SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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Feb.13~ ADAM BREIER

2/13/2026

 
Happy Friday the 13th, poetry lovers...today we're shining the spotlight on American Poet/Educator, Adam Breier. Adam brings us two introspective poems:  Beneath What's Fallen and Permission. Thank you, Adam, for sharing your words with SHINE international poetry series! 

Beneath What's Fallen

 If only he could see
the red and yellow shards of his
bruised ego
through the eyes
of those who flock
to admire
the autumn colors
of the brittle leaves that
fall in the fall,
then he might have seen
potential
in the things that
grow
beneath what’s fallen
and not simply pray
for a strong wind
to sweep them away.

Permission

​When I felt for it and found
nothing,
I reached into that void
as far as the number of minutes
between that moment and
the last time I could recall holding it,
before I lost it.

I searched
rooms where it couldn’t have been
corners where it wouldn’t have fit
drawers that hadn’t been opened.
I lifted
memory, feeling underneath
hoping to find it hiding.

Repeating that search, each time feeding
the compounding bone-deep disappointment
until, through sweat and tears
I could see that I wasn’t searching, but
begging
for permission
to breathe
to pause.

I allowed myself, then
to take a breath,
and seeing the mess I’d made
of all that I could
never get back,
I also allowed myself to pause.

Permission to forgive
has proven more elusive.
I cannot beg
myself
for that.
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Adam Breier is a Yonkers, NY based poet and educator. He is the author of a poetry chapbook, An Odor of His Own, with poetry and short fiction appearing in: Azarão Literary Journal, friends of friends, Mad Persona Magazine, Broken Stone Review, Thistle and Thread Press, Bristol Noir, Stone Poetry Quarterly, So It Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library, ‘Merica Magazine, Soul Fountain, and Outsider Ink. You can follow Adam on Instagram @adam_breier_poetry or at adambreier.com.


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    SHINE - International Poetry Series

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    From the international poetry community, we have a "luxury of stars," as Sylvia Plath might say, and it is SHINE's honor to provide a home for their words with the online Spotlight series as well as SHINE Quarterly. Click on the logo above to learn more. And...keep writing, keep shining!
    In poetry,
    Samantha Terrell, EIC
    SYLVIA PLATH
    Stars Over the Dordogne

    Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy
    Picket of trees whose silhouette is darker
    Than the dark of the sky because it is quite starless.
    The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.
    They seem large, yet they drop, and no gap is visible.
    Nor do they send up fires where they fall
    Or any signal of distress or anxiousness.
    They are eaten immediately by the pines.

    Where I am at home, only the sparsest stars
    Arrive at twilight, and then after some effort.
    And they are wan, dulled by much travelling.
    The smaller and more timid never arrive at all
    But stay, sitting far out, in their own dust.
    They are orphans. I cannot see them. They are lost.
    But tonight they have discovered this river with no trouble,
    They are scrubbed and self-assured as the great planets.

    The Big Dipper is my only familiar.
    I miss Orion and Cassiopeia's Chair. Maybe they are
    Hanging shyly under the studded horizon
    Like a child's too-simple mathematical problem.
    Infinite number seems to be the issue up there.
    Or else they are present, and their disguise so bright
    I am overlooking them by looking too hard.
    Perhaps it is the season that is not right.

    And what if the sky here is no different,
    And it is my eyes that have been sharpening themselves?
    Such a luxury of stars would embarrass me.
    The few I am used to are plain and durable;
    I think they would not wish for this dressy backcloth
    Or much company, or the mildness of the south.
    They are too puritan and solitary for that--
    When one of them falls it leaves a space,

    A sense of absence in its old shining place.
    And where I lie now, back to my own dark star,
    I see those constellations in my head,
    Unwarmed by the sweet air of this peach orchard.
    There is too much ease here; these stars treat me too well.
    On this hill, with its view of lit castles, each swung bell
    Is accounting for its cow. I shut my eyes
    And drink the small night chill like news of home.

    ~~~

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