Feeling confident in your poetry? Why not enter our international poetry competition for the chance to win $100!

Poems about life: how poetry can capture life so well

Life is full of quiet moments and loud reckonings, tenderness and suffering, love and loss. We search for ways to make sense of it—to hold onto what is beautiful and survive what is painful. And perhaps no art form has captured the vastness of human existence as intimately as poetry.

Poems about life offer a kind of reflection, a way of understanding the complexity of our experiences. In just a few lines, poetry can illuminate what it means to be human. Whether through short poems about life’s daily struggles or profound meditations on time and identity, poetry invites us to see ourselves more clearly.

In this collection, we explore life through the words of eight contemporary poets, each offering a unique perspective on what it means to live. Some poems remind us of the joys of childhood, while others ask us to face mortality with open eyes. Some reckon with family legacies, and others navigate the quiet, unspoken pains we carry every day. Yet, despite their differences, these poems share a common thread: they remind us that we are not alone in our experiences.

Through the act of reading and reflecting, we find pieces of ourselves in these words—reminders of our own past, of where we have been and where we are going. Poetry does not give us answers, but it helps us ask the right questions. It is in this spirit that we explore these poems about life: as guideposts, as mirrors, as small truths tucked away in a stanza.

Poems about life and getting older

Sometimes it feels like life is a paradox of strength and fragility. It bends but does not always break, scars but does not always heal seamlessly. The human body, much like the human heart, carries the marks of both pain and perseverance. In Joshua Wetjen’s poem Sutures, this duality is stitched into every line, a meditation on the ways we mend ourselves—physically, emotionally, and metaphorically:

“Sutures” by Joshua Wetjen | Issue 09: Bodies

By intention or catastrophe,
the world is often close to splitting.

I have two sutures,
freshly bombed bridges
between my legs
blockading
the highway of fatherhood.

On your left temple,
a line zigzags
where doctors teased out
the imprint of the sun,
radiance spoiled,
the price you pay
for a complexion like stirred cream.

We pace,
our needles and thread,
ready to stitch.

We suture our bodies
in every private place,
yearning with
cries of need.

"By intention or catastrophe, / the world is often close to splitting." These opening lines set the tone for a world perpetually on the verge of rupture, where the forces of time, chance, and decision-making threaten to unravel us. The speaker’s body is a site of healing, of freshly closed wounds, yet there is something universal about the image of sutures. We all carry them—scars from past injuries, both seen and unseen. There is a quiet recognition here that life itself is a process of stitching, tearing, and re-stitching, an ongoing effort to hold ourselves together.

In the poem’s second half, the imagery shifts from the body to the bonds between people: "We pace, / our needles and thread, / ready to stitch." There is a tenderness in this line, an understanding that healing is rarely a solitary act. We suture not only our own wounds but those of others, sewing together the frayed edges of love, grief, and survival. There is something deeply human in this impulse—the need to mend, to repair, to reach for another’s hand when the world threatens to come apart.

Wetjen’s poem reminds us that to live is to be wounded, but also to heal. It is in this delicate interplay between pain and restoration that we find what it means to endure.

Poems about living with pain

Pain is one of life’s quiet constants. It exists in the body, aging us in slow, imperceptible ways. It exists in the mind, an ache that lingers even after the moment of impact has passed. And it exists in the world around us, pressing in from all sides—personal, communal, generational. In Joey Lew’s poem, We Live with Things that Hurt Us All the Time, pain is not an anomaly but a fact of existence, something we carry without question, something we almost expect:

“We Live with Things that Hurt Us All the Time” by Joey Lew | Issue 07: Do You Smell Burning?

A bright pink pimple with suppurative
comedone, an arthritic knee with years
left to further degrade, the decision to withdraw
life support. A stranger yelling, yelling.

I thought there would be something curative
in becoming sand-filled, punched-on,
creatively cleaved. Instead, my chest hurts.

A woman came into clinic today
because she can’t get up hills like she used to.
Of course, she says, I expected this.

The poem opens with a list—small wounds, minor degradations, daily burdens:

"A bright pink pimple with suppurative / comedone, an arthritic knee with years / left to further degrade, the decision to withdraw / life support. A stranger yelling, yelling."

There is no transition, no preamble—the pains arrive as they do in real life, unannounced and overlapping. The body breaks down, the heart makes impossible decisions, the outside world screams into the silence. The poem refuses to rank these pains in order of importance; a blemish, a failing joint, and a life-altering choice are presented with the same weight, as if to say: it is all suffering, and we bear it all.

Yet, what is most striking is the speaker’s expectation of this suffering. The moment that lingers comes later in the poem:

"A woman came into clinic today / because she can’t get up hills like she used to. / Of course, she says, I expected this."

There is no surprise, no anger—only resignation. Life, after all, is a slow erosion. We live knowing that one day our bodies will betray us, that one day we will not move as we once did. We brace ourselves for the inevitable because we have been conditioned to do so. There is a tragic beauty in this moment of acceptance. It is a reminder that even when we prepare for pain, it still arrives, and even when we expect it, it still hurts.

The poem also touches on an even more elusive pain—the kind that comes not from within but from the world around us. The "stranger yelling, yelling" is an intrusion, an external force of distress. There is no explanation, but the effect is immediate: a reminder that pain does not belong to us alone. It is everywhere.

Lew’s poem speaks to the endurance required to live in a world where pain is a given. It is not a poem of hope, nor is it one of despair—it is a quiet acknowledgment of reality, an honest look at the way life wears us down. And yet, in its rawness, there is something deeply human, even comforting: the knowledge that we are not alone in our suffering, that we are all—silently, resolutely—carrying pain together.

Poems about life’s earliest memories

“At the Trampoline Park” by Devon Neal | Issue 06: Pulling Teeth

I thought I might write while the kids
bounced around in sock feet until
their faces blushed with red. Now
that I’m here, though, music blasts
from metallic speakers, kids shout
as they bounce high up to the rim
of basketball goals, cut in line
at the obstacle course, thunder
across the platform with heel-heavy
steps. Teens cluster, hair slicked back,
babies waddle with a drunk precision,
and sweat-slicked water bottles
suction to gap-toothed red lips.
I remember a time when the only concerns
were physical—could you jump high enough
for your fingertips to reach the door
frame? Could you spider across
the swingset without touching the ground?
Could you run faster than the snarl
of the neighbor’s fenced-in dog? One
night, the kid from down the street
jumped so high on our trampoline
he swore his hand touched the threads
of the night sky.

There is a time in life when the body is only a source of joy—a time before pain, before exhaustion, before the slow weight of responsibility sets in. Childhood is filled with a kind of physical freedom, a boundless energy that propels us forward without hesitation. In At the Trampoline Park, Devon Neal captures this fleeting stage of life, where movement is the only concern, where the body is not yet something to be managed, but something to be tested, stretched, and celebrated.

The poem unfolds in a space of unfiltered chaos—the trampoline park, a loud, kinetic landscape of joy:

"Kids shout / as they bounce high up to the rim / of basketball goals, cut in line / at the obstacle course, thunder / across the platform with heel-heavy / steps."

Here, movement is everything. There is no stillness, no contemplation—only the raw exuberance of jumping, running, climbing. It is a reminder of a time when our greatest challenge was whether we could reach high enough, run fast enough, hang on long enough. Neal’s descriptions are breathless, mirroring the untamed energy of youth itself.

But beneath the surface, there is a quiet contrast—the speaker is not one of the children. They are observing, reflecting. They remember a time when their own concerns were physical, when childhood felt infinite. But now, something has shifted. The body, once a source of boundless energy, has become something different—perhaps something slower, something more fragile. This realization comes in a single, aching line:

"I remember a time when the only concerns / were physical—could you jump high enough / for your fingertips to reach the door / frame?"

It is a bittersweet reflection, one that all adults inevitably face. We do not realize we are leaving childhood until it is already gone. The poem ends with an image that captures this fleeting magic:

"One / night, the kid from down the street / jumped so high on our trampoline / he swore his hand touched the threads / of the night sky."

It is the perfect metaphor for youth—a moment of impossible belief, the conviction that anything is possible. Childhood is brief, but for those few years, we are weightless.

The cycle of life and death in poetry

“Birthright” by Mollie Coles Tonn | Issue 04: Feast

Consider the holy work of buzzards,
knowing how to turn things that are
turning; entrails like ripe fruit,
peach energy slipping into a talon. I want
to know how to be food, to feed
myself, to become everything
and not lose my cool. How to let
absence stuff my holes and spangle.
Once I was terrified of being eaten
by worms, beetles biting my eyeball
chub, cockroaches up my crotch–
but now, the swell of insect
desire, nips at me. Deep into winter
I can hear crickets through a screen
door in August, the rasp of cicadas
through ages, taps of evening moths
at the window. When I’m home, a meal,
returned, I’ll burn into the summer air
like a vibration children tuck deep
into their birthright.

*The first line is quoted from the article “Imagining Burial” By Lia Purpura, Emergence Magazine Volume 1

To be alive is to be in constant motion, always shifting toward something else—growth, decay, renewal. Death is often framed as an ending, but in nature, nothing truly disappears; instead, it is transformed. This idea hums through Birthright by Mollie Coles Tonn, a poem that explores our place in the cycle of life, not as mere witnesses, but as participants in an ancient process of consumption and renewal.

The poem begins with a striking, almost reverent image:

"Consider the holy work of buzzards, / knowing how to turn things that are / turning; entrails like ripe fruit, / peach energy slipping into a talon."

Death, here, is not tragic—it is functional, even sacred. Buzzards, often seen as symbols of decay, are reframed as essential workers in the natural order. They do not mourn what has passed; they simply continue the process. The visceral imagery—“entrails like ripe fruit”—reminds us that the body is not something to be preserved forever, but something that will one day be reclaimed by the earth.

The speaker then shifts from an abstract meditation to a deeply personal reflection:

"I want to know how to be food, to feed / myself, to become everything / and not lose my cool."

This is not a fear of death, but an almost yearning curiosity—a desire to belong fully to the life cycle, to surrender to nature’s rhythms without resistance. This sentiment is echoed later in the poem, where the speaker moves from fearing decomposition—“Once I was terrified of being eaten / by worms, beetles biting my eyeball / chub, cockroaches up my crotch”—to embracing it, finding beauty in the small creatures that will one day return her to the earth.

The final lines of the poem blur time and memory:

"Deep into winter / I can hear crickets through a screen / door in August, the rasp of cicadas / through ages, taps of evening moths / at the window."

This is the sound of continuity—of life humming on, indifferent to individual existence, yet somehow holding all of us within it. Even in winter, the echoes of summer remain. Even in death, something of us lingers.

Coles Tonn’s poem does not offer comfort in the form of permanence, but in the reassurance that nothing is truly lost. We are part of something vast and endless, a cycle older than memory itself. To die is not to vanish—it is simply to transform.

Poems About Life, Family, and Identity

We are born into stories that are not entirely our own. Family history, expectations, and societal norms press upon us, shaping the way we move through the world. Some people embrace this inheritance, while others feel the heavy burden of it—the desire to untangle themselves from the past, to forge a new path. In Be Fruitful and Multiply, Alyssa Peterson explores the complicated tension between familial legacy and self-definition, weaving together themes of lineage, queerness, and the weight of breaking away:

“Be Fruitful and Multiply” by Alyssa Peterson | Issue 02: High Tide

My grandparents kept everything
they owned, until their house became
rat infested and went up in flames
with a dusty radiator. My father
has done likewise, accumulating
alongside familial rubble. I used
shopping as a coping mechanism
which resulted in the impulse
purchase of a leather moto jacket
from a bike shop off I-90. When I go
to check out, my father says,
We’ll need to find a gun to put
in that pocket. I tell him Sorry,
I have other plans. I wear this jacket
and a pin that says Sorry Boys, I’m Gay!
so the men in my farming town who
look me up and down know—
unequivocally and to their horror—
that I’m a Dyke. In the concealed
carry gun pocket I keep a small
copy of Slouching Towards Bethlehem.
Didion says it’s best to keep on nodding
terms with our past selves. I’m not sure
I agree. My shoulders ache to shrug
off this ancestral shroud for a looser
garment. So, I remember to use words
like visceral, to square the drawl,
and that my family’s bloodline
dies with me.

The poem begins in a house overflowing with history, both physical and emotional:

"My grandparents kept everything / they owned, until their house became / rat infested and went up in flames / with a dusty radiator."

These lines capture more than just the clutter of a home; they speak to the accumulation of generations, the way people hold onto things—beliefs, traditions, burdens—long past their usefulness. The fire is both literal and symbolic, a destruction of the past, an erasure of what came before. But does destruction equal freedom? That question lingers throughout the poem.

The speaker acknowledges their own attempts to escape this legacy, using shopping as a form of rebellion, a way to carve out personal space. Yet, even in these small acts of defiance, the weight of the family lingers. The poem’s pivotal moment comes when the speaker buys a leather jacket, and their father remarks:

"We’ll need to find a gun to put / in that pocket."

But the speaker has already made their choice: "I tell him Sorry, / I have other plans." This is the moment of self-assertion, of rejecting what has been passed down. Instead of a gun, they carry a book—Slouching Towards Bethlehem, a text associated with questioning societal structures, rewriting one’s own narrative.

Peterson’s poem is a testament to the courage it takes to step away from inherited expectations. The speaker’s bloodline may end with them, but their story is their own—and that, in itself, is a kind of rebirth.

Mapping the journey of life in a poem

Our bodies are more than just vessels—they are living maps, etched with the traces of where we’ve been, what we’ve endured, and what we have loved. Every scar, every wrinkle, every vein beneath the skin tells a story. In Cartography, Amy Hollan transforms the body into a landscape, a geography of experience that links us to something larger than ourselves:

“Cartography” by Amy Hollan | Issue 01: Roots

The atlas of my body
is a strange geography,
both familiar and foreign
in its changing landscape:
a varied topography
of dips and foothills
and swells,
of scars dotting
my map of skin,
of cried rivers carving
my face with age,
of veins extending
as blue highways,
marking where I’ve been.

What I’ve learned
in tending to
your dying body
is that I am not so
uniquely made.

In the journey of life,
we all travel
a common road.

The poem begins with an intimate acknowledgment of this living map:

"The atlas of my body / is a strange geography, / both familiar and foreign / in its changing landscape."

This opening line immediately establishes the tension between knowing and unknowing. The body is something we inhabit every day, yet it constantly changes, shifting in ways that can surprise us. The language of geography—atlas, landscape, topography—suggests that life itself is a kind of journey, one that leaves its marks on us whether we intend it to or not.

Hollan then leads us deeper into this metaphor, charting the physical remnants of experience:

"A varied topography / of dips and foothills / and swells, / of scars dotting / my map of skin, / of cried rivers carving / my face with age."

Here, the body becomes a terrain shaped by time, emotion, and memory. Scars are mapped like cities, rivers of tears carve the contours of the face, veins extend like highways. This imagery suggests that nothing in life is separate from the body—it records everything. Even grief leaves its signature. Even laughter, repeated over years, etches itself into the skin.

The poem’s second half expands this personal map into something universal:

"What I’ve learned / in tending to / your dying body / is that I am not so / uniquely made."

This moment shifts from self-reflection to a shared human experience. The speaker has cared for a dying loved one, and in doing so, has realized that they, too, are made of the same fragile material. We may each have our own maps, but we all travel the same road.

This realization leads to the poem’s final truth:

"In the journey of life, / we all travel / a common road."

It is a quiet but powerful ending, one that ties back to the poem’s theme of interconnectedness. No matter how different our individual experiences may seem, the fundamental nature of life—aging, loving, losing—remains the same. Hollan’s poem reminds us that we are part of something larger, a collective story written on the skin of the world.

We are all maps, all travelers, all moving through time together.

Short poems about life and nostalgia

Memory has a way of sneaking up on us, revealing itself in the smallest, most unexpected moments. A sound, a scent, a familiar rhythm—these tiny triggers can transport us instantly back in time, unearthing emotions we thought we had buried. In Chewing Nostalgia, Cliff Turner explores this phenomenon with striking simplicity, showing how something as ordinary as the act of chewing can become a portal to the past.

“Chewing Nostalgia” by Cliff Turner | Issue 01: Roots

He found himself
in a chemically induced reflection
upon the rhythm of his chewing.
The cranial, claustrophobic echo of each crunch,
Hearing turned inward.
A nostalgic sound for him.
Covering his ears at his childhood dinner table.
Listening to his chewing rather than their shouts.
Forty years later the shouting is done,
But to his delight,
The chewing sounds the same.

The poem’s speaker finds themselves caught in an introspective moment, listening to the sound of their own chewing:

"He found himself / in a chemically induced reflection / upon the rhythm of his chewing."

The phrase “chemically induced reflection” suggests that the speaker is in an altered state—perhaps under the influence of a substance, or perhaps simply lost in the haze of memory. The focus on rhythm gives the chewing an almost hypnotic quality, as if it is pulling them into a deeper place, beyond the immediate moment.

Then, the memory surfaces:

"Covering his ears at his childhood dinner table. / Listening to his chewing rather than their shouts."

This quiet revelation shifts the tone of the poem. What began as an absentminded sensory experience becomes something deeply personal. As a child, the speaker sought refuge in this sound, using it to drown out the conflict around them. It was a survival mechanism, a small act of control in a world that felt too loud, too chaotic.

Now, decades later, the shouting is gone—but the sound of chewing remains unchanged. This final realization is both comforting and haunting:

"Forty years later the shouting is done, / But to his delight, / The chewing sounds the same."

Turner’s poem reminds us that memory is not linear. Some things stay with us, looping back at unexpected moments. Nostalgia is not always sweet—it can be tinged with sorrow, with loneliness, with the ache of what once was. But in these echoes of the past, we also find pieces of ourselves, proof that we have endured.

The shifting dynamics of family over time

Family is a constantly evolving relationship—one that shifts as we grow older, as roles reverse, and as time redefines the connections we once took for granted. As children, we look to our parents for guidance, security, and understanding. But what happens when the lines blur, when the child becomes the caretaker and the parent becomes the dependent? In Buttons, Naila Buckner explores this quiet but profound transformation, portraying a mother and daughter as two forces pushing against time, struggling to exist within a single space.

Buttons by Naila Buckner | Issue 06: Pulling Teeth

I underwent
A change and
So did
Mother

She became a child
I became a woman
And as we grew up
And down
We fought to
Occupy a
Single womb

The poem opens with a simple but weighty statement:

"I underwent / A change and / So did / Mother."

This change is left intentionally vague, allowing the reader to fill in the details. Is it aging? Illness? A shift in responsibility? Whatever the transformation, it is something inevitable, something both mother and child must endure together.

Then, the reversal begins:

"She became a child / I became a woman / And as we grew up / And down"

There is a striking fluidity in these lines, a recognition that aging is not a straightforward path. The mother, once strong and in control, is now regressing into a state of dependency, while the daughter steps forward into adulthood, taking on the weight of responsibility. The phrase "grew up / And down" suggests that time is not a simple progression; instead, it moves in loops, overlaps, and contradictions.

The heart of the poem lies in its final lines:

"We fought to / Occupy a / Single womb."

This metaphor is stunning in its depth. The idea that mother and daughter are both trying to return to the same space—the original place of connection, of safety—speaks to the complexity of family relationships. There is a yearning to hold onto what once was, to reclaim the intimacy of early life. And yet, there is also conflict, a struggle to exist separately while still being bound by love, history, and obligation.

Buckner’s poem captures the universal tension between aging parents and their children, the unspoken grief of watching a parent grow fragile, and the complicated love that persists through it all. It is a reminder that family is not static—it is something we must continually navigate, learning to let go even as we hold on.

How Poetry Captures the Meaning of Life

Life is fleeting, messy, and achingly beautiful. It is full of quiet moments and seismic shifts, of childhood laughter and the weight of aging, of inherited burdens and the fight to carve out a self beyond them. Poetry has long served as a mirror to this experience, distilling the complexity of life into lines that resonate across time, culture, and circumstance. Each poem in this collection reveals a different facet of what it means to be alive—the scars we carry, the pain we endure, the memories that haunt us, and the love that binds us.

In Sutures, we see life’s fragility and resilience, how we stitch ourselves back together after breaking. We Live with Things that Hurt Us All the Time reminds us that suffering is inevitable, a quiet undercurrent in daily life. At the Trampoline Park brings us back to the boundless joy of childhood, while Birthright forces us to confront our place in the cycle of life and death. Be Fruitful and Multiply examines the weight of inheritance, and Cartography maps the ways our bodies tell the stories of our journey. Chewing Nostalgia shows how the past lingers in unexpected places, and Buttons captures the shifting tides of family relationships.

These poems, like life itself, do not offer simple answers. They do not attempt to smooth over the contradictions of existence. Instead, they invite us to sit with them, to recognize ourselves in their lines, to see our own lives reflected in their words.

Perhaps that is the true power of poetry—it does not tell us how to live, but it reminds us that we are not alone in the living. It captures what it means to be human, in all its raw, imperfect, luminous beauty.

Enter our new poetry contest for the chance to win $100!

We accept entries from all around the world – and you can submit as many as you like.

Questions? Let us know in the comments below.