Pride Poems spotlights LGBTQ+ poets from the greater Washington, D.C. region, by releasing a new video each day during the month of June, in honor of National Pride Month.

The theme for 2025 is Word Play: poems that re-define words, use specialized vocabularies or incorporate words and languages other than English, use puns, or in some other way focus on the roots and etymology of language. Videos are short — some as short as half a minute in length-and feature the author who wrote each poem reading their work.

  1. “En Français” by Greta Ehrig

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    EN FRANÇAIS
    

    à Éric
    

    Sometimes instead of singing “Alouette”
    
as a child, you wish you had learned
    
a more practical language like that of your
    
old Spanish-speaking roommate and friends
    

    You studied French à l’école cinq ans
    
because your mother studied French in school
    
and her mother before her had thought it proper
    
and of use to young people of a certain breeding
    

    Your mother in particular took to studying
    
the culture, cuisine, and art of France and would
    
later decorate her home with the blue and white
    
chinoiserie you would come to adore
    

    and keep a piano forte in the corner
    
so that Debussy and Ravel
    
might filter the air with an Impressionist light
    
Still, even though you’ve never been to Paris
    

    it has proven useful, over the years, whether in
    
chatting with cab drivers from West Africa,
    
ordering the coq au vin on dates, or
    
flirting with the francophile love of your life
    

    Tu es mon héros, you text him periodically —
    
declaring that not only is he your hero, but also,
    
because of the “s,” the source of your eros —
    
a linguistic holding of the gaze
    

    More recently the two of you thought to keep
    
your brains sharp, you’d take a refresher course
    
and parleriez français ensemble while cooking
    
coq au vin in your own blue and white kitchen
    

    Meanwhile, your matrilineal wishes to travel to
    
Provence and walk through the fragrant fields of
    
poppies and lavender still call to you
    
like the morning songbirds call to you au soleil
    

    reminding you how even when you were a boy
    
in school, you used to dream en français
    
and wake up writing poetry about writing poetry
    
avec une plume d’oiseau  
    

    Greta Ehrig holds an MFA in Creative Writing from AU, where she served as Editor of Folio literary journal and was a Lannan Fellow. Her writing has been published in numerous journals and anthologies, including Blessed Bi Spirit: Bisexual People of Faith, and has received support from: the Arts & Humanities Council of Montgomery County, MD; the Maryland State Arts Council; and the National League of American Pen Women. She was recently nominated for Best of the Net, as well as a Pushcart Prize in Poetry.
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  2. “For You I’d Create a New Language” by Jasmine Haskins

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    Picking purple petals in a field 
    
With no flowers. Chipping away,
    
At painted nails that happened 
    
To be the shade I mourned. 
    

    Scattered to the wind- 
    
Is what I would like to say. 
    
Oh, how april showered 
    
The flakes, turned flowers 
    

    That included some skin; 
    
Back down to me. Rejected 
    
Damage that will soon 
    
Breed infection within me. 
    

    The tips of my fingers a tinge 
    
Violet, next to the violas, 
    
And I hear violins out of tune 
    
Violently harmonious. Until 
    

    I dove my head into untilled soil,
    
So the doves would stop 
    
Circling my brain like vultures.
    
Plum, is the suckle, that honey
    

    Dripped with nectar they now 
    
Come for, and encumber me. 
    
In their nest, lapping up 
    
The lilac syrup sloppily.
    

    A mess on their chest fulfilling 
    
Their bellies, and breast till these fat birds 
    
Mumble a faint hum and now drained all mums
    
Of juice, from grapes turned wine.
    

    After feverish ferment from 
    
Drunken rants to relent against 
    
Black roses; that have rose from
    
The palm of my hand. Knelt on rice 
    

    Forming welts of maroon 
    
Patties. On my knee, a sting from a
    
Bee makes me rise from the sod.
    
As I wince at the sun now sought
    

    Through the shrouds of drapes, they 
    
Formed clouds on the window. Bold in color,
    
The tone gold to others of a wedding band 
    
Ready to marry in the meadow of sweet flowers.
    

    Showered down on me is the ray,
    
Portrayal of hope denotes dismay. 
    
For this may, the parades shall march,
    
A brilliant band through the remnants 
    

    Of your garden. Hardening the parched
    
Patches you once whispered batches 
    
Baked, now packed with the lackluster-
    
Words of love, you called language. 
    
 
    

    Jasmine Haskins, is a GMU Alumni and Creative Writer/Poet from the NOVA area. She has a passion for poetry and finding new ways to get involved in her local writing community. Using her words in news ways to explore the ideas of human nature through rhetoric and complex emotion.
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  3. “Promulgate: Triple Haibun” by Danielle Evennou

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    Promulgate: Triple Haibun
    

    I.
    

    To make known openly on Facebook and basement fraternity parties that there’s nothing I love more than eating pussy in West Hollywood hotel rooms. Pleasure at the cost of debilitating loss. My first love destroyed. My family estranged. My friends repel me. Gay boys sympathetic toward my effeminate ex-boyfriend. Everyone looks at me like a lying stranger, a voyeur in the dorm’s collective shower. Shrouded in pain and politeness, I move to a city that doesn’t know me. Search for everything I need on Craigslist. 
    

    eat pussy freely
    
West Hollywood love story
    
in search of touch me
    

    II.
    

    To make official in law the way our bodies can intertwine. I imagine illicit bath house scenes because I’m too shy to interview at the front desk to be the token “bi-woman” who they let in. Fill up the emptiness with MidAtlantic Leather Weekends, quirky strip clubs, and a Sean Cody account. Irked at the insistence of closed-toed shoes at the Eagle. Bored in a sex dungeon. Follow the handprints on the sheets to where I fit in. Doing whatever it takes to avoid cocaine in Brooklyn.
    

    the law of bodies 
    
names the token “bi-woman”
    
cocaine on the sheets 
    

    III.
    

    To force into action, generations of community who never stopped defending. Tranquil Northampton crockpot bubbles up. Roils. Cauldron of Los Angeles fires melting provocative sculptures. Meanwhile, trans people claw together their paperwork. Marching in the rain makes the rainbow an irrelevant t-shirt from Target, selling us out publicly to appease the current powers, facing certain mutiny.
    

    community force 
    
clawing together paper
    
melting the rainbow
    

    Danielle Evennou (she/her/hers) is a writer who grew up in suburban New Jersey. For over a decade, she has kept herself busy by hosting poetry readings, workshops, and open mics in Washington, DC. In 2016, she founded Slipform, a writing workshop that explores gender, sexuality, and formal poetic structures. Her poetry and memoir appear in apt, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Dryland, and Split Lip Magazine. Her chapbook, DIFFICULT TRICK, is available from dancing girl press. With the help of therapy, she is learning how to calm the f*** down. 
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    Danielle Evennou is a resident of Langdon.

  4. “My Struggle” by Jessica Austin

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    Our very own lebensraum: the Gulf of America, Greenland, and Canada, too.
    
I fear I’m overstepping here, but President Jackson’s portrait is back
    
In the Oval Office. My heart goes out to all the very fine people in the crowd,
    
He said with a wink. It’s the Inauguration, after all. Out with the old: Critical Race Theory, 
    
In with the new: Great Replacement Theory. I’ve seen his right hand man
    
Gesture vaguely at multiculturalism and German values, like it’s his
    
Manifest destiny to assuage the AfD of their past guilt.
    

    I’ve seen the executive orders, too, and I think to myself
    
Legally speaking, do I even exist? And for how much longer?
    
You see, kids, gender is a spectrum. At least, it used to be. Talk about
    
A thought terminating cliché. Now it’s just a single letter on a birth certificate,
    
A driver’s license, a passport. With a few snips here and there…
    
But there I go again, thinking I can solve all my problems
    
With surgical mutilation. My K-12 education is showing, 
    
And it’s scar(r)ing the children.
    

    By some accounts, I’m a well-groomed male. Because, well, I’ve 
    
Had the surgery. It was pioneered by Magnus Hirschfeld, you know. He practiced 
    
Radical gender ideology, too, and they burned his books for it. Queerness, you see, 
    
Was a Jewish perversion, and now it’s anti-American teaching. 
    
The enemy from within, as defined by the presidential pen. 
    
A modern Dolchstoßlegende: a Democrat, a gender extremist, and a cultural Marxist
    
Walk into a bar, and George Soros pays for their drinks 
    
While the TV blares, “Kamala Harris is for they/them.” And it’s true, 
    
I use gender neutral pronouns. At least, I used to. But I don’t talk about X anymore, 
    
I deadname her like the productive citizen I am.
    

    Sorry, I’m forgetting myself, what is it they used to say? Trans women are women?
    
But tautology is so impotent in the face of male violence, isn’t it?
    
Just grab them by the pussy, if they even have one,
    
To protect girls’ sports. Never mind that they’re children.
    
No, sexually exploiting minors has much more to do 
    
With pronouns and a change of clothes, 
    
And he cleans up real well. 
    

    Jessica Austin (she/her) is a queer, trans writer living in Washington, D.C. She has attended the New York State Summer Writers Institute and the Tin House Winter Workshop as a 2025 Winter Scholar. Her work has been published in Lilac Peril and the citizen trans* {project}.
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    Jessica Austin is a resident of Petworth.

    Previously appeared in the citizen trans* {project}. Reprinted with permission of new words {press}.

  5. “Corrective to the Forgetting” by Sunu P. Chandy

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    Corrective to the Forgetting
    

    Of the 80,000 words in the English Dictionary, 80% are loanwords from other languages
    
 
    
When I commemorated Dr. MLK Jr., Day
    
with the children in 2025, I said it plainly,
    
we have more emboldened
    
haters now. We will need your reminders
    
of solidarity across borders, across
    
identities. Race, national origin, who we love,
    
all the many ways we may identify. In Moana 2
    
do you remember how they sought out 
    
connections with those who are different, 
    
those across the sea? Do you remember 
    
how people with different skin colors 
    
and backgrounds sat down 
    
together? With enthusiasm 
    
and connection, instead of borders
    
and conquest. Do you remember 
    
that wayfinder, and how 
    
she wanted to connect? 
    
 
    
I will tell you what I am learning now 
    
from my daughter’s history
    
class. The ways analyzing the art
    
can tell you so much. Those blue
    
and white patterns show you 
    
that Chinese people had some influence
    
in certain places. When you see 
    
florals, and geometric patterns, 
    
you can know Arab people once
    
traveled to a particular region. 
    
 
    
And, in the same way, did you know 
    
this English language
    
was built from so many other 
    
languages? Do you know that 
    
ballet, illusion, café and dragon
    
came from French? Pretzel, 
    
kindergarten, and poodle 
    
from German. Drama and geography 
    
from Greek. Espresso and lava
    
from Italian. Siesta and tornado,
    
from Spanish. Karaoke and ninja
    
from Japanese. Chocolate from Native 
    
languages, Aztec, to be specific. 
    
Typhoon and ketchup
    
from Chinese. Algebra and lemon
    
from Arabic. Glitch and schmooze
    
from Yiddish. Cashew and flamingo
    
from Portugal. Moped from Swedish. 
    
Taekwondo from Korean. 
    
 
    
Can this help us remember,
    
we are one? One global family? Remember,
    
in Moana 2, how the wayfinder 
    
sought out people
    
from across the sea? Bangle, 
    
cashmere, shampoo, and cheetah, 
    
all these words from India, 
    
from where my parents came from,
    
from the many languages 
    
there. I will say it plainly, 
    
yes, the haters do feel emboldened,
    
but we, we, know better. 
    

    Sunu P. Chandy (she/her) is a social justice activist including through her work as a poet and a civil rights attorney.  She is the daughter of immigrants from Kerala, India, and currently lives in DC with her family. Her award-winning collection of poems, My Dear Comrades, was published by Regal House and features cover art by Ragni Agarwal. Sunu is currently a Senior Advisor with Democracy Forward, and on the board of the Transgender Law Center. Sunu has been included as one of the Washington Blade’s Queer Women of Washington.
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    Sunu P. Chandy is a resident of Van Ness.

    N/A - this poem was not previously published

  6. “TV and Me” by Bernard Welt

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    TV and Me
    

    I have been hanging out with TV—as I like
    
To call him—for years, and now
    
We’re finally going to make it legal
    

    I remember thinking so often: the men
    
On TV–They’re so cute! Till one day
    
I realized: Schmuck! It’s TV that’s cute!
    

    TV was dashing, well-traveled
    
Sensitive, entertaining as hell
    
Always ready with a joke
    
Or a reassuring word.
    
And oh my God, the things
    
That guy knew about. There’s, like,
    
Nothing I can think of
    
That he’s not an expert on
    

    A long time passed before it
    
Snuck up on me: we weren’t
    
Just friends any more. Like a real
    
Lover, he was always with me
    
Even when we were apart
    

    At work, out with friends, I’d
    
Catch myself thinking: When
    
Will I see him again? What’s he
    
Up to tonight? Maybe I should
    
Check his schedule. Was he
    
Thinking about me? Then
    
The next time I’d see him, it was just
    
So endearing: he’d saved up a ton
    
Of wonderful things to share just with me
    

    I worried: How do you tell real love from
    
Infatuation? I knew I yearned for him
    
But I wondered: Did he . . . desire me, too?
    
I mean, he never made a move
    
But maybe he’s just old-fashioned that way
    

    Things got serious. More and more
    
He talked about us being together
    
Same time next week, then months from now.
    
Before long it seemed like we found reasons
    
To be together every day
    

    Seasons came and went
    
And we were still together
    
TV was ready to tie the knot
    
While I was still on the fence
    

    Because here’s the thing:
    
TV’s always known me
    
Better than I know myself
    

    I don’t know why it took me so long
    
Maybe I just couldn’t believe
    
TV was as wonderful as he seemed.
    
Maybe I just wasn’t ready
    
For someone to accept me just as I am
    

    But TV—TV made me see that I’m beautiful,
    
That I’m worthy of love, that even my faults
    
Are just opportunities for improvement.
    
And TV—TV really helped me with that.
    

    I brought TV home with me
    
Introduced him to the folks
    

    Mom took me aside:
    
Son, what are you waiting for?
    
He’s gorgeous. And in case
    
You can’t see it, he’s crazy
    
About you. Are you sure
    
He’s gay? Because I’d throw over
    
Your dad in a sec for this one.
    
I think she was joking.
    

    Oh yeah, I saw TV giving my mom
    
The eye, engaging my dad
    
With his banter about home
    
Entertainment centers
    
And gardening implements.
    

    He’s just so full of charm
    
It’s like a light that shines
    
Out of every pore. If
    
He has a fault, it’s that
    
Once he gets turned on,
    
You just can’t shut him up.
    

    No one’s ever given so much
    
Of himself to me and it’s like–
    
I don’t know, like he needs
    
Nothing from me but devotion
    
And he makes that so easy to give
    

    One thing we’re sure of: the wedding
    
Will be a small, private affair. Because
    
After all, whatever we seem to be
    
Out in the world, at heart we’re both
    
Happiest when it’s just the two of us
    
Communing the whole of an evening
    
Till I drift off to sleep
    
In the warm glow of his love
    

    Call me a fool, but I feel like
    
This is forever. The two of us
    
Making our own little world, two
    
Hearts as one, eyes for only each other
    

                                                              although
    
Lately the internet has been glancing at me
    
With the strangest look in its eye
    

    Bernard Welt’s poetry has appeared widely in journals, art catalogs, and anthologies including The Best American Poetry 2001 and 2024. He has received a US National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writers Fellowship and a Lambda Literary Awards nomination.
    
 
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  7. “Ode to the Old Growth Forest” by Xochi Quetzali Cartland

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    Ode to the Old Growth Forest
    

    In the kingdom of her body are the redwoods,
    
thighs that rise & rise, the branches of her hips 
    
spread searching for every scrap of light. 
    
At 300 feet high, she keeps a full home.
    
Cambium hiding in the canopy of her bones, 
    
food for the salamanders & marbled 
    
murrelets who like to play in the hollow 
    
of her iliac crest. She is sovereign & stratus, 
    
my sequoia that sweeps the air clean. 
    
With each passing year she collects 
    
some more heft & another ring, 
    
ancient wisdom to withstand rot & wind 
    
& men who carve their names into her 
    
still-living-skin, cruel in their assumption 
    
that she’ll heal up just fine. But she did. 
    
& she does. Because to be big is to be 
    
steady enough to survive. Though it is hard 
    
to be planted—to never escape 
    
your own roots. Her thighs are the throne 
    
that holds up the north coast. 
    
The trunk of her indomitable crown.
    

    xochi quetzali cartland is a queer Mexican poet & seamstress from the DMV. She holds a BA from Brown University in Literary Arts, and her work has appeared in Common Ground Review, Little Patuxent Review, Muzzle Magazine, Death Rattle Literary, ONLY POEMS & elsewhere, as well as supported with fellowships from National Arts Strategies and Brooklyn Poets.
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    Xochi Quetzali Cartland is a resident of Dupont Circle.

  8. “Time Traveling” by Angelique Palmer

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    Time Traveling
    

    You will answer my message, and I will want you.
    
You will answer my question, and we will be on a date.
    
It will rain a mist that’s saved for movie scenes
    
We will kiss a kiss reserved for love stories.
    
You will come to my house to kiss me good night in the days
    
after I will contort myself into the pleasure of back seat bruise
    
and an infamous sky. The first time
    
you will meet my daughter     You will be wearing an
    
inappropriate t-shirt. The first time
    
I meet your mom       	I will be wearing my robe.
    

    We will break into dance often,
    
way too often for it to not be cute.
    
I will tell everyone we passed out Halloween candy together.
    
You will never post anything about me.
    
You will tell me your secrets.
    
I will never post anything about them.
    

    You’ll take me to the ER when I cannot breathe.
    
I will walk your dog during your double shifts.
    
You will call yourself my partner. You will ask me to move my stuff out.
    
I will live out of the bag in the back seat of my car.
    
I will apologize a lot for that.
    

    We will talk about attachment styles and love languages.
    
And that will not mean anything,
    

    I will take you to my office party.
    
You will take me on vacation.
    
Something will break down in the tenuous.
    
Somehow, our wonderful will fade.
    
Someone will remind you of what you haven’t done.
    
I will promise you room to do it.
    

    It will not be a lie.
    

    You will be good at saying no but treating me like yes.
    
You will kiss me properly
    
on my stairs       one more time
    
before you say I took you too seriously.
    
We will both make art about us.
    

    I’ll say I will change your life,
    
months before it is evident,
    
I won’t even rate a goodbye.
    
We will dance together close, intimate– in the middle of the night.
    
Somehow our wonderful will fade
    
into a phantasm, that will learn to haunt me best.
    
I will say I will change your life
    
and hate
    
that it is you who will change mine.
    

    Angelique Palmer is a performance poet, Kindergarten Teacher, and Spoken Word instructor at Wilkes University. She is in her first year of a three-year tenure as Fairfax County Poet Laureate. A finalist in the 2015 Women of the World Poetry Slam, she’s currently ranked 19th among the top 96 competitive poets in the world. Her second full-length book is 2021’s ALSO DARK, on Etruscan Press.
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See poems from: 2024 2023 2022