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inspirations: images & words
Now available! The first collection of poetry inspired by the prompts page!
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The Road to Cemetery Road
AJ Huffman's most recent post to appear here was The Beauties of the Named Land (May 2013).
The Road to Cemetery Road
By AJ Huffman
By AJ Huffman
starts with a tube full of embalming
fluid, ends with a fistful of dirt falling
over coffin, satin-lined. I was
trip-ticked somewhere in between by three
ghosts waiting for me at the foot of a bed
I don't remember making. Their directions ring
contradictory, and I am pretty
sure the older one short-sheeted me
somehow. Poker-faced, I play their silly games,
laughing as they attempt to bury me. In spirit,
I know I will always be
dancing in the wind.
fluid, ends with a fistful of dirt falling
over coffin, satin-lined. I was
trip-ticked somewhere in between by three
ghosts waiting for me at the foot of a bed
I don't remember making. Their directions ring
contradictory, and I am pretty
sure the older one short-sheeted me
somehow. Poker-faced, I play their silly games,
laughing as they attempt to bury me. In spirit,
I know I will always be
dancing in the wind.
Longest Light
Lynn Ciesielski is a former special education teacher. She has an MS from SUNY Buffalo and taught in city schools for more than 18 years. Since she retired she has devoted most of her time to her family and her writing. Her first chapbook, I Speak in Tongues, was released by Foothills Publishing in 2012. Her work has also appeared in Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine, Slipstream, Buffalo News, Iodine Poetry Journal, Wild Goose Poetry Review, and many other fine journals. She is happy to find a home for her work at vox poetica (and we are happy to provide that home!). Visit her website.
Longest Light
By Lynn Ciesielski
By Lynn Ciesielski
We sit on the screen porch, early eve.
It's almost tomorrow when sun sets
on this summer solstice.
Two wicker chairs, a heavy coffee table.
You elevate your feet as this photo snap
lifts your mood.
A beaver guides her kits across
the lawn, toward the river.
Far off, a mourning dove cries out.
Wasps enter through invisible tears
in ancient screens, taking up residence,
urging me back in the house.
Morning, I find them lying upside down,
dead on sills, benign as fishing lures.
It's almost tomorrow when sun sets
on this summer solstice.
Two wicker chairs, a heavy coffee table.
You elevate your feet as this photo snap
lifts your mood.
A beaver guides her kits across
the lawn, toward the river.
Far off, a mourning dove cries out.
Wasps enter through invisible tears
in ancient screens, taking up residence,
urging me back in the house.
Morning, I find them lying upside down,
dead on sills, benign as fishing lures.
At Zero
Douglas Polk's most recent poem to appear here was Anxiety Renewed (May 2013).
At Zero
By Douglas Polk
By Douglas Polk
existence yet to be defined,
the perfect state,
the essence of purity,
nirvana,
at zero,
the moment creation takes place,
the universe began,
a thought developed and made our own,
at zero,
a frightening place to be.
the perfect state,
the essence of purity,
nirvana,
at zero,
the moment creation takes place,
the universe began,
a thought developed and made our own,
at zero,
a frightening place to be.
The Price
Kyle Newman writes poetry.
The Price
By Kyle Newman
The Price
By Kyle Newman
Progress turns in reverse, westen civilization
unraveling the grand romance of its words.
Little Boy and Fat Man slurp skyward
into the cavity of each B-29.
Sooty women and children backpedal
through factory gates as the sun
dips in the east. Fifty million Africans,
chained in two-by-six racks
beneath the deck,
retreat across the Atlantic. Arawaks
backstroke from the strange boat.
Look as the strawberry shrivels
from your lotioned hand,
withdrawing to the vine
to be plucked by a hunched laborer.
Privilege is a musty cologne, no?
It's a wonder how so many
haven't noticed the calendar
transposing its months: December
to November, November to October,
October to the celebration
of a New World begun by genocide.
every grave dug can be covered
by the victor's dirt. History can
with the necessary tunnel vision,
be okay with itself.
unraveling the grand romance of its words.
Little Boy and Fat Man slurp skyward
into the cavity of each B-29.
Sooty women and children backpedal
through factory gates as the sun
dips in the east. Fifty million Africans,
chained in two-by-six racks
beneath the deck,
retreat across the Atlantic. Arawaks
backstroke from the strange boat.
Look as the strawberry shrivels
from your lotioned hand,
withdrawing to the vine
to be plucked by a hunched laborer.
Privilege is a musty cologne, no?
It's a wonder how so many
haven't noticed the calendar
transposing its months: December
to November, November to October,
October to the celebration
of a New World begun by genocide.
every grave dug can be covered
by the victor's dirt. History can
with the necessary tunnel vision,
be okay with itself.
Still the Same Yellow Flower
Laura Zucca-Scott's most recent poem to appear here was If you need a friend (May 2013).
Still the Same Yellow Flower
By Laura Zucca-Scott
By Laura Zucca-Scott
On my way to work
I stop mesmerized
There is a yellow flower
Sticking its head out
Surrounded by the dewy spring grass
An estranged prisoner in a silent war
It is the same flower that grew outside my Grandma's home
The same flower I tried not to step on during improvised soccer games
A flower I spared while chasing a friend as we laughed off our childhood fears
I should not be surprised, but I am
Grandma's home is more than five thousand miles away
An ocean apart
A different world
An old language
Another life
Still the same yellow flower
I stop mesmerized
There is a yellow flower
Sticking its head out
Surrounded by the dewy spring grass
An estranged prisoner in a silent war
It is the same flower that grew outside my Grandma's home
The same flower I tried not to step on during improvised soccer games
A flower I spared while chasing a friend as we laughed off our childhood fears
I should not be surprised, but I am
Grandma's home is more than five thousand miles away
An ocean apart
A different world
An old language
Another life
Still the same yellow flower
The Oak
Harris Tobias' most recent poem to appear here was The Maple (June 2013).
The Oak
By Harris Tobias
By Harris Tobias
I wonder does the infant oak
look up into its mother's lofty crown
And think it some cruel joke
That it is so tiny and earthbound?
And does the towering mother, looking down
On her small sprout, take note
On how far her baby has to climb
Before it sees the sky
And tastes the sweet sunshine.
look up into its mother's lofty crown
And think it some cruel joke
That it is so tiny and earthbound?
And does the towering mother, looking down
On her small sprout, take note
On how far her baby has to climb
Before it sees the sky
And tastes the sweet sunshine.
Prodigal
Jean McLeod's most recent poem to appear here was Eros (February 2013).
Prodigal
(For my beautiful grandson, Joshua, who has temporarily lost his way)
By Jean McLeod
(For my beautiful grandson, Joshua, who has temporarily lost his way)
By Jean McLeod
Confusion replaces the bravado
of his triumphal door slam,
his face, a pale cast
of dread and regret.
Alone, he listens for dangers
he's not yet imagined,
his mother's promise of an open door
a ring-tone unanswered in this new dark.
He is innocent enough for each sunrise
to wash away the sins of yesterday
but isn't sure, yet, which he wants to keep.
of his triumphal door slam,
his face, a pale cast
of dread and regret.
Alone, he listens for dangers
he's not yet imagined,
his mother's promise of an open door
a ring-tone unanswered in this new dark.
He is innocent enough for each sunrise
to wash away the sins of yesterday
but isn't sure, yet, which he wants to keep.
He yearns toward illumination
he doesn't know he needs
to lead him, if not where he wants to go,
at least to where the slope is gentler.
he doesn't know he needs
to lead him, if not where he wants to go,
at least to where the slope is gentler.
Snake Eyes
Elizabeth Dublin's most recent poem to appear here was Gone (May 2013).
Snake Eyes
By Elizabeth Dublin
By Elizabeth Dublin
Every decision hinges on
chance, a spin of the wheel
red or black, even or odd
all or nothing, blackjack.
Dice bounce around
my palm and slide
across the felt.
The shuffling cards
sing possibilities while
the Queens of Hearts
and Diamonds shake
their heads. Better
luck with tarots,
they agree. This poor
girl is always dealt
the ironic hand.
chance, a spin of the wheel
red or black, even or odd
all or nothing, blackjack.
Dice bounce around
my palm and slide
across the felt.
The shuffling cards
sing possibilities while
the Queens of Hearts
and Diamonds shake
their heads. Better
luck with tarots,
they agree. This poor
girl is always dealt
the ironic hand.
Aches
Lisa Drago's poem untitled tanka appeared here in May 2013.
Aches
By Lisa Drago
There seems no end
To these tribulations
I pray for wisdom
And patience and hope
A world of brotherhood
Mutual appreciation
Aches
By Lisa Drago
It pains me to live
In a nation of greed
And exploitation
Imprisoned by
Oh so many
Deified masters
Of manipulation
We place no value
On youthful education
Yet extol virtues of college
And fancy vacations
Endless incantations
To the money-god
More and more
Bigger and better
Procuration
All this to benefit
The super-rich
While millions
In our population
Suffer hunger
Lose their homes
Refuse adulation
Lack of moderation
Spirals into pain
My broken heart
Dreams daily
Of peace and justice
True mediation
In a nation of greed
And exploitation
Imprisoned by
Oh so many
Deified masters
Of manipulation
We place no value
On youthful education
Yet extol virtues of college
And fancy vacations
Endless incantations
To the money-god
More and more
Bigger and better
Procuration
All this to benefit
The super-rich
While millions
In our population
Suffer hunger
Lose their homes
Refuse adulation
Lack of moderation
Spirals into pain
My broken heart
Dreams daily
Of peace and justice
True mediation
There seems no end
To these tribulations
I pray for wisdom
And patience and hope
A world of brotherhood
Mutual appreciation
Rock
Michael Thompson's poem Azure Blue appeared here in May 2013.
Rock
By Michael Thompson
By Michael Thompson
I'm a rock.
They think that I have a family,
But I'm a rock.
True, I feel wind and weather,
But I'm a rock.
Want to know where I came from?
I would tell you—
But I'm a rock.
I might have come from a volcano,
But I have no brain
To remember because
I'm a rock.
It looks like I have a human nose, but
I smell nothing because
I AM A ROCK.
They think that I have a family,
But I'm a rock.
True, I feel wind and weather,
But I'm a rock.
Want to know where I came from?
I would tell you—
But I'm a rock.
I might have come from a volcano,
But I have no brain
To remember because
I'm a rock.
It looks like I have a human nose, but
I smell nothing because
I AM A ROCK.
