reaching for scattered notes,
trying to gather the melody
that once filled mornings with hope,
but silence held me captive,
an invisible cage made of absence,
where sound dissolved like mist at dawn,
and echoes faded before they could be heard.

Days passed like restless wings
beating against unseen glass,
and I became still,
listening not for my voice,
but for the pulse beneath the quiet—
the soft rustle of life awakening,
the gentle glow of dawn’s early light,
the fragile hope that a song
might one day be born anew.

Sometimes, when the wind shifts just right,
I catch the echo of a forgotten note—
soft, fragile, like a long-lost sigh,
calling me back to the place
where music waits beneath loss,
and silence is only a pause
between the beats of a hidden heart.

Even in silence,
there is rhythm—
a heartbeat beneath stillness,
waiting patiently
for its voice to return,
for wings to spread wide
and songs to soar once more.

One day, my song will rise again—
soft at first,
a trembling note born of longing,
growing stronger,
spreading wings of sound
across the empty sky,
filling the world
with melodies I thought lost forever,
a chorus of hope reborn from quiet.

Until then, I remain—
a bird with quiet wings,
carrying the memory of music in my bones,
and the promise that silence
is never the end,
only the breath before a new beginning.

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.

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.

Details | Evelyn Hew Poem

Red Thread Through the Trees: A Fox Speaks

I move like a question
no one dares to ask aloud.
Soft-footed. Sharp-eyed.
I was born between shadows,
stitched from dusk and flame—
a whisper in the underbrush
with teeth.

You call me sly.
I call it survival.
I know the wind before it changes.
I know the hush that means danger.
I know how to vanish
without meaning to.

Your world is loud.
Metal, smoke, hunger that swallows
without tasting.
Mine is the flick of a leaf,
the crackle of something small
making the wrong move.

I don’t chase what doesn’t want to be found.
I wait. I listen. I know
how to want quietly.

At night, I run—
not to get somewhere,
but because running
is what keeps my name from rusting.
The earth sings in pawbeats,
and I answer,
red thread stitching a story
through the trees.

Details | Evelyn Hew Poem

The Blood-Stained Glass Heart

She scrubs the floors with hands that bleed,
her heart, a brittle thing beneath her chest—
a reflection of the shattered glass
she once danced on,
believing love was a crown
meant to fit anyone.

The prince's ring,
so smooth,
is a shackle,
and his kiss—
not a promise,
but a contract with the devil’s own whisper.

Her stepsisters wear their cruelty
like fine silk,
while her smile fades
into the dust of her cinders.

The carriage,
once golden,
is a cage
that rattles down the path
toward a ball
that was never hers to begin with.

The clock does not strike midnight.
It grinds her bones to powder,
and she is left standing
in the ruins of her own dreams,
the glass slipper cutting into her flesh
as if it always knew
it was meant to break her.

Details | Evelyn Hew Poem

Unintended Innuendo

Line of inquiry:
“as we passed her she did wilt
which caused in us sense of guilt
since our stance perhaps did cause
to put her heart’s joy on pause

though we’re gentle, not hostile
we diminished her soul’s smile
since our aura as she viewed
scent of love did not exude”

Poem:
We walked by, unaware,
and in our wake, her smile faltered—
no harsh word, no glance too cruel,
but something in our silence
touched her like a shadow.
We weren’t unkind, yet we diminished,
as though absence could speak louder
than the warmth we never gave.
In the pause, we left her heart adrift.