A poem by Harvest Triola 06.11.2025
250 Years
In the presence of ancient oaks, their roots knotted deep in the earth’s memory, a spark was struck—flint against steel, human will against tyranny’s weight.
Not for a hint of glory but for philosophy, something raw, unyielding: the pulse of freedom, a heartbeat carried in the boots of farmers, blacksmiths, dreamers.
The militia stood, ragged as autumn leaves, yet fierce as a river pummeling ancient stone. From Valley Forge’s frost-bitten despair, where hunger gnawed like doubt, to the Pacific’s coral graves, where sacrifice bloomed red beneath turquoise waves, the military grew—branches of iron, leaves of courage, a canopy over a nation’s hope.
Each war a storm, each peace a fragile dawn, yet through it all, a constant: the sentinel’s vigil, the oath’s quiet fire.
The eagle, wings wide, soars not for conquest but for the horizon’s promise.
Its talons grip the past—Lexington’s green, Gettysburg’s sorrow, Normandy’s tide—while its gaze pierces the future, where threats shift like sand under a restless wind.
Cyber shadows loom, drones hum like locusts, yet the human spirit remains the blade: sharp, unbowed, forged in the heat of conviction.
Look to the stars, where satellites whisper and ambitions clash in silence.
The frontier is no longer just soil or sea—it is the vast unknown,
where courage must evolve, as it always has, like a river finding new paths.
The soldier’s heart, though, is timeless: a seed of duty, sprouting in the dust of trial, its roots entwined with the land’s own soul, its branches reaching for eternity.
Two and a half centuries, a tapestry of scars and stars,
woven by hands calloused yet hopeful, by spirits weathered yet resolute.
The oak stands taller now, its shade a sanctuary for those who cherish liberty. The military, a living monument, does not merely endure—it thrives, a testament to the unquenchable light of a nation born to be free.
Harvest lives in Lincoln, Nebraska. He told the editors he's been scared to share his poetry because he doesn't think they would be supported by those who read poetry. Here at the Porcupine Review, we think that is nonsense. This poem speaks to the hearts and mind of the forgotten men and women.
A Poem by Travis Haley 5.26.2025
Peace Through Strength
The world on edge,
a place where war lingers.
We do not bow, nor do we flinch.
Our spine is armor,
our gaze steady on the horizon.
Strength is not a boast—it is a necessity.
A nation’s heart beats only
when its borders are iron,
its will unyielding.
We offer open hands to friends,
but our fists are ready,
for those who mistake
resolve for weakness.
No more bleeding in foreign sands,
no more sons and daughters spent
on battles without end.
We choose our fights,
Allies stand tall beside us,
bound by trust.
Peace is not a gift we beg for,
but a fortress we build.
Our flag rises not to conquer,
but to protect.
Strength is our language,
and through it,
we carve a path
where freedom breathes,
unshaken, unbroken,
in the quiet of a world
that knows our might.
Travis lives in Oklahoma City, OK and never considered writing poetry. Feeling inspired, he took a shot and submitted to the Porcupine Review. To Travis- we hear you and love it!
Two Poems by Melinda Finley 05.22.2025
Advice from an Icy Pond
When she speaks to the icy pond
Her words remain frozen in the water
Though she has strong words
They remain trapped under the pond
Though she has a warm voice
It does not melt the ice
Someday the sun will melt the pond
By then words are obsolete
Unless someone is there to hear them
So the pond says to her,
“Speak into the wind, my friend.
Let it carry your words to those
Who need to hear what you say.
Speak to me only your secrets.”
And so she speaks to the wind
A New Wave
She floated on the foam of a wave
Formed a hundred miles out at sea
moving rapidly across the ocean
towards a land never seen before.
The wave began to swell
as the wind picked up pace and
on the foam she floated
all the while lying still.
She held on strong as
a large rock came closer
the waved formed a C
it impacted at full force.
The wave broke apart
as the foam dispersed and
on the foam she floated
forced back out to sea.
Back rapidly across the ocean
but this time not as far
she floated on the foam of a wave
moving rapidly across the ocean
towards a land she has seen before and
as the rock came closer and
the wave formed a C
she jumped to another and
floated on the foam of
a new wave.
Melinda lives in Tallahassee, FL. The Porcupine Review is proud to be the first to publish her work. To Melinda- May you be a voice for strong women now and always.